#//On the other hand; he also feels a massive aversion to fire if it gets to close to him/he feels the heat a bit too much

[dutybcrne]

Something something, Kaeya developing a simultaneous pyromania-pyrophobia after Le Confrontation

[soshadysoquiet]

Loving your thoughts as always @air--so--sweet! I see the length of your reblog and bring you an essay-length reply because why control ourselves?

I always saw it differently: that he's adaptive and uses the best tool available in any situation. Lengthiness below and me digressing of course!

At Griddy's:

The butter knife is right next to him and he's ambushed and surrounded, it's the only option and also the only convenient one

We see him go to very quickly adapt to the loss of the knife with using mop handle and his tie, effectively showing us his observation skills and honed practicality in a fight

He doesn't waste time grappling for a gun though - his powers favour ambush tactics and he didn't seem to need to for the threat level posed, plus grappling for a gun when there's other gunmen could likely lead to him being shot.

Later at Gimble Bros:

Searches for the first sharp object he can find, there isn't a lot of choice, but he is seen briefly getting a feel for its effectiveness as he does a test slash in the air

Again it seems like grabbing an assailant's gun is too risky a strategy for him, his physical form is weak - he doesn't need a grappling match for a weapon potentially?

(There's a few fights in S1 & S2 where honestly it feels bizarre that he's not packing some sort of weapon.)

Confronting the Handler / Prepping to kill his probability list:

This shows us that he's not averse to locating and finding more effective weaponry when he has the time - a massive hunting rifle and a smaller pistol he takes to the Handler that he must have hid from Luther.

Later at the Commission Five steals multiple grenades to use - picking the item with the highest destructive impact, even though we don't see him lose the pistol from before? I might be wrong about that but I think it does just go away.

The grenades could be considered overkill, but as you've said the Handler does seem to bring out the need for sure fire weaponry with Five.

The Boardroom:

I feel that the little preparatory breath Five takes with the axe in his hands (along with everything you already laid out which is excellent) I think it shows the gravitas of the situation for him

He sees the board as a threat along with the situation as threatening / do or die.

I think him selecting the axe is another show of him assessing his options and finding the most effective weapon for the job (I can't remember what the cutlery was at the cake table - maybe it was a good knife, but an axe would be likely to do more damage especially in a potential melee maybe? I'm no weapons expert though!)

An axe gives his slight physicality a power boost and looks more intimidating than the other options potentially - maybe he needed this effect on his victims as much as himself.

Five's self-proclaimed remorse generally:

As an aside I do find it interesting thinking about how much Five sees people as people, certainly he's been isolated from them and then just sent off killing them. Whilst I don't think he's necessarily lying to Luther in S1 about taking pride in his work but not enjoying it, we do see him taking sadistic pleasure in it:

At his plan to kill the blimp-operator's butcher - it's not a smug smile to me, it's almost gleeful and sinister. This could be about deceiving the Handler, but he is very controlled around her and when he bests her later in the episode his smile does read as smug.

I wonder if either:

It's an adrenaline response?

It's a nervous response - there's a lot that's child-like about Five at times aptly reflecting what had to be stunted psychological growth, it's almost akin to something a child knows they shouldn't be doing?

He feels a massive amount of emotion of some form that he cannot process about killing and this is how it comes out in the moment?

As we mostly see this side of him when he's acting under the instructions of the Commission and not what he would otherwise choose to do that adds another component - maybe allows some emotion that he otherwise doesn't let himself when he's the one in control.

I don't doubt that he regrets the Boardroom or the assassin work in general, but I also can't discount:

His behaviour around his Siblings:

Where he wants respect, yes, but also connection

His conversation to Luther when expressing how he felt about his work is spoken very calmly, controlled Vs other things he expresses regret for/over:

His apologies about getting them stuck do come across as genuine to me

His conversation with Viktor in S3 - though it's possible he's 'perfected' a bit more human-like interaction at this point from being around siblings rather than other killers or his victims or no one for the last 5 decades.

His frustration over his mistakes (time travel related) Which he openly admits to multiple times with large displays of frustration, but admittance.

I wonder how real all those victims could possibly have been to Five, after a lifetime of nothing and no one, when we know after all that that he still perceives Dolores as real - I think he still perceives his siblings as real, or 'more real' namely because he's much more evasive and awkward around them than he is with strangers, or maybe there's just so much more at stake.

For all his Serious Talks with siblings about people, and even accusing Klaus of "why can't you just get along with people" It always came across more to me that Five was a good observer - he's watched his victims after all, and that he is older and possibly more well-read than his siblings (from living in a library and reading to pass the time) I think he's got philosophical sense, and even understanding of people's motivations (his conversation with Diego about Patch) but as soon as he's not with his siblings or the Handler, he treats people in a very odd and disconcerting manner, as if they're props in a play, irrelevant on a social level.

Did he just not want to break Luther's opinion of him still being good? Did he say what he thought he needed to keep his sibling's opinion of him? Or is it awkward because this is (until he faces off against the Handler in the Tube Room) the first time he's allowed himself to express such a sentiment when he likely for years had to repress any repulsion at his work in order to keep going. Even in the scene where he first talks to Luther about the Commission, he's condescending and defensive, so potentially, is that convo with Luther the catalyst for how he feels about stopping killing in S2, because Luther was the first person in 5 decades to stop him from taking the extremist action and bring him back to civility?

And to circle back to the Boardroom scene, is his excessive violence there in part because for the first time in a long time he finally feels back in his element - something he's good at, unwanted or not, when everything else is in tatters around him.

In a sick way that had to feel like a relief.

Last one about TUA season 4, for now.

(I talked about this in the tags of one of my RBs before but I wanted to elaborate)

I don't like how they keep trying to make Five a badass.

I find it especially frustrating as doing this constantly, bogs down any form of character development we could've had from Five.

For whatever reason, the writers seem to be allergic to acknowledging Five's biggest character flaw, his arrogance. Five always has to be right. He always has to be capable of everything and never needs any help. Despite the fact that Diego also has a very similar flaw (and is punished for it consistently), Five's seems to go completely untouched.

(A part of me thinks that the reason why they punish Diego so much more is because he comes off as the hot-headed impulsive one. While that's true, it certainly doesn't negate Five's ability to make mistakes or be incompetent)

Instead, they keep trying to invent a new flaw for Five in that; he is obsessed with the apocalypse. In reality, he's not obsessed with the apocalypse. He's obsessed with keeping his family safe. It just so happens that their most immediate threat (in his eyes) tends to be the apocalypse. (I really don't understand what they're trying to get at with this, especially considering the fact that he already has an extremely apparent flaw)

While this isn't an issue I take with season 4 specifically, it has definitely amplified this issue like crazy. Five's arrogance is vaguely addressed by his siblings in season 1, but it never seems to get him in trouble? Or at least he doesn't seem to have learned from it (except for the time-travelling thing from when he was 13, and when he bled out also in season 1)

Season 1 (and 2) handled it the best out of the four. Five never seems to ask for or accept help unless backed into a corner (telling Viktor about the apocalypse, asking Klaus to help him get the prosthetic eye). Or if he is literally incoherent or unconscious (him passing out from blood loss, him being drunk and telling Diego and Luther about what's happening).

And outside of that, Five's arrogance still had brutal consequences within this season (him not noticing Viktor's declining mental state because he was so sure about the apocalypse (but this was partially because this man tunnel-visions like crazy)).

(there are probably more instances of this with s1 & 2, i just can't think of them off the top of my head so tag them if you'd like)

Season 4 is extra mean with this. From the 'Five getting to work for the CIA at 19' to 'Five randomly figuring out what's causing the end of the world with a bunch of other Five's' while he was off moping.

And when he does make mistakes, it's not because he's actually not capable of everything and anything.

Noooo, Ben really really sneakily stole the marigold and spiked the sake. Five couldn't have possibly noticed. (and none of the other siblings for that matter)

Noooo, it's because Luther is actually super smart in figuring out that Five's boss is a Keeper (no shade to Luther btw, I like him. They just don't treat this moment as Five being a complete dumbass).

Oh no! Five (and Lila) can't figure out a way back from the metro! Never mind, another Five managed it.

Five being a homewrecker? That's him being an asshole, not incompetent so it doesn't count (lighthearted).

Five's arrogance one of his defining flaws, yet it's not really challenged. The fact that he gets away with a lot of bullshit is simply because he can! When he doesn't face failure, he doesn't find growth. He doesn't learn to stop being self-destructive just because he thinks he can do anything. He doesn't learn to reach out.

This stunt in growth is obviously not only present in Five but also everyone else. I just find his to be particularly grating since he's my favorite.

Feel free to add your thoughts to this, not just about Five's fucked up character growth but everyone else's too!

(I'll make long a ass post/video essay going into detail about all of them one of these days)

I'd love to read them :)

[wildestdreamsblog]

Baby, I know places we won’t be found

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Summary: How could you not know you were dating one of the most famous actors in the industry? How could you break things off with him with Christmas just around the corner?

Warnings: Soft!Dark Henry, Swearing, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: I’m writing just because I’m drunk okay forgive me. ALSO MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO MY WONDERFUL READERS!

It’s been a week, darling. When will you reply to me?

I miss you.

I hope you forgive me.

You stared down at your phone, reading his messages. It had been more than a week since you discovered who he really was. And you didn’t want to think you were shallow, but this mattered to you. This was a big thing for you. This was a deal breaker for you.

You had been dating him for months. Months. And he didn’t even bring up the fact that he was a famous actor. And here you were, obliviously dating one of the biggest actors of the industry.

He chanced on meeting you upon one of his tapings out of town. He was taking a day off on his own when he saw you buying flowers from a local vendor. You looked up over your lashes, met his eyes, and went on your way. He never felt more invincible than he did that day. Suddenly, he wasn’t Henry the famous actor. Suddenly, he was just a man enamored by a pretty lady.

You cursed you and your apparent lack of care for the pop culture and the Hollywood. You cursed your aversion to social media. You were just a simple girl. A simple girl who was only trying to get through adulthood. And yet you found yourself in this situation. But who could blame you, really? He was a charmer who conversed with you like no other. He was mature beyond his age, an old soul like you. For God’s sake, he walked you to your apartment- unlike anyone else you had dated. He was older than you by a few years, but he understood you. He got you. He listened to your struggle, sympathized with you, he never made you feel like you were silly.

But now you felt stupid. And betrayed.

You supposed you could understood why he did that, but knowing and feeling were two different things. He hid that thing from you. Where was the trust in your relationship?

You should have known when things seemed too good to be true, they usually were. Have you learned nothing from your accounting course in college?

You breathed deeply before finding the courage to reply.

I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this, Henry. I’m sorry.

Your eyes found the newspaper that you saw more than a week before that opened your eyes when you were in the market. It was a paparazzi picture of him wearing a cap, holding a bouquet of flowers in his massive hand with a headline caption, ‘Who is Henry’s Secret Beau?’

You clearly remembered that day. He showed up after four days of him being away for work. You opened your door to an incessant knock at seven in the morning.

Clearly disheveled from your sleep, you opened the door, squinting at the sun before your sight adjusted and focused on the smiling, huge man standing in front of you.

“Henry?”

With flowers in his hand, he engulfed you in his warm arms, tightly hugging you. And only when you rub his muscular back did his tension ease off. “I thought you wouldn’t be back until next week,” you quietly asked.

He softly broke off his tight embrace to caress your cheek, looking deeply at you, “I can’t function properly at work if I can’t see you,” he admitted. That made you soft, here was a man so handsome and so kind and you couldn’t believe how lucky you were that he chose to love you. You couldn’t believe how in love he was with you.

You grip his hand holding your face and leaned into it. “Won’t your boss fire you if you keep missing work?” You asked him worriedly. As much as you wanted him with you, you understood how stressful his work was and how demanding it was.

He smiled shyly, “I don’t think they will.”

Well now you know why they wouldn’t.

And you thought that was the end of that.

It wasn’t.

You flew back to your home, to your grandparents’ home, states away from where you met him. You were trying to escape him, his memories, his smile, his warmth, his kisses- him.

You were trying to escape the love you had for him. You weren’t cut out for the life he lived, you weren’t strong enough to be with him. You never wanted for your life to be out there- and that was what would happen if you stayed with him. It was bound to happen. It was only a matter of when.

But you should have known you couldn’t easily shake off a Henry Cavill- not when he never felt this way with anyone. No, he wouldn’t simply let you go. You loved him, you were simply spooked. That was what was on his mind, trying to rationalize how you could just leave him when you gave yourself to him so many times he lost count. Not when he knew what it felt like to have you. Not when he finally found the one.

He flew to your home as soon as you sent that message. He would and could not simply accept a breakup text from you- no. Your relationship deserved better than that, it deserved better than the end.

Henry knocked on your door, his massive fist banging on the door. But your apartment was quiet, it was dark. It was too silent for the Christmas season. He knew you weren’t there. Henry was a kind man, he was so gentle with you. But the feelings he had now were dark, they were filled with anger and worst of all, he was scared that he really lost you, that you really escaped from him.

But no worries, he would find you. Regardless of how.

It was a week before Christmas when you passed by the market and saw another newspaper. ‘Henry’s mystery beau finally revealed’. And you swore you could feel yourself got lightheaded as you saw your face on the newspaper. You knew it was you despite the low resolution of the picture, as if the photographer took it from a sizable distance. You were with Henry on the picture with him looking fondly down at you, his hand possessively resting on your hips. You jumped when your phone started ringing loudly, you didn’t think before answering.

“Finally you answered, where are you, darling?” you could hear the worry in his voice, you could hear the desperation in it. 

You breathed deeply, releasing some nervousness you felt before answering, “I’m scared, Henry,” you admitted. You looked around, trying to see if anyone recognized you from the papers, but you knew there was a small chance they could because of the low quality of the photo.

“I know, I’m sorry. But you have to tell me where you are so I can protect you.” Henry implored, his voice deep with tension. He needed to see you, he needed to hold you, to touch you, or else he would go insane from not having you. He wasn’t like this, but having experienced a simple life with you made him greedy for more, for you. You were unlike anyone he met, so unlike anyone he worked with. You were you. You were real.

“I think no one can recognize me from that photo,” you whispered, gripping your phone as you started walking, “I think I’m safe where I am.”

“Darling, you don’t know the media. They would do everything just to know who you are. You’re in danger, you don’t have any protection. Darling, please. I’m worried for you.”

“I’m okay, Henry. Thank you for your concern, but I can handle myself.”

You thought that was the end of that, but he became even more persistent with you. The media became more persistent. 

You woke up to loud sounds. Everything was in chaos in your grandparents’ little farm house as the media surrounded the area. They were vicious as they took photos after photos of your family, and you could not do anything about it. You knew it was your fault, you knew you should have listened to Henry. So for the first time in weeks, you called him.

You were so rattled that you didn’t even question how fast he was able to send someone over the house to pick you up, claiming that if you weren’t there, there would be no reason for the paparazzi to harass your family. And you believed him, after all, he was the kindest man you dated. He never showed you anything but his gentleman side.

You hastily went with his security, saying goodbyes and apologies to your grandparents for the trouble you caused and assuring them that you would call once you arrived wherever you were going.

Henry engulfed you in his huge arms, fucking grateful that you were finally back in his arms once you stepped in the private jet he had readied for this. His hand was behind your head, guiding you on his chest as you cried. He let you cry as the jet took up, you were so trusting you didn’t even ask him where you were going. You were so trusting you didn’t see the dark glint in his eyes, and the relief in his face. Nor the substance he placed on your drink.

You woke up to a soft bed. Slowly, you opened your eyes and met his blue ones. Henry was beside you, softly looking at you with his arms around you.

He didn’t say anything, just waited for you to break the silence. It took you a moment to realize you didn’t know where this place was, or how you got into a bed when the last thing you remembered was being on the jet. 

“Where are we?” you finally asked, your eyes roaming over the bright room, the windows showing the ocean gently kissing the sand. The curtains moving with the wind, creating an illusion of heaven. Your brows furrowed as you pushed away from him, your mind in a puzzle. “Henry? Where are we?” you asked again when he didn’t answer, your eyes returning to his. It was almost Christmas, and yet it was warm. You weren’t in your state, no. It should be snowing. Anything but the sand and the gleaming sun. 

Henry slowly sat up, his eyes guarded as he watched your wild eyes. You stood up, slowly walking away from him. He looked like the man you loved, but his eyes weren’t the same. They looked at you with something dark and maniacal. And so you ran. 

Only to find out that this was an island, where the only establishment was the villa, and the only person in it was him. You were standing barefooted on the warm sand, your hair disheveled from the wind. You looked behind you when you heard him, “What did you do?” you whispered quietly, afraid of his answer as he remained silent, his hands in his pockets as he regarded you. 

“I took you away,” 

“Why?”

He tilted his head, “We need to lie low. The media wouldn’t stop harassing you, my darling. They would not stop, this is for you and your grandparents.” he implored as he walked warily to you, before gripping softly your arms and caressing your face. “This is for your own good. I promise you, we will return after the news die down. Hmm? Okay? You trust me, right?” 

You glanced up at him. His explanation made sense, so why then did your heart start beating faster as if you were in danger? You knew you could trust him. He only wanted what was best for you.. right?

But as Christmas came nearer, you still didn’t return. In fact, the only thing that seemed to return was Henry’s thinking that the two of you got back together. He was acting so sweet, so romantic, so passionate that your resolve was getting weaker each passing day.

You woke up alone on the bed. You could hear a low growl from the bathroom, and your curiosity got the better of you. Slowly, you approached the bathroom and what you saw shocked you. Henry’s fist was moving sensually on his hardened cock, his hips meeting his hand, his other hand was on the wall, supporting his weight as he fuck his own fist. He looked up to you when he heard the door open, and his movement stopped. He was watching you watched his cock twitch.

You licked your lips, before meeting his lust filled eyes. “Henry?”

He growled lowly, his fist resuming its mission on pleasuring him. He cursed quietly. “Do you want me to help?”

And before you could move, he grasped your arm, pulling you to him so fast that the next thing you know, you were looking at your reflection as he grabbed the ends of your sleeping dress and bunched them up your back. He was watching you over the reflection, his bare chest glistening with sweat, his curly hair disheveled. You felt him touch your thong before he snapped it with just a powerful pull. You gasped as he played with your quickly glistening core. His expert fingers teasing you, making you a wet mess for him. “Henry, please I need you.”

He laughed, and you could feel his warm member on your naked back. “Do you really need me?”

You nodded, could not even form words as he started finger fucking your pussy, the wet sound resounding on the bathroom. His other hand crawled to your pebbled nipples, pinching and palming them. “I don’t think you need me,” 

You cried as he stopped all of a sudden, your closed eyes opening just to stare at his reflection on the mirror. He was kissing your neck, leaving marks on it as he went. “If you need me, then why did you leave me, hmm?” his hips started thrusting on your ass cheeks, making him groan from the pleasure he had been denied ever since you left him. “You depraved me of your love. Of this pussy. Of you,” he growled in your ear as you started moving against him just to feel any kind of friction, just to ease off the pain from being edged. 

“I need you, I do just please I need you, I need your cock,” you begged him before turning around and reaching his face to meet his lips. You whispered your apologies to him, promising him everything, just so he would give you what you so desperately needed.

“If you need me, then you won’t ever leave me again, right?” he implored as he lined his cock on your pussy lips, running the head and sliding it between your lips, elating a moan from you. He would not stopped teasing you until you gave him the assurance that you would not let him experience life without you again. 

You nodded at him, eager for him to slide his huge cock in you. “I will stay by your side, Henry please-”

And then he slid home. 

By the time the sun started rising was the time he let you sleep. You were so out of it you did not hear him whisper, “Merry Christmas to you, my darling.”

Henry smiled triumphantly as he watched you slumber off. He finally had you for himself, away from the things that made you ran from him. Away from the thing that brought you back to him once again. You would never know how he played the media, leaking information of you once you broke things off with him.

You were too innocent and pure for him to just let you go. No, you were stuck with him. 

You were stuck with him until he was sure you wouldn’t and couldn’t ran from him again.

After all, it would be hard to run once his seed took root inside of you.

And by next year, you would be spending Christmas not only with him, but with his baby. And you would be a family.

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

REBLOGS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Water Seven

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

i’ve mentioned several times before that the davy back fight is one of my least favorite arcs, mostly because i found it very dragging and tedious when i was reading it, but there are a couple things i really like in it, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, most of them have to do with zoro. i really like his moment here with chopper, and it also showcases his ability to act as more of an authority figure to the crew, which is something that makes a substantial return after enies lobby with the matter of usopp’s return. 

zoro and sanji’s match in the davy back fight is far and away my favorite part of the entire arc. it’s just really fun.

like i said, this arc isn’t a favorite of mine, but i do definitely understand why it’s important to the saga and greater story in a couple different ways. one of them is that it’s just an easy, lighthearted detour that both gives the audience a chance to breathe and the strawhats a chance to showcase just how much they love each other and work well together- which turns into a fucking sledgehammer to the skull in the next arc when that unity is directly threatened. and the other reason this arc is important...

...is because of aokiji.

aokiji’s introductory scene is a brutal showcase of absolute power, and a very clear reminder that the strawhats are still very much little fish in a very, very big pond. all of the strawhats are impacted by this to some degree- it’s how badly they get curb-stomped here that leads luffy to come up with his gears as a way of closing the huge power gap he’s just learned about.

most important, though, are robin and usopp. for robin, this is a stark reminder of the fact that the government will never stop hunting her down; for usopp, who’s less obvious, it’s the seeds of the full-blown inferiority crisis that will later explode with the news about merry. both of their arcs throughout water 7 and enies lobby, essentially the twin emotional backbones of the saga, start right here.

i really like that the other strawhats all fell asleep waiting for robin and luffy to wake up. it calls back to them doing the same when nami was sick before drum, and also it’s just so fucking sweet. 

water seven is my favorite island, full stop. if i was going to live anywhere in one piece’s world, i’d want to live on water seven. it’s just so creatively designed and visually great, with the canals and the tiered city and the massive fountain in the middle. the supporting cast are still one of my favorites, and the culture feels very real and authentic. i just love water seven a lot.

i just said it but it bears repeating- the water seven supporting cast is really good. iceburg, the galley-la shipwrights, franky and his family, kokoro and chimney are all really memorable, and most of them are really likable, too- and cp9, with all their eccentricities, fit in perfectly. water seven’s cast is very interconnected, as well, and their relationships all feel very believable.

all of which, of course, only makes the later treachery hurt all the more.

the atmosphere of water seven is really, really well done. the bad starts slow, with the news that merry is unfixable, and then continues into an accelerating downwards spiral of hopelessness: usopp and luffy’s fight and usopp leaving the crew, robin’s seeming betrayal, the assassination attempt on iceburg, the city and galley-la turning on them as a result, and the agua laguna- it just gets worse and worse and worse.

and then, after they’ve been stomped down about as far as they can go and come out alive anyways, they pick themselves back up again and go to save their friend, because that’s what the strawhat pirates do.

i just really like getting to see these four going feral on the franky family, it’s one of my favorite scenes in this whole arc. in general, i tend to love the moments where luffy specifically gets properly angry, and we get a lot of them in this arc. 

even though the fight between luffy and usopp is genuinely very tense and  fast-paced and would probably be exciting if it were any other two characters fighting, it never really feels anything other than melancholy. i think that’s a testament to just how good oda is at setting the mood of the scene. it’s made very clear, especially through the reactions of the other characters- merry ‘crying’ is fucking heartbreaking- that this is nothing less than a tragedy. 

:(

i think it’s kind of interesting we aren’t shown franky’s face until about halfway into water seven. prior to this, we’re given pretty much only reasons to hate him, with his theft of the strawhats’ money and the franky family beating usopp to shit. but just after this point is when we start getting our first humanizing and sympathetic moments for him, starting when he gets worried and a little frantic when he hears about the attempt on iceburg’s life.

i just really, really like the way some of these water seven action sequences are depicted. they feel very tense and desperate, which matches the general mood of this part of the arc perfectly.

this panel of usopp working on merry always reminds me of the shots of the klabautermann doing the same during skypiea. i’m not sure if it’s even intentional, honestly, but it’s an extra little bit of heartbreak either way.

one piece has a lot of amazing spreads, but this might be one of my favorites for sheer impact. cp9, watching as the city they’ve lived and worked in for years burns down in a fire they set, satisfied by a job well done. it’s almost all in black and white with very little grey, which creates some fantastic contrast, and their pitch-black silhouettes against the nighttime inferno are just striking. 

this entire scene between usopp and franky, as usopp works on the merry and franky gives him advice and tries to make him see its hopeless and they kind of awkwardly, accidentally bond, is probably my favorite in the whole of water seven. it was also the scene that singlehandedly made me love franky as a character.

they have a really good, really enjoyable dynamic, and at the same time the conflict between them is real and understandable, and brought about because they’re both trying to do the right thing.

tom’s workers are one of my favorite little groups of characters in the whole of one piece’s story, and they deserve more appreciation. they’re family!! a little family of broken pieces who worked together to build something really, really amazing. and they still care about each other in the present, even though they got shattered apart so badly and none of them ever really recovered. 

this is a tremendously under-appreciated chopper moment. not only did he carry two full-grown men out of a fire, he even managed to get zoro’s sword and iceburg’s hamster. extremely cool of him.

this is also the exact moment the strawhats’ collective luck begins to turn: chopper saves the day, and nami learns that robin did what she did to protect them, and sanji gets aboard the sea train, and from there it’s a no-brakes train from their very lowest low straight to the triumph at enies lobby.

i love all the shenanigans sanji gets up to with the sea train, i think the whole sequence is absolutely one of his shining moments. it’s always a delight to see sanji get up to Sneaky Bastard Bullshit, and the whole thing is just so fun, which is a dearly needed breath of fresh air after how relentless this arc has been until this point.

robin’s little smile when thinking of luffy and when she joined the strawhats... :( i’ve noticed it’s a recurring trend for strawhats who try to leave the crew to flash back to when they joined as they do. usopp has it earlier this same arc just before leaving, and sanji does it in whole cake island in the sanji vs. luffy chapter. 

i really like how much everyone comes together at the end of water seven leading into enies lobby. after how fractured and fraught things have been throughout the arc, both within and without the strawhat crew, it’s great to see them not only all united again for a common goal, but with a huge group of allies at their backs. 

these three are SUCH a hilarious team, and i would love to see them work together again like this sometime. they’re literally just clowning on the marines all the way up the train, it’s fantastic. 

factually i understand sanji’s aversion to fighting with his hands and his fighting style is very unique and cool and also meaningful to him because he learned from zeff, and also if i remember right it’s implied he learned how to swordfight from the vinsmokes which makes it very reasonable he would want absolutely nothing to do with that skillset 

but speaking purely in terms of stupid idiot lizard brain i think sanji should fight with knives more

this is another of my absolute favorite spreads, and i think what makes it for me is the casual confidence- luffy tells zoro to cut the train, and zoro does, both of them with no doubts at all about zoro’s ability to do so. it really goes to show how far they’ve come from back in east blue when zoro couldn’t even cut luffy out of a metal cage.

there’s something very impactful about the fact that of all the strawhats, robin gets this speech from usopp. usopp, who’s had the worst falling-out with luffy in the series to date, is the one who tells robin: you haven’t left the crew yet, you can’t leave the crew yet, luffy is coming to get you. believe in him. 

franky’s “existing is not a crime” line is one of the most memorable and iconic lines from this entire saga, and for good reason. it sums up one of the main themes of not just this arc but also the series as a whole- the very same idea will come up again for ace during marineford, and in law’s backstory as well. it’s never a crime to just exist, and people should not never be persecuted for their blood or heritage. one piece doesn’t fuck around with its theming, it really doesn’t. 

to be continued next time, with enies lobby!

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Ten (Zuko x Reader)

Part Nine

Word Count: 2,750

Author’s Note: We’ve had enough sad. Like, in general. So I wrote some happy for this week’s update. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I decided to save the rest of it for next week since it ended pretty nicely where it is.

I feel like now is a good time to mention that I haven’t read the comics (I didn’t even know there were comics until like two months ago) so if you’ve been wondering why this story diverges so much from them, that’s why. I see the canon and I think it’s great, but it’s just so much more fun to write my own interpretations of what happened to everybody after the war. Sorry not sorry. 

I’m slowly getting back into the swing of things. I felt pretty okay yesterday, and I’m starting to not immediately hate everything I produce and am remembering how to talk myself up again after forgetting that anxiety and depression don’t rule my thoughts when it comes to my creativity. Things are still gonna be weird for a while, but we’ll be fine eventually. That’s how the human condition is - we always swing back at some point. 

~ Muerta

“What do you know about Fire Nation prisons?” 

You expect Rina to falter at the question. She doesn't even flinch, continuing to dress you as if you asked her what she’d had for breakfast. 

“What do you want to know?” she wonders in return. 

You gaze off, allowing your mind to roam as you consider her question. 

Since your return to the Fire Nation, Zuko’s attentive attitude hasn't changed, and your fondness for him has grown in ways you never expected it would. During council meetings, it’s become a habit to hold his hand under the table where your advisors can't see (though Yong has caught you once or twice, smirking as if you were two school children passing love notes during class). You spend more time together in the evenings before bed, and some nights you invite Zuko to sleep beside you, missing his presence since returning to separate rooms - he’s always gone before sunrise to discourage any scandal (despite the fact that you're married), never leaving without a kiss to your forehead and a murmur of, “See you soon.” It’s also become routine to meet him by the turtle duck pond when you each have a moment to spare, the little creatures getting so used to your presence that many of them freely approach you, pecking at your palms in the chance you have a treat for them. 

“My mother and I used to do this,” Zuko confides during one of your breaks; it's the first cool afternoon since the beginning of summer, a few leaves from the overhanging maple tree floating on the pond’s placid surface. “I remember throwing a rock at one of the ducklings when I was a kid. Its mother bit me.” 

You giggle, opening your hand so a young male can nibble at the apple peel you hold out to him; you attempt to scratch his head while he eats, and he squawks at you. 

“Good for her,” you jeer. “Serves you right for being a dick.” 

Zuko chuckles, the curl of his lips framing a hazy sadness in his eyes. 

“Azula did stuff like that all the time,” he sighs. “I always felt… bad. Our mother knew what she was when she was really young. I was the one who got all her kindness. Sometimes… I think it's my fault Azula ended up the way she did.” 

“It isn't,” you assure him. You tuck your hand into his. “Your parents played favorites. It wasn't fair.”

Zuko hums absently, his gaze drawn out across the courtyard. After a moment, he’s pulled back to you, a playful grin tugging at his mouth.

“You remind me of a turtle duck,” he states. “You look harmless. You're cute. But you could really fuck someone up if they provoked you.” 

You laugh, slipping your hand from his to teasingly shove his shoulder; the turtle ducks around you scatter as he mirrors your reaction, doing little to defend himself against your loving attack. 

“Did you just call me ‘cute’?” you tease, reaching to pinch at his cheek - he grimaces, taking your hand away from his face by recapturing it in his. “Are you going soft on me, Hothead?” 

He chuckles, mirthfully flicking an apple peel into your hair. You notice the blush that colors his neck, unable to deny your own.

“Oh, Turtleduck,” he says with mock pity. “Is Sokka so bad at flirting that you never learned to pick up on it?” 

He's used his new pet name for you almost every day since he coined it; every time he does, your heart soars out of your throat and into the clouds. 

Through your bedroom window, you can see Zuko on the porch behind your chambers, leaned casually against the railing as he chats with Aang. 

Aang says something that makes the older man laugh; your innards seem to melt as the lines around the corners of Zuko’s eyes and lips wrinkle like folds in a bedsheet. Something in the scene riles you - you’ll slit a hundred men’s throats to protect that smile and the feeling it gives you. 

“This is about Azula,” Rina observes. 

One thing you've learned in your short time with her is that you can't keep secrets from her - chances are she already knows all of them. 

“I just want to know what her living situation is like,” you tell her, “how powerful she could actually be from inside a prison cell.” 

“You have a merciful husband,” Rina sighs, somewhat dreamily . “Azula doesn't live in a prison; he put her in a compound in the Si Wong desert. She's heavily guarded and follows strict schedules and rules, but he didn't want her to live the rest of her life in a cage.” 

“What about Ozai?” you ask. 

“He’s in a prison. I said your husband was merciful, not that he doesn't hold a grudge.” 

You smirk, momentarily eased from the worry that strains your mind. 

“Do either of them have access to the outside world?” you press. 

Rina shakes her head. 

“Azula has very little; the last she heard of anything outside the compound was your marriage announcement. Ozai has absolutely none. All the guards that keep both of them are from the unoccupied Earth Kingdom, so they have no allegiance to them, and only a select few guards are allowed to speak to Azula.” 

“So… there's no way they could be the masterminds of any of this?” 

Rina lifts her gaze from the sash she cinches at your waist, her dark, round eyes meeting yours; her expression is blank, but she speaks in a determined hush. 

“I can't say for certain. But Azula’s intelligence is violent and cunning; she sees things from a different perspective that isn't entirely human. She has insights that more empathetic people would never consider.” 

You nod slowly, understanding. 

“I'll talk to Aang.”

Katara arrives from the Southern Tribe a few hours before the banquet you're hosting in Aang’s honor is scheduled to begin. You accompany her husband and yours to the imperial docks, a massive grin breaking across your cheeks the moment you spot her on the ship’s deck; she sends you a large, sweeping wave, catching you in her arms as soon as she's close enough to do so. 

“I'm so glad you're okay,” she cries into your ear. “How do you feel?” 

You nod, holding her by the waist as she pulls away. Her grip doesn't loosen, her arms still coiled around yours in an affectionate embrace. 

“I'm good,” you assure her. “I'm tough.” 

She smiles, pulling you in to kiss your cheek before turning to Zuko, greeting him with a warm hug. When she reaches Aang, her gestures are much slower, more tender. He takes her chin between two fingers and kisses her gently, his other hand positioned low on her waist as it presses her tightly against him; the action is so out of character for the two - typically so lively and averse to such kinds of public affection - that you and Zuko share an instinctive, curious glance. 

“Did we forget their anniversary or something?” you whisper, fear jolting through you when a look of panic crosses his features. 

“... I don't think so,” he says after a pause. “Maybe… he just missed her?” 

The confusion on his face is endearing - he's more emotionally intelligent than most people, but he's the last person who knows it. 

“Could be,” you agree. “This is the longest they've been apart in years.” 

The two of you watch as Aang assists Katara into Appa’s saddle, another strange behavior considering how used to flying Katara is. Neither of them seem to notice your staring, Aang leaning in for another lingering kiss before taking his place at the reins.

You return to the palace and are met with commotion, servants and high-level diplomats scrambling this way and that in a flustered frenzy. Everyone immediately alerts, prepared for yet another catastrophe. 

“What's going on?” Zuko demands as Rina approaches you; she doesn't hide her sneer at his brash tone, and you smirk as he apologetically shrinks back. 

“You have visitors, come to give their congratulations for your marriage,” Rina explains. 

“Who?” Zuko wonders. 

“Sun Warriors. They're waiting for you in the throne room.” 

Zuko and Aang exchange a look of shock. As you're ushered through the halls of the administrative wing and into the throne room, you take Aang by the arm, pulling him close so you can whisper to him. 

“Who are the Sun Warriors?” you ask. 

“They were the first fire benders,” Aang tells you. “They were supposedly wiped out, but Zuko and I met them when we visited their island at the beginning of my fire bending training. Their existence is supposed to be a secret.” 

“Then why would they come here?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

The throne room is silent - empty save for your entourage and guests - but a constant, electric buzz seems to hang in the air. Zuko falls into step beside you, taking your arm in his as you approach the group of visitors gathered before the throne; their clothing suggests Fire Nation, but from a different world, ancient to the point of almost primal. Each person present is decorated in baroque jewelry, glimmering gold and laced with vibrantly colored beads placed in intricate, deliberate patterns. Their faces are painted in stark lines of red and white, some across their noses and cheeks and under their eyes, others over their chins and foreheads; the makeup is so similar to Water Tribe markings that your eyes widen, unable to stop yourself from leaning in as you attempt to get a better look while also remaining dignified. The warriors are also much more robust than their mainland counterparts, with stocky builds and robust features - they remind you of your own people, leaving you in awe. 

“Chief Sunan,” Zuko addresses the leader of the group, bowing low as he speaks; you follow suit, leveling your gaze with the floor. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” 

The chief smiles faintly, warmly at the two of you, bowing in return. 

“We are not so cut off from the outside world that we have not heard of your marriage,” he says. “News has traveled to us of the strength of your union, and the tenacity of your bride. As Firelord, you have protected us, and made strides to restore the ancient ways of the element - we have come to give you our thanks, and offer our blessings to the both of you.” 

Chief Sunan steps aside then, making way for a man and woman carrying a basket between them; they lower it at your feet, bowing as they step back to rejoin their people. 

“A gift,” the chief proclaims. His muted grin morphs into something more knowing, almost mirthful as he watches Zuko approach the offering. 

You rest a supportive hand on Zuko’s back as he leans forward, lifting the lid of the basket to reveal its contents; he raises a bundle of blankets from the vessel, his eyes growing wide as he peels the fabric back. 

Inside the package is a dragon, just small enough to be cradled in his arms. Its scales are a gorgeous crimson, glinting and shifting between hues of gold and turquoise in the light cast from Zuko’s bended fire that surrounds his empty throne. The little beast peers up at its new parent with amber eyes that mirror your husband’s. Zuko lets out an astonished breath, raising his gaze to meet Chief Sunan’s. 

“I can’t accept this,” he states, so quietly that only you and the chief can make out the words. 

“You must,” Chief Sunan counters, his smile never faltering. “The masters insisted.” 

Under your palm, you feel Zuko’s body tense. He nods, cautiously settling the tiny dragon into your arms; you hold the bundle tightly, reaching in to stroke gently at the baby’s nose. It purs appreciatively, and your heart swells. 

Zuko bows, lowering himself to the floor in the ultimate display of respect. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I vow to protect him with my life.” 

When he once again stands, he looks to Rina. 

“Accommodate them however they need,” he commands. “Send a group of our Kyoshi Warriors to the island to guard it from outsiders.” 

Rina nods, scurrying off immediately to delegate the tasks. Chief Sunan then approaches you, resting a hand on your shoulder; you meet his eyes with slight fear, but find only kindness looking back at you. 

“We are grateful our bloodlines will merge once again,” he tells you. “The origin of our people is a history that has been lost to time, long before the war was even a speck on the horizon. You see, the Sun Warriors are descendents of migrant peoples from the earliest ancestors of the Southern Water Tribe as well as the Fire Nation - what our mothers and fathers knew of water bending shaped our understanding of fire. Your union brings our people together once again, as they should be.” 

Zuko wraps an arm around your waist, proudly pulling you against his side. You draw in a shaky breath, leaning into him as you nod, tears pooling along the lines of your lower eyelids. 

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” you say. “I’ll do everything to make sure we regain our lost history. I promise.” 

Chief Sunan smiles temperately and nods, his fingers contracting around your shoulder in an appreciative grasp. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “We are proud to call you our queen.” 

You invite the Warriors to stay for the night, Aang eagerly informing them of the banquet you have planned; by the time your reception of the unexpected visitors is finished, there's little more than an hour before it begins. 

Zuko brings your new ward back to your quarters, keeping him tucked protectively under his arms until you shut the sitting room door securely behind you. He then unravels the blankets the little creature is wrapped in, allowing him to explore his new home. 

“I thought dragons were extinct,” you marvel, watching as the fabled reptile twists and turns his body around every piece of furniture he encounters, inspecting everything he sees with humanlike interest. You smile, endeared by his wonder. 

“There are two still living,” Zuko explains. He kneels down beside the dragon, offering him a bit of a rice cracker from the box you keep in a side table for your nightly tea. “Three, now, I guess. The other two are the fire bending masters Aang and I had to seek approval from after I joined their team. Honestly, I thought they were both males.” 

“You must have made a good impression for them to trust you with their kid,” you remark, stifling a bit of laughter at his confession. “Maybe this’ll get Yong to stop bugging us about getting me knocked up.” 

Zuko chuckles, glancing up at you with an impish grin; the suggestive expression makes you blush, and you try to not admit to yourself that the excitement it sparks isn't unwelcome. 

The baby dragon lets out a mewling growl as he wraps himself around Zuko’s shoulders. He blows a minuscule jet of flame into the Firelord’s face, which Zuko mimics. You feel like squealing. 

“What should we call him?” you ask, lowering yourself onto the floor beside your husband. You hold a finger out to the dragon, which he curiously takes into one of his clawed hands. 

“Druk,” Zuko answers. “He looks like a Druk, doesn’t he?” 

You nod, your cheeks pinkened by the smile that’s plastered itself across your face; Zuko’s eyes meet yours with the same joyed expression. He maneuvers himself closer to you, resting his hand atop yours in your lap. As his fingers curl around your palm, you become achingly aware of just how near to you he is, and in a way that’s no longer friendly - the tension is heavier now, strained under the weight of a giddy, fluttering mania that leaves you dizzy. You don’t have to wonder if he feels the same. 

“Guess we’re parents now,” Zuko jokes, his voice barely above a breath. 

You giggle, taking the chance of leaning in to brush your lips to his. Your skin hardly touches; you’re too nervous to dive in and taste him, and for a moment after you pull away, you fear you may have imagined the glancing kiss. The fire that flares across Zuko’s cheeks tells you you didn’t. 

“Yeah,” you smirk, speaking in a murmur. “Guess we are.” 

📚 table of contents 📚

✨ join me on patreon ✨

{ subscribers: @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @celamoon @omgwhattheeven @i-am-not-a-thot @fandomtrash1616 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @just-another-romantic @berkeliums @eridanuswave @oleander-in-the-wind @kinismanditory @lammello @peppermenty @theawesomefactor123 @loganrwebb @ijustwannabecanadian @a-hopeless-fan @softvv @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @pearl-stonecutter @crazy0t @commander-rex @kittyddandnyla @abbyarchie @smol-grandpa @nonbinary-rogers @themanwiththemetalarmsdoll @witchywrter @canibea-whore-yet @fuckwhateverfuck @eridanuswave @duh-dobrik @sum-stuff13 @whalerus @yeetletzgetitjae @thedemigodsarealivebitch }

[spnsmile]

Title: Burn out this Love

Summary:

Complete blackout in the Bunker during a stormy night has TFW2.0 setting up candles in the war room except Dean accidentally lights one of the cursed candles that extracted a part of himself that believes he loves Castiel. A shaman comes to help but not really, resulting in the angel’s short temper and taking matters in his own hands to make Dean remember. Dean did not forget his name after.

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 9390

Tags/Warning: non/Con, dubcon, Curses, Fluff, Domestics, Established destiel

Written for @supernaturalpromptchallenge March prompt: Element: fire-candle

It was a precarious move, so Castiel silences everything of the earth’s natural orchestra always playing by his ears. From the nonstop spatter of rain on the muddy ground to the howling wind beating against the fort’s thick walls. The electrical hum silently permeating the stone confines to the droplets of water from the sink.

He narrows down the sound to the light tapping of Sam Winchester’s fingers on the keyboard. Jack’s distinct swallows of anticipation beside him. And Dean humming contentedly across the table, waiting for the next course of action to transpire.

Castiel opens his eyes. He raises his left hand with two delicate fingers like pincers and with precision, jabs it at the wooden block of his choice in the second level of the towering pile of Jenga he, Dean and Jack had been huddled around.

There’s a second of everyone holding their breath. Even Sam’s fingers have stopped typing. Dean’s eyes are so round, breath held, Castiel can almost feel his controlled excitement. But he got this.

He meticulously extracted a brick in one pull without making the almost 24 cm tower tumble. Dean sighs with a small, biting his bottom lip to keep whatever he wants to say while Jack’s mouth drops as Castiel stacks the brick up the tower deftly. He then beams at Dean and Jack when the tower remained steady.

“That wasn’t so hard. This indoor game is actually quite entertaining. Humans really are creative when left in their own devices being stuck inside their homes.”

He clasps both his hands on the table then stares at Dean.

Stuck that afternoon because of rain with no case at hand, they were easily convinced by Jack to play Jenga. At first, Dean didn’t want to participate, but one look from the angel gets him to agree. He vowed to destroy Castiel teasingly before they begin.

Except Cas isn’t prone to losing this one yet.

“Your turn, Dean.” Jack says, “Those blocks on the second and third level looks very shaky.” Dean glares at Cas

“Yeah, because somebody insisted on taking out all the foundation on the get-go. Ten minutes later and welcome to Pisa.”

“Rules of Jenga states that you have to remove a brick from a layer other than the top—”

“Like heck I’ll give you top even in this one, babe.” Dean cuts in slyly.

Castiel’s eyes narrow at his boyfriend who looks really fine with his finger-combed hair straight from the shower. He could tell by the strong smell of the hunter’s shampoo pervading the air. He is wearing his soft green top that always matches his eyes. Castiel prefers those one-color coded than the flannels, though he would never be averse to any clothing as long as it includes Dean.

Dean takes a shot in the middle of the tower, then seconds later extracted another brick.

“I got one for tops in ten seconds. Gonna get your ass next, Cas.”

Castiel only deadpans. Dean is obviously flirting with him now but he doesn’t know what to do except stare. He doesn’t remember when this had become a battle of position but he returns the intent gaze with usual deadpan.

“I was using my non-dominant hand.”

Castiel raises his left with an eyebrow up, smiling. Dean huffs in disbelief and was about to put the brick on the top of the tower when Castiel’s phone suddenly rings.

Dean yelps in surprise and knocks the entire tower, sending bricks on the table and the floor with loud thudding sounds. Castiel catches one brick on the way to the ground, watching everything fall apart. Dean groans and smacks his fist on the table while Jack smiles all cheeks like he’s been waiting for it to happen.

“I’ll help get them.” He says instead.

“Who’s callin?” Dean says grudgingly.

They all look at Castiel who’s fishing inside his coat. He shrugs at the look Dean gives him as he takes his phone out. “Oh, it’s my contact—one of the angels.”

Dean makes a face and grumbles.

“Looks like your top didn’t make it, Dean.” Sam remarks lightly from the end of the table.

“Shut up.” Dean snaps, “I’ll win Cas one of these days.”

“A foreseeable future in an alternate universe.”

“Shut up, you want me, Cas.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow scathingly

“No, but I need you to help pick up the wood, Dean. Yes, hello? Uh… yes, you did call inconveniently, I was in the middle of something—”

“My my, this wood’s hard.” Dean kneels on the floor with the voice loud enough to be heard on the angel’s phone.

“Dean,” Sam says in warning.

Giving Dean an intense look, Castiel nods on his phone then hangs up. He stands up and walks to the hunter, kneels in front of Dean who freezes at the sudden approach till Castiel reaches out and tilts his chin up. Sam looks away pointedly.

“Bad boy, Dean.”

Dean’s whole face flushes as red as a tomato.

“I understand it now.” Comes Jack’s voice, severing the spell the two had fallen under when the Nephilim appears behind the angel.

“What did you understand?” Castiel takes the bricks from the boy, feeling Dean’s eyes hot on his back. Jack nods with eyes round.

“This game is much like when people try to reach the top of heaven, but god punished them by taking out what makes them stronger together one by one. Like in the Tower of Babel.”

Dean resurfaces from the trance, blinking.

“He’s all yours.”

Castiel smiles. “It does appear to be all interrelated when you stop and think about it, though, in reality, the prophet of the lord during that time was a bad drunk who was trying to dispute ownership over a windmill farm from his brother. Eventually ending their relationship. Only because his brother refused to speak with him, thus context. But it’s more of the lesson of the story, Jack, rather than the myth behind it. I need to go.”

Dean’s head snaps up from the table.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To meet my contact? That’s why he called, you heard him, Dean.”

“I heard him destroy my chances of topping.” Dean frowns. Castiel can see the argument rising from his face so he chooses his words carefully.

“He requires my assistance.”

Dean blinks, “Okay, wait for me I’ll go get my coat—”

“Uh, no, Dean. You can’t accompany me.” Because like most angels, this one is also wary of Dean Winchester. All angels—all Supernatural beings are.

“Stop joking around.”

“I’m not. I think you know when I am.” Castiel says drily.

 “What— you serious? But we had an agreement not to go out of the house without—"

“Um… Bunker hall pass?”

Sam snorts while Castiel hesitates when he sees Dean frown deeper.

Hall pass as he understands means something about … Winchesters want to do something private which basically is like the loophole in the whole agreement. It’s that pass where they do stupid stuff or deals or meetings without the others knowing.

They all agreed to never go out of the Bunker without a partner according to Dean. If it’s a hunt, it’s usually Sam and Dean together. But if it’s grocery shopping or Dean needing to have some fresh air it’s always Castiel on tow. Castiel doesn’t necessarily require the same attention, though he treasures Dean’s company to a fault.

He doesn’t understand the confused expression on Dean’s face.

“Cas, unless it’s a date you wanna get laid at, geez, I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not. Listen to me, Dean. You really can’t tag along.”

“But it’s raining.” Dean points. Castiel tilts his head, wordless. Dean stares at him, shifting from one foot to another before his expression closes into a grim.

“Fine. Go then.”

There’s nothing much left for Castiel to do when the man leaves.

Castiel quietly watches him go. No sooner than he left, the angel heard a distinct exploding sound somewhere far and the entire Bunker is enveloped in darkness.

***

Castiel stares blankly at the wall of the kitchen to the dancing shadow of Dean Winchester. He followed Dean ten minutes later and stationed himself by the door watching Dean busy himself by the sink, washing his hands with the flashlight of his cellphone, his sleeves pushed up his elbow and humming Led Zepp Castiel is already quite familiar.

“Dean.”

“What.”

“There’s been a massive blackout,” Castiel informs him.

“Don’t I know it? What are you still doing here? I thought your gonna have a date n stuff?”

“I don’t date.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “At the very least if their name is not Dean Winchester, I do not bother.” He sees the visible tension disappear on the man’s shoulder. It gets him talking more to get on Dean’s good side again. “I’ve decided not to go. It’s raining and I don’t want my boyfriend upset even though it’s ridiculous to be jealous—”

Dean coughs several times and swings to face the angel with the back of his hand on his lips. His ears are pink, Castiel can tell even from the dark.

“B-boyfriend?” he blurts out in shock.

“Unless you prefer that I call our engagement with different terminology. I believe the word ‘boyfriend’ is what this century is calling it nowadays. Or would you prefer to be my ‘beau’?” he narrows his eyes. To be honest he will prefer anything as long as he can tell their relationship is special. But Dean—

“N-no, I like boyfriend.” Dean stammers, turning back the sink and washing the frozen meat from the fridge. Castiel smiles and walks to him. He likes it when Dean gets all flustered because of something he said. Dean’s always been like that from the beginning.

Wrapping his arms around the hunter, Castiel sighs in contentment when he inhales Dean’s scent. Dean tenses in front of him but Castiel kisses the back of his neck, urging him to relax while he presses Dean back on the counter, body solidly against each other.

“Stop getting me a boner, Cas.” Dean chuckles.

Tag: Explicit

“Mmm. Why not?” Cas smiles, brushing his hand on top of the hunter’s fly. He can feel Dean’s body going rigid, his breath hitching. “I thought you said this is what boyfriends do?” He bites Dean’s ear. Too irresistible not to do it.

“Dammit, Cas—"

“I like it when you get angry with me.” Castiel whispers, unzipping Dean’s pants and snaking his deft hand inside his boxers. Dean is hard. The way he can easily turn Dean on is mesmerizing. “Because I know you’re worried. I know you care a lot. I’d prefer it anytime than you uncaring. Love it when you’re jealous.” He nips on the smooth skin, running his tongue back to Dean’s lobes and sucking hard.

“Now you’re tripping me—fuck!”

Dean squirms back against Castiel’s body, his ass pressing hard against the angel’s hips. It’s all sensual to him, all because Dean is a very sensitive man. It’s not physical alone, though that’s what draws Dean to Castiel at the beginning while Castiel is the exact opposite.

He saw Dean’s soul first and fell in love. Gradually, they were able to piece themselves together and now what’s between is both. Castiel understands that now. Dean is turned on sensually, emotionally and it’s mutual between them. It’s everything Castiel loves about Dean. But body contact is not to be undervalued either—Dean strives to be touched, hungry for it always, he spent the rest of his life seeking company on lonely nights. Now he’s with Castiel—responding to every caress because only Castiel knows how.

So, when he strokes Dean, they both know it’s more than just touches. Dean breathes like all the air is leaving his lungs. When Castiel presses his thumb on the delicate slit in the middle of the pulsing cock, they both know the running pleasure is multiplied by the thought of who is doing it. Castiel is. To Dean.

And Cas knows how to serve him. Grabbing Dean’s hair with his free hand, he presses their heads together, his lips on Dean’s ear. “Are you going to come for me, Dean?”

It’s enough to get Dean convulsing on his palm.

“Cas— shit—” Dean's hand grapples the edge of the sink while his other grasped behind him to Castiel’s hips. His knees are wobbling against the angel. “C-Cas I’m almost—”

His voice just breaks in the most arousing way. Castiel turns Dean’s head and kisses him hard, enjoying the heat coming from the hunter’s lips, the way it’s so open in submission as dominates their exchange. He pumps Dean harder in the middle of his release, shooting off the sink’s ceiling and on Castel’s hand.

Dean groans and falls back weakly on the angel but Cas got him. He embraces Dean. Plants soft kisses around Dean’s salty throat, his hand still slowly stroking Dean’s cock till he feels it soften in his palms. Dean is breathing hard and Castiel feels a little proud to the one to do that. Things had been very peaceful around them since they both woke up from the idiot dream after their confession of love. Castiel will never forget it.

“Can I help with anything else?” he asks after thoroughly cleaning Dean with his grace and tucking his cock back in before unzipping his fly.

“You just jerked me in front of my bacon.”

“I cleaned it.”

“You just took advantage of me cause it’s dark here.”

“That is true, but you also did say that’s what humans do in the dark with four walls and blankets. We don’t have blankets—do I need to get one?”

“Unless you want to fuck me on the table?” the way Dean sounds hopeful gives Castiel a headache.

 “We’ll have that when we can. For now, if you’re done fixing dinner, I will go call Sam and Jack so we can all be here. I’m sure they found the candles by now.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Candles? What are they—kids? No, use flashlights, the candles are last resorts. I have flashlights in the cabinet. Or make em use their phones.”

“I do not think that’s a good idea considering you might need your phones to communicate outside if the blackout persists.”

“Uh… You’re right.” The hunter smiles smugly all of a sudden, “Then can you be like my lamp now? You know—badass angel glowing light in the middle of the room—

“Umm, if I do that the entire Bunker will be enveloped with pure light and since it’s dark outside, the possibility of getting detected by your world’s ‘space cadets’ as you call them is at risk. So now. I do not believe it’s very smart to use my grace at all, Dean. Let’s reserved that for a real emergency.” Castiel glares.

“Geez, alright.” Dean laughs, wiping his hands with the towel hanging by his left shoulder. “Hang on, I’ll go with you to get the flashlights. Their only under the Ham radios.”

“Okay.”

“Wait— Cas!”

Dean surprises Castiel when he suddenly pulls him back, cups his face and catches his lips into a mouth to a kiss with the hunter leading.

Castiel smiles. He likes it when Dean is spontaneous like that. He lets Dean take him. When they pull away, Dean is looking at him with eyes full of love. Castiel nudges his nose on Dean’s lips and sighs. Together, they walk back to the library, all tensions obviously have been released away.

“But, really, candles?” Dean says in the dark.

Castiel uses the opportunity to pull Dean forward. “So, you can ask them. Let’s go.”

“Don’t make me trip on you—”

“You’re the one who keeps pushing—Dean!”

“Sorry!” Dean laughs, “Was that your ass or what?”

Rolling his eyes, he lets Dean pat his ass again until they reach the corridor. Sam’s laptop screen is on, the only light amidst complete darkness. In front of it, Sam looks up with Jack waiting beside him. “Finally decided to appear now, huh?”

“While you guys are playing another set of ‘Are you afraid of the Dark?’ episode?” Dean is clearly looking at Sam who rubs his forehead and nods at Jack.

“We’re waiting for Cas.” Jack explains brightly, eyes on the. “The candles are still unlit so I was thinking if you can use your grace them get them light up.”

Castiel doesn’t quickly answer but throws a look over Dean instead.

“It’s raining and there are candles. Add a cat and we’ll be calling out Sabrina. I can’t even see the candles!” Blinking hard with brows furrowing, he and Castiel steps to the table, casting looks over the place

 “I’m not sure I can light all, Jack.” Castiel says solemnly.

“Sure you can.” Jack encourages.

“Just makes sure you don’t make any light bulbs burst and eyes burn.” Dean chuckles.

Castiel glares at that. He notices Dean emerging from under the table and pulling a box under the table to duck from his glare. Huffing, Castiel snaps his fingers and—

The fire flickers out of thin air from the four candles in the middle, lightening the whole war room with the dancing flames, sending their shadows tall on the walls. Castiel sees Jack beam and it made the effort worth it.

“And this,” comes Dean’s voice. Nobody saw him put another candle on the table. They found him already with a matchstick at hand, scraping the corner and tipping down the thick wax candle with an X-mark—

“Dean—wait—!” Sam begins, but too late— Dean lights the candle. The moment the flame flickers on the candle, Dean’s eyes roll back with white balls showing and he drops on the floor out cold.

“DEAN!”

“It’s a cursed object, obviously. Are you sure you’re with proper hunters? One look of the object and—”

“It’s a long story—there’s no electricity when you need it. I could power it up, but Sam says— anyway, just come here—I don’t care if it’s raining. I want to make sure he’s going to be okay after the candle dies out—” Castiel listens to the shaman’s mundane complaints while the angel stands outside the corridor right outside Dean’s room.

His body is still shaking as he relieves the memory of Dean fainting after lighting the cursed candle. Saw something leave Dean’s body that made him reach for the hunter and clutch him close. Protecting Dean at all costs. In the end, after determining it was a cursed candle from the box that Jack brought in the room unwittingly, Castiel resorted to calling his only resource for magical objects, The Shaman, Sergei.

After sending a photo of the nasty candle he wants to melt, his opinion changed drastically upon learning that Dean’s life force is connected to the candle. Now it became the most important thing for him.

“Be quick, I’m warning you, Sergei.”

Castiel hangs up and sprints back to Dean’s room. He can still feel his heart wild against his chest anxiously. The way it happened— he saw something get sucked away from Dean’s body when he lit the candle. Sergei only confirmed his suspicion which didn’t make him feel any better.

But at least it wasn’t any candle about death….

Sam brought his rechargeable lamp in the room that lit the entire vicinity conveniently. Sam looks up questioningly when Castiel comes in and Cas had no choice but to give him a curt nod.

“Yes, Sergei says it’s a curse.”

Sam’s face turns pale. “And? What kind of curse?”

“I don’t know… Sergei’s not sure but he says it could be of Japanese origin but apart from that we still have to wait for Sergei to confirm. He still wants to come over and see for himself.”

“Okay, that’s a plan.” Sam stands up and palms his face. “But I’m still going to search around lore books about Japanese curses then. I don’t trust Sergei. Do you?”

He frowns up at Sam. “I have every reason to doubt Sergei. He will be under my watch once he’s here. He should not be left with Dean. And even if it is the only threat of the cursed candle, I still would not relax until I see Dean as himself again. I’m afraid so trusting Sergei is the only thing we have for now.”

They all look at Dean fast asleep on his bed with the candlelight burning over the table by his wall.

Everyone knows it is Castiel who will be watching over Dean for the rest of the night. Sam left the room to do research in his room and see what else he can find with an extra flashlight at hand. Jack decides to let Cas and Dean alone and once everything is quiet, Castiel naturally focuses on Dean.

He sits beside the hunter’s bed, eyeing every feature of Dean he’s already memorized by heart. One look and he can tell something is missing, though whether it’s for the best, he is not one to decide. He places two fingers on his friend’s forehead and sighs. He closes his eyes, heartbreaking again when he could not reach onto Dean’s soul.

Castiel stays inside Dean’s room for the better part of the night, watching for any slight changes or disturbance over the hunter’s peaceful slumber. There’s none. In fact, Dean barely stirred on the bed unaware of the raging weather outside. If it was not for his chest moving steadily, Castiel would worry about his life.

He spends an hour like that, just staring at Dean’s face for the rest of the evening, recounting his freckles, noting those that faded and delighting himself in finding new ones.

He touches Dean’s forehead from time to time, let his fingers run down the soft hair. Let’s his warmth fill the empty vessel of his boyfriend. He knows it’s unnecessary, but he could not stop. Won’t. He’d do it even with a hairbreadth of grace left in his body.

He stares at Dean.

Achingly. Longingly. Willing those eyes to open for him again. So, he waits. He always waits for Dean. It only seems proper because it’s Dean who made him realize how waiting can sometimes be unbearable. Time is a concept no angel understood before.

Until Dean.

Nightmares didn’t visit Dean that night. Dean does not have any reason to fear, Castiel is beside him. The true nightmare is waiting for Dean alone in the silence of the night. So, if someone asks Castiel if he has any fear at all, Castiel will think of this moment and tells them he does.

***                                          

The Shaman arrived around half past nine, two hours after Dean’s collapse. By then power was still absent, making it difficult for Sam to use his laptop. The Bunker’s generator hasn’t worked since the last invasion in the fortress.

Descending from the metal stairs with wet shoulders from the rain outside, he cast his eyes at the faces waiting for him by the war table looking like a phantom in black apparel, the lights of candles whipping in his presence.

“Has he woken up?” Sergei asks deadpan.

“Not yet.” Castiel shakes his head, “It’s only been two hours. Are you sure the lasting effect of the candle is only 7 hours?” Sergei looks pass Sam to the entrance of the corridor eagerly. He turns to Castiel again.

“Yes, unless you use the other two candles then the curse will continue.”

Castiel and Sam exchange looks. The Shaman raises an eyebrow.

“There are three candles for the shrine ritual,” he begins slowly, “together the three can have significant influence over the balance of nature. Do you mean to tell me—?”

“I kept the other candles in the box.” Sam presses his lips.

“Very well, please bring them into the room. Castiel? Can you lead the way?”

Castiel did not say anything. The look Sam gives him is meaningful, but since the hour is dire, the two decided to do as the Shaman says. Castiel leads the way to Dean’s room while Jack accompanies Sam to the storage room.

Once they reach the hunter’s room, Castiel quickly checks on Dean. The hunter is still fast asleep with no sign of any disturbance in his absence. Sergei doesn’t wait. He slides past Castiel and takes a look at the hunter from head to toe, then walks to the candle still burning bright by the table.

Castiel watches Sergei’s movement with his brows slowly furrowing.

“Will he be okay?” he stands beside Sergei, expression softening at Dean’s sleeping form.

“I need some time alone with him. The spell for—”

“No.”

He meets Sergei’s eyes but the final word is apparently with the clouding of his face.

“Fix him.” He says sharply, “And don’t do anything suspicious or I’ll smite you.”

Sergei quirks his eyebrows. “Always the Russian method with you.”

Castiel doesn’t like it. Truth be told, he’s wary of repeatedly asking the Shaman for help. He’s been pushing Sergei to the limits, always asking for favors they both know would never be compensated. It’s only a matter of time before the Shaman gets back to him. Sam shouting in the corridor at the top of his lungs seems to be the cue.

“Your other Winchester needs you.” they both look at the door but Castiel did not move from

“What are you not telling me, Sergei?”

“CAS!” Sam appears by the door, breathless. “Cas! Don’t let him near Dean!”

Castiel doesn’t ask why. He grabs Sergei by the collar and lifts him up the air before Sam can even finish. He’s been alert from the beginning— expecting danger lurking around and with an unconscious Dean, he’s not about to put his guard down.

Sergei is clutching his wrist tightly, choking as he writhes against Castiel’s hold. Castiel whose eyes gleam darkly, fixing the Russian with his penetrating stare.

“What…” he says, dangerously calm, “are you not telling me?”

There’s a groan on the bed. Castiel distractedly looks down at Dean stirring. Sergei chuckles and presses something hot on his hands. He feels his whole body becomes rigid—the ability to move gone from whatever the Shaman did.

“No!”

Sam comes forward, lunging at Sergei who was leaning on Dean’s side. He grabs him by the shoulder to take him out but in the middle of the struggle, everyone sees him rise from the bed.

Castiel swallows hard. He feels his grace trying to reach out to him but couldn’t—his grace is locked away. But it’s not this that gets him worried.

It’s Dean. Dean is now fully awake, staring at Sergei with unblinking eyes.

“Shit.” Sam whispers.

That doesn’t bode well for Castiel.

Smite. Absolute smiting.

This is the only thing Castiel can think about when he heard the truth about the curse on Dean and Sergei’s intentions for his friend.

Apparently, the cursed candles are used in Japan’s ancient, most famous and terrible curse-a ritual done mainly by jealous and wronged lovers. The three candles are only part of the instruments— as Sam reads.

“…dressed in white and a trivet worn like a crown with three candles burning in the night, a doll made of bound straw and wooden hammer or long iron spikes… They would have in their possession a part of the victim they want to curse—a hair, skin blood, fingernail, even photographs and perform the ritual by any Shinto shrines and time to the Hour of the Ox, witching hour where yurei and yokai spirits come haunting…”

Castiel is only half listening. No. He is emitting a certain air of danger for the Shaman bound by the chair in the war room. Dean is still in his room with a headache while Jack stands outside his door. Half of Castiel’s mind is with Dean, sensing his every movement but he could not. He knows something is different and it’s that he will extract from Sergei by force.

He points his blade menacingly at the Shaman who pulls away from the pointed blade as far as he could. Castiel doesn’t mean to make contact. He can only see blood.

“That’s not the entire story behind this, is it, Sergei?” Castiel glowers. Sam joins him with arms crossed, glaring at the Russian.

“The candles have been used before and was stashed away with the remnants of the curse left in it. What I don’t understand is why lighting one would be harmful to anyone who uses it.”

“Not harmful, of course not. You do not understand the power of words entangled with pure hatred and love, do you?” Sergei begins hooded eyes on the hunter.

Castiel jabs his knuckle on Sergei’s jaw. It connects—Sam doesn’t even bother stopping the angel whose glinting blue eyes burned on the Shaman.

“Tell us everything before I kill you.”

“Cas…”

Sergei harkens a laugh but obliges. “Dead spirits linger on earth, you know, because of their attachment to the mortal world. And when I say attachment, we speak of their sentiments. Very dangerous even for mortal people to possess. Anger, hatred, injustice… bound to materialize when given too much power over poor souls. Now, Japanese witches, they have different sources of power with their deeper connection to the pagan gods their culture have embraced. More resources, more creativity when it comes to Witchcraft you in the West would never achieve.”

“What about you?” Cas asks.

“I’m Russian. Shaman, Castiel. A chosen profession by necessity. We do not need to keep the Supernatural hidden in the East. We bask in them. The people worship them. Acceptance of the Supernatural passed down from generation until, well. The invasion of West insisting on their god.” He looks pointedly at Castiel who continues to glower in his direction.

“What has this got to do with Dean?”

“The three-candles-curse stand for hatred, jealousy, and intent to harm. If passed on, these emotions are also transferred to the next caster. It doesn’t matter if you light the three, put it on your head like a crown. Once lit, the emotions will flood the caster and urge them to continue the curse till done. Your boyfriend—” he nods at the door, “who only lit one will only be affected by the chosen candle. The question here is which one did he light? The one for hatred? For jealousy? Or the intention to harm? We’re about to find out.”

Castiel hears the quiet footfalls of Dean followed by Jack coming from the corridor. Sergei sees them too, standing at the door with the hunter’s gaze quickly falling on the Shaman. His face is pale, Castiel can see dark lines under his eyes. But above that, he sees Dean’s soul has been clouded. Dimmed. He grits his teeth then pulls Sergei’s collar.

“It doesn’t make sense. If those negative emotions will transfer to him then why—why are you getting involved?”

“Ah, I did not say it will affect him in the same way.” Sergei says with a malicious glint in his eyes, “For if a person does not intend to do harm nor feel any certain hatred over another… if this person only accidentally lights the candles without any then what’s left will be the root of the magic which is—”

“Cas, what are you doing?” Dean growls, frowning. “Get away from him.”

Sam steps forward to meet Dean halfway while Jack follows behind the hunter uncertainly.

“Dean, this guy doesn’t want to help you, okay? He’s here to screw with us!”

Dean frowns. “What are you talking about? He won’t hurt me. Get out of the way, Sammy.” His green eyes swim towards Sergei, the dull eyes slowly gaining fire of determination. Castiel stands his ground as he understood how Dean’s eyes melt softly—and to the angel’s horror—

“I love him.” Dean reasons.

The blade falls on the floor with a solid thud.

Castiel takes a lungful of air, eyes not leaving Dean’s. Beside him, he hears Sergei’s dark voice, “Be careful, angel. The curse is twice bound. You don’t want to burn him, do you?”

What is the root of all curses that spark from emotions…?

Of course.

Love.

Dean is left in his room alone, cuffed and all after punching Sam for getting on his way. He was only stopped when Castiel and Jack take him too and locked him away.

“Don’t kill him yet, Cas,” Sam says before they part. Sergei has just smugly admitted he wanted to get back on Castiel even for just 7 hours by taking Dean’s affection. He knew this was gonna happen and its only Sam who’s stopping him from burying his angel blade on the Shaman. Sam takes care of Sergei, promising to throw him somewhere far where Dean would never reach him. Castiel is left to take care of Dean, so take care of Dean he will.

The lasting effect of the curse is until the candle dies out which Castiel left in Jack’s care. He trusts Jack. The fire wasn’t in any danger of dying its fire soon anyway. His heart breaks at the thought, but he can’t be weak. Dean needs him now. As long as the man doesn’t start proposing to Sergei, that is.

Sam told him to clear off Dean until the next five hours but Castiel made no promises. He knows the curse will be lifted on its own yet, he can’t. It’s Dean and no sooner than Sam left the Bunker around dawn, he finds himself traipsing down the hallway to the end of the corridor

Dejected atmosphere greets Castiel when he opens the door of the room. Dean has fallen silent with his wrists cuffed together on the table. He looks up when Castiel enters, but his green eyes swiftly look behind the angel-like he’s expecting someone there. Disappointment fills his expression and Castiel mirrors him. That is. Until he gets a hold of himself.

Sam said they will be laughing this out after the five-hour mark. That Dean would be so embarrassed to declare his undying love to the Russian Shaman who he will hunt for the rest of his life. Castiel doesn’t find it amusing. He saw Dean back there— he saw how Dean’s innate ability to love was robbed of the man.

If Dean was going to hunt for Sergei in the future, he better does it quickly before Castiel gets there before. He closes the door behind him and locks it.

Dean sits up with wary anticipation on the bed. Castiel eyes him predatorily. He sheds his trench coat first, folding it carefully at the back of Dean’s chair.

Dean in love with someone else? Now that’s laughable.

Dean is his.

Dean belongs to him.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Where is he?”

Castiel’s lips thin. He wants to say the Shaman is dead. Sergei will be once Castiel gets Dean’s heart back. He runs his hand on his tie before carefully pulling it away.

“Sam escorted him out of the Bunker. For your safety.” He says very quietly.

“Gee, thanks. Way to keep me in line, keeping away the only person who can straighten me out.” Dean kicks the side table enough to make Castiel finally look at him.

“Stop it. Destroying things won’t make you get your way. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“You know what the best way for me to actually not hurt myself?” Dean sneers, “Is for you to let me go!”

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen, Dean. No. You’re only going to follow Sergei.” Castiel’s eyes are cold. “No, you stay here. With me.”

The man huffs angrily like it’s the last thing he wants in the world. If only his Dean can see himself now. Refusing Castiel’s company in the same room they’ve shared many times. What irony… but Castiel’s not about to let that stop him.

There’s a reason why Dean is locked here with him. He begins to unbutton his shirt, eyes gleaming when he sees Dean watch him warily.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Have you really forgotten our little secret, Dean?” Castiel asks, walking to the bed in two steps and stops in front of the man.

Dean looks up defiantly and Castiel finds himself like that. The number of times he and this man had gone against each other from the first time they met, Dean shines brighter like that. But when cornered like this like a prey, Castiel would rather Dean be a fighting soldier than a trapped animal.

The thought of Sergei touching Dean sets stone-cold dominance in his being. A possessive feeling of ownership takes him. Castiel suddenly becomes afraid of where it will take him as he touches the hunter’s chin and lifts it so the can peer him in the eyes, albeit a little dimmed, are still gorgeous green.

“I won’t let anyone, have you. Not by force.” He strokes Dean’s cheeks which turn the deepest shade of red. Dean still responds to him. At least, his body remembers this.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean swallows, eyeing Castiel’s open button shirt revealing a mass of strapping muscles like he’s never seen it before. But Castiel sees it. That look Dean reserves for things he wishes to taste but daring not to take—he’s seen that numerous times.

“We’re different. You and I…we’re—”

“Connected?” Dean meets his eyes and strange enough there’s a glint of hunger in those green that Castiel never expected to see—not until the curse is lifted, but it’s there.

“You seem to understand it, Dean. That you are under a curse and whatever you feel for Sergei—”

Dean sighs, his head tilting back. “I don’t feel the same about you.”

Castiel freezes, his heart falling on the floor. He needed to remind himself that this is not Dean talking. That Dean—his Dean— would never say that to him. That once this is over, Dean will apologize and Dean will want him again.

No… this Dean wants him.

He has to believe in that.

Leaning down, he tugs the cuff when he stretches Dean on the bed, pulling on his leg till Dean’s arm stretches above him. The hunter growls at the sudden prone position, but his eyes widen when Castiel unbuckles his own pants and let it slip down the floor. He feels Dean’s eyes follow his hard cock—because Castiel will always be hard for Dean—so when he crawls on top of Dean, he knows he’s got attention.

Dean has told him many times how he is fucking turned on when Castiel is naked waist below while still wearing his white unbuttoned tops. Dean’s fantasies Castiel is always willing to oblige. He casts his eyes down on the hunter when their faces are leveled.

Dean doesn’t move, it’s him breathes that rapidly changes. With eyes bulging, breathe hitching, Castiel feels his heart thumping at what’s about to happen next.

Heart leaping as he recognized Dean’s soul trying to reach to him, he takes hold of Dean’s shoulders and grips him tight. He doesn’t look away and the hunter remains silent.

Slowly, he pushes Dean on the bed, falling with him till Dean is on his back, breathing heavily, the lump on his throat unsteady as it bobbed up and down. Castiel straddles him, melting Dean with the amount of hunger in his eyes.

“You remember this, don’t you?” he whispers, stripping Dean from the lovely green shirt. Castiel tosses it and begins on Dean’s black undershirt when a hand jabs on his chest suddenly. Dean is blinking at him with fear and uncertainty.

“It’s not you I…Sergei—” Dean suddenly struggles to say.

Castiel doesn’t show his dismay. He conceals it. He knows Dean is fighting, knows Dean wants him to help him, to fight with him. So whatever doubt he has about what he needs to do next, he pushes it down. Dean’s clear eyes begin to cloud. It’s the curse.

He’s losing Dean.

Oh, a shaman is really going to die.

Castiel’s eyes bulge as the realization hits him hard.

Whatever Sergei said about wanting Castiel to be jealous—because that’s what he means when he told Castiel ‘Be careful, angel. The curse is twice bound. You don’t want to burn him, do you?”

He figures it out that instant—that Sergei’s intention is not for Dean but for him. Dean will be under this love spell for seven hours, crying for Sergei’s name in his sleep. Something that is truly unforgivable for the angel who then will have to suffer intense jealousy.

This… here right now… is extreme jealousy and hatred within him… the intent to harm all because of love. Castiel’s heart dies inside him. He is an angel, a heavenly being. He is not supposed to be bound by such negative emotion and yet—

He closes his eyes. It was too late to go back now.

Sergei has succeeded in cursing him through Dean.

His fingers curl clutching the hem of Dean’s black shirt. That’s not gonna happen. Dean looking at him like he’s a stranger even when his body is reacting, that’s not what they promised. It was stolen from Dean.

No… Dean was stolen from him.

He knows he can wait it out, knows there’s actually no reason to do this but just the thought of Dean thinking he’s in love with someone else sends fearsome anger rippling all over his body. With a growl, he pushes Dean’s black shirt up roughly, brushing the mound of muscle with the heel of his palm. He begins kissing the hardening bud ever so sensitive under his mouth.

“No…” Dean grunts, hands clutching the angel’s shoulders “Get off— I want Sergei!”

The name awakens something primal inside Castiel. Jealousy or what not— innate possessiveness or what not—this is torture!

 “You’re not putting much of a fight.” He sucks Dean’s nipples hard, making Dean squirm but Castiel stays one hand on his other pectoral, rubbing the unattended nipple with his fingers. Dean’s cries are so pleasing and both painful as Castiel faithfully continues his ministration for the next five minutes, rolling and flattening his tongue until the bud is hard. He grazes his teeth on the erect bud making Dean yelp and squirms beneath him. He applies the same suction on the left nipple, feeling the hunter writhe on the bed, trying to free his leg until Castiel grounds their hips together. He presses hard on Dean. The man groans softly.

Castiel frowns and looks down Dean’s pants to find the only possible reason is Dea still wearing his pants. Smiling, he gets up, straddles him and begins working on Dean’s belt.

“Wait—Cas…” his voice whimpers when Castiel pulls his pants and boxers down in one swift movement and throws it on the floor. Dean tries to hide his cock by crossing his legs, but Castiel is taking none of it. Pushing Dean’s legs apart, hands firm on his thighs, he let his palms ground Dean’s legs on the bed. Dean moves his ass, his cock twitching beneath him where he couldn’t see.

Sighing, Castiel slides both palms from the hunter’s knee caps down to the root of his cock. Both hands take it, Castiel’s body follows as he leans in, elbows keeping Dean’s leg open till the tip of his mouth touches the head of Dean’s cock.

There’s a stifled groan from Dean. Castiel closes his eyes. He erases the thought that Dean’s not thinking about him. That Dean is thinking of that dead-shaman walking. He digs his fingers on the man’s smooth thighs, sucks the top of his cock, before burying himself on Dean’s hole. He eats Dean, takes pleasure in the man’s cries until he can feel the live wire ready to explode. He takes Dean’s cock again to his lips, kisses the head gently before stroking him twice, eyeing Dean’s reaction.

“Cas—I’m—oh fuck!”

Castiel pulls away and sternly gazes up the hunter who whimpers and looks down in confusion. Tears slide from the corner of Dean’s eyes.

“Say my name,” Castiel commands.

“What…” Dean blanks out.

“Say my name. Tell me to fuck you, Dean, or I will leave you here for five hours—”

Dean’s eyes widen. He begins to tug on his cuff.

“Don’t—Cas, I—” he breathes out unable to say it. He shakes his head when Castiel begins to rise, “Cas—Cas please—” tears spring up from his eyes, “don’t—Cas, please—”

Castiel sighs. He strokes Dean’s cock, relaxing when Dean responds with trying to fuck in his hand. It’s easy to swallow Dean’s cock this time feeling like they are back to normal. He gets Dean to call his name again and again. He doesn’t need any release or Dean’s hand on his cock. He only needs Dean to say his name, all the while making his silent apologies.

He gets off with swallowing Dean’s cock straight down his throat and sucks, tasting Dean’s salty tang so different from his sweat. Feeling Dean’s familiar cock inside his mouth makes him forget everything. This is just him and Dean showing love and affection. Nothing has changed. He wishes that because now he understands he is taking Dean against his will.

He sucks Dean harder, making him scream and thrust in his mouth. He drags his mouth slowly across the hard length, pulling up only to kiss the reddening head before diving down again. He sucks Dean dry as only he could. Making Dean clutch on the wrinkled blankets with unbidden lust driving him to the edge.

“Cas… that’s enough, I’m—coming…!”

Castiel buries his nose deep the curls of Dean’s cock. He chokes and nearly pulls back but Dean closing his knees at the back of his head urges him to take him again.

Dean’s dirty sound fills the room as well as his cock swelling inside Castiel. He feels the turbulent sensation in Dean’s stomach and pulls up a little as Dean’s come shoot inside his mouth. Dean cries to the last spurt as Castiel sucks him through his orgasm.

He pulls out with smacking sound of his lips, eyes glowing with Dean still writhing under him. He holds the hunter’s softening shaft and stroke him again.

“Unggg…”

“Dean. Say my name.”

“Cas…!” the hunter complies tearfully.

Dean won’t stop calling his name after that. Not when he flips him to his stomach and licks his hole, not even with three fingers inside Dean, he doesn’t. It takes a while before Dean’s pliant body is ready for him. Castiel raises Dean’s hips from the bed and sets a pillow under his torso. Dean breathes heavily on the bed but did not say anything, probably in fear of Castiel leaving him in the middle.

“Don’t worry, Dean…” Castiel says, letting Dean feel the head of his cock, sliding between his cheeks, rightfully filling Dean with lube. “I got you… just… just keep calling my name. Please, Dean.”

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Dean makes a small sound but Castiel did not wait. He presses himself inside Dean, watches the muscle around Dean’s hole contract as he slowly slices him in half. The feel of Dean’s tight ring makes Castiel groans until he is sliding deeper and bottoming in.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck! Cas!” Dean’s breathe catches.

Castiel doesn’t let him think. Closing his eyes, his thrust become wild. Dean cries his name when the jolting of their bodies becomes too intense and Castiel is wrapping his body around Dean’s back, a hand taking hold of Dean’s cock because that’s how the hunter wants it.

He fucks Dean for an hour and more—doesn’t even care if he heard Sam knocking on the door. He covers Dean’s mouth until Sam walks away, most likely getting the point after he hears Dean’s moans when Castiel hits his prostate again and again.

“Good boy.” Castiel whispers, pounding Dean, spooning the hunter with his cock deep in Dean. He drags the fucking to torturous slow, then catches pace again, breaking Dean’s moans and cries of pleasure. And all that while, Dean can only call him.

Castiel did not stop—not until the fifth hour where he has Dean on his lap resting. Keeping Dean so close seems to be the only way to make sure the curse passes without any glitch. That Dean is still with him. Sam did not bother him anymore. Castiel hopes he’s got Jack distracted not from all the noise Dean has made in the last five hours.

The hour strikes.

Dean lifts his chin from Castiel’s shoulder looking worn out and confused. Castiel quickly sits up straight but the hunter did not make any attempt to climb down his lap. He just stares hard at the angel, eyes large and disbelieving.

“Dean—?”

“Cas?” The hunter rubs his eyes. “Hey, babe…”

Castiel’s eyes fill with tears.

“Cas? Cas, what’s wrong?” concern fills Dean’s face. It was over.

The angel shakes his head and wipes his eyes. He’s just glad. “How are you, Dean?”

“You’re asking me that now? Why are you crying?” Dean gets on his elbow and pulls Castiel’s head to his chest, cradling him lovingly. “Cas, babe, talk to me.”

Castiel sniffs. “I… I made a terrible mistake.”

“Huh?”

“I… I fell under a curse. Curse of jealousy, Dean.”

Dean’s face relaxes as he wipes the tears from his angel’s cheeks resting on his naked lap. “Are you kidding? I feel jealous when it comes to you all the time—if you call that curse then lemme tell you again—I’d rather have you, cursed or not!”

Castiel takes a moment to take that in, and then slides his arms on Dean’s waist.

“Me too, Dean… I love you so much…”

“Me too, babe I—no wait— fuck! I just remembered that fucking nightmare!”

“What—” Castiel stares up but Dean just grabs him closer and snuggles on his neck. “I thought I lost you! You weren’t there in that dream!”

“Dean?”

“It was so dark and I couldn’t find you… but I knew you were there, I could hear you calling my name… you made me want to call you…”

 “Dean…” Castiel’s eyes water, settling his hand across the hunter’s body, “I’m sorry.” Castiel cries and Dean holds him close. Confused and a little afraid, Dean pulls from him looking scandalized at the tears streaming down the angelic face.

“Cas—d-don’t cry! What happened?”

Castiel controls his emotions and explains about the candle, the curse and the Shaman who is about to die by tomorrow. Dean looks aghast after the story, his hands clutching tight on Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Dean—" Castiel looks devastated. He keeps pulling Dean closer, keeps putting his head against his boyfriend’s chest afraid of Dean’s answer.

Dean pats his head gently.

“Don’t be an idiot. So, you ravished me. Ain’t that our deal?” Dean tells him. He cups Castiel’s face so they look deep in each other. “Well, fuck. I get fucked by my boyfriend and I loved every second of it.”

“Dean…”

“Cause if not, and this body rots waiting for you? I think I’d really go mad.”

Dean pulls the angel in a hot searing kiss with their tongues meeting. Castiel moans in the kiss and let Dean lead, gently putting arms around him and pulling him down so the hunter is on top of him.

Dean pulls back as he perches on the angel’s chest, his eyes twinkling.

“Can I top?” he asks, tone of excitement unbidden.

Castiel blinks. “But aren’t you tired? We just—”

A finger pressing on his lips stops him from talking. Dean’s face is red and he’s looking around Cas body with hunger.

“Cas, with you babe on the meal, I’d never required sleep ever again.”

***

“I hope you understand your dead the next time I see you.”

Castiel rumbles on the phone that evening. Dean is tucked tightly on his right arm, cuddled beside him so closely while he sleeps peacefully. The only time that day when Castiel can relax with the curse finally lifted. He was staring on Dean’s face quietly, remembering all the expressions when his phone rings and an unregistered number of flashes. The angel knew at once who it was.

“What can I say? It is sweet revenge—”

“You’re dead.”

“Come now, Castiel—”

“I have. Many times, inside Dean.”

There’s silence on the other line.

“I shall try to remember this then, your weakness is quite spot on.”

“If you mean Dean is my weakness, then yes.” Castiel looks away, teeth grinding, “but he’s not weak. Dean is stronger than I will ever be, but if you hurt him again—”

The phone gets snatched from his hand. Castiel turns to see Dean sitting up with a dark look on his face.

“Listen up, asshole. Call Cas again and I’m gonna be after you for the rest of your life. If you’re the maniac intent on death—fuck you—I will get you. And this is not even what you did to me. Show yourself here and I’ll show you the meaning of evil spirit.”

He doesn’t wait for the answer. Dean hangs up and threw the phone away.

“Stop talking to the guy!” Dean scowls downcast at the angel who’s staring at him quietly.

“Are you okay now?”

Dean rolls his eyes. He pulls next to Cas and drops his head on the angel’s shoulder.

“Are you?” he asks, wrapping strong arms around Castiel’s torso and heaving a deep sigh. Castiel copies him and buries his nose on the hunter’s hair feeling mildly content now that Dean is beside him and awake.

“I’m fine now. You’re in love with me again.” He whispers before cuddling Dean with both arms now clawing around him. Dean chuckles, tilting his head up so he and Cas can look at each other.

“Told you the only times I won’t love you is when I’m dead or—”

Castiel embraces Dean closely, their cheeks pressing warmly together.

“It’s okay. I just want you to love me now.”

Dean falls silent for a while before he crawls up on top of Castiel and begins kissing him gently. The angel lets him, a contented sigh slipping from his lips.

“I’m not just in love with you, Cas. I’m also a sucker for you, babe, also very much crushing on you now and horny.” Dean whispers when he gets around Castiel’s ears and begins licking inside. Castiel sighs. “If this aint my kind of love, I don’t know what else to call the urge to tie you up and just make you mine forever. Okay? So, cheer up.”

He pulls back, arms stretching from where he keeps both his hands on Castiel’s nape.

“Stop crying. I don’t want to see you crying just for fucking me. In fact—let’s keep the fuck and forget that asshole. Bleh… just imagining you thought that I—”

“It wasn’t the nicest thought I ever had.”

“Well, he’s not touching this hole any time soon.”

“I’ll soon be out of words to describe how dead he is when I see him.”

Dean finally nods and they cuddle for a few moments. Until Castiel flushes when Dean grinds his ass straight on his soft cock with a sly grin on his face. The man is just so happy to tease him after learning of Castiel’s tendency to get jealous. Dean watches intently, his tongue licking the topside of his lips.

He grinds harder, smirking. “So… did you just let me top?”

“I did but it’s a one time offer.” Castiel smiles holding Dean’s waist.

“Change your mind, I’ll never ask a hall pass ever again.”

“Dean, I am not that possessive.” Castiel narrows his eyes.

Dean smiles at him meaningfully. He smiles back and they snuggle closely again.

Castiel understands that this was not even a condition but an offer. He wonders before why humans are prone to jealousy. He understands now. It roots from loving. This is also where other evil stems from. Where all the curses gather around.

In time. He thinks. He’ll make up for that mistake—of being too human—maybe when he faces his own time but right now, Dean Winchester is here who says he’s still gonna take him, cursed or not.

[lunarhold]

─ pairing: iceburg/reader ─ au: witch ─ warnings: smut, angst ─ words: 12.9k

❣ summary: an island appears off the coast of water 7 and if he’s not careful, iceburg might find more than he bargained for

↔ a/n: this character isn’t very popular so i don’t expect a lot of attention, but i love him and wanted to post it anyway

“Iceburg, Iceburg!” The shouting of his name was accompanied by frantic banging on his office door. Iceburg looked up from the massive stack of paperwork on his desk towards the ruckus. He had been avoiding it for the better part of a week, much to Kalifa’s annoyance. Things had finally grown to the point where it couldn’t be ignored anymore, so he had been forced to buckle down on it.

Now, though, he had a new distraction.

“This sounds terribly important, Kalifa,” he said, and before she could open her mouth to argue, he had called them in.

The door flew open and two men-- from Dock 6, if he recalled correctly-- tumbled in. “Iceburg, you have to come quick. An island appeared.”

Well, that wasn’t what he expected to hear.

“An island, you say? Well, you had better show me,” he said, standing up from his chair. It had now become more than wanting to get out of work. How does an island just appear out of thin air? He didn’t doubt what his workers were saying, but he certainly had to see it for himself.

Along the way, the Dock 1 foremen joined up with them, wearing their usual scowls. The Dock 6 men must have passed along the message in order to get up to see him more quickly, and the foremen had taken it upon themselves to accompany him. They were no doubt the best option for the job anyway.

A crowd of citizens had gathered at Dock 6, all clamoring for a glimpse of this mysterious island. As Iceburg and the foremen approached, though, attention diverted to them. They were pelted with the usual praise, and questions about the island they couldn’t possibly know the answers to.

The crowd parted for them, until Iceburg stood at the gate and turned back to face them.

“My foremen and I intend to fully investigate this mysterious phenomenon, and will return with news shortly. Until then, I would ask you all to remain here where it’s safe while we determine the danger this island poses,” he called out, hoping to settle them down. While it was odd to speculate that the island itself could be a danger, it stood to reason that there was something wrong with it, and it wouldn’t do them any good to have a bunch of curious people wandering around while they were trying to scout. There was general acceptance, and calls of good luck, and he turned back to the massive gates of Dock 6, his thoughts already miles away.

You knew, from the moment your island had settled into the other plane, that this time was going to be different. In your usual custom, you had gone to the top of the highest tree, having long ago built your own sort of crow’s nest, to see if you had appeared near any type of civilization. It was much quicker than hiking to the nearest shore, to be sure. 

This time, though, you had appeared just a few miles off the coast of a stunning city. A sense of melancholy filled you as you watched the shimmering waterfalls pouring down from a massive fountain at the top. You enjoyed your solitude and had no interest in the throngs of noisy, pushing people that no doubt inhabited the island, but you couldn’t help longing to see it. But you supposed someone from the island would come investigate, and maybe they could be of some help.

As if you had summoned them, there was a ripple across the island as a group of people crossed the magical barrier surrounding the island. Your heart leaped into your throat as you scurried to the ground and half ran towards the beach they had landed on.

Optimism was tempered by caution; there was no guarantee they would be friendly. It wouldn’t be the first time you had had to defend yourself from dangerous people.

Still, it had been so long since you had seen any other people, you were more than willing to take the risk.

The beach came into view. From the tree cover, you could see a group of seven-- six men and a woman.

It took only a second for someone to look your way, a handsome man with long, curly hair. Even though you swore he couldn’t see you, it still seemed like he pinned you with a blank stare. The hairs rose on the back of your neck as a blond man also turned to look in your direction, though you never saw the handsome man’s mouth move.

In the blink of an eye, ropes were wrapped around you, binding your arms and legs and dragging you from your cover. Panic flared, your magic reacting in an instant. Blue flames leaped from your skin, licking up the length of the rope.

You were free in seconds and gone in less.

Iceburg turned to watch the debacle, sighing as you ran off.

“Paulie, that wasn’t necessary,” he said, walking towards where you had been hiding. There was absolutely nothing there to indicate you had been there in the first place, let alone where you had gone. The foliage was pristine, the grass not even crushed underfoot, like you were a ghost.

“Did you see that though?” Paulie asked, coming up next to him. Iceburg could see the sweat beaded on his brow, and the fear in his voice told him it wasn’t just the heat getting to him. “She lit on fire, her whole body. That ain’t normal.” He held up his ropes, showing the singed, frayed ends off. “She’s not human, a witch or something.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” Iceburg said, turning back to face the larger group. “Let’s carry on.”

Hours passed by, and they had encountered nothing but animals. Most of them were harmless, but they had run into several extremely aggressive predators. All so far had been far larger than normal and, while they were no problem for them, the citizens would stand no chance.

“Well,” Iceburg said, surveying the large tiger they had just dispatched, “I think it would be best to put the island under quarantine until we get a handle on these predators. Also, that woman…” He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. You would likely be the best bet to finding out about the island.

“Yeah, she probably has something to do with this, and these animals attacking. We should go find her,” Paulie said, snapping a length of rope in his hands. He scoured the trees around him, eyes lingering on every leaf and blade of grass that twitched in the wind.

Somehow, Iceburg didn’t agree with that assessment. If you really posed a threat, you would likely have made more effort to harm them. But they had seen nothing more strange than the animals.

“I think we should head back,” Kaku said, gripping Paulie’s shoulder. Iceburg could see in the way he looked at Paulie that he disagreed with the other foreman’s assessment, but knew it would be fruitless to argue. Once he set his mind, there was no changing it. “It’ll be dark soon, and we aren’t equipped to deal with things in the dark. 

There were more voices of agreement, and Iceburg nodded as well. “We’ll figure out what to do when we get back to headquarters. Right now, it would be pointless to continue.”

The trek back was quicker than it had been forward, making them feel as if they had made no progress. The sun was still high enough in the sky, but the island had begun to feel cold, like they were suddenly unwelcome.

Wondering if you had something to do with it, Iceburg looked around one last time. The treeline stopped some twenty feet up the beach. There was no gentle transition from sand to woods, it was just one and then suddenly it was the other. He hoped that maybe you would come back and try one last time to greet them, but there was nothing more than the gentle swaying of trees in the wind.

Unbeknownst to him, from the safety of your home, you watched the group in the glass surface of a mirror as they hacked a path through the island and back. You could feel the island was on edge, but you were fighting its compulsion to hurt them for harming it. You understood its want, but you still hoped to meet someone properly. Allowing harm to come to this group could result in something far worse. The island wasn’t indestructible.

One man in particular, the leader, it looked like, kept looking around as if he were waiting for something.

When they arrived back at the beach, his gaze kept returning to the spot you had been hidden. Taking a good look at him, you couldn’t help but wonder…

Was he wearing lipstick?

                                                          _____

Hours later, after the sun had completely disappeared and you knew the darkness would hide you, you moved your house to the beach, where you had the best view of the other island. It wasn’t the same one the men had landed on before, in case they returned in the night and caught you unawares. You didn’t know the name of the other island, but it was just as stunning in the dark as it was in the light. The whole island was lit up, casting beautiful shadows over the water, and the fountain was lit up like a beacon, the beams refracting off of it and creating the most amazing light show.

You were too far from the island to hear, but you could imagine the chatter of the crowded streets, the throngs of happy people greeting each other as they met for dinner or drinks. For the first time, you actually considered what it would be like to be in the midst of something like that. The thought didn’t stick around for long though, your natural aversion to anything social rising up to remind you of just why you were on this island in the first place.

Out of the blue, a ripple traveled over the island. Someone had landed-- just one. You hesitated, rubbing your wrists where the rope had bound you.

But there was only one, and you could disappear as easily as smoke if they proved dangerous. In fact, if you so desired, you could hide yourself the entire time that your island was in this plane. People could peer through your living room window and they would never know.

With that in mind, you cautiously made your way towards the beach where the group had landed earlier. To you, this indicated it was someone from that group, and you had a guess about who it was.

“...Hello?” a voice called, just within earshot of you. “Please come out. I want to apologize for earlier.”

You stopped at the treeline, poking your head around the trunk of a tree to assess the situation.

It was exactly who you had guess, the blue-haired leader. A small boat sat partially in the water behind him, too small to hide anyone to spring a trap. His hands were held out, palms up to show they were empty.

Biting your lip, you cautiously revealed yourself to him, watching for anything suspicious. You could feel the island pulling its own magic up, creating a shroud around you. It recognized the man from earlier too-- as a threat.

As you stepped into the light, Iceburg’s eyes widened, his hands falling to his sides. He took a step forward, and you took one back in response, so he paused, allowing you to approach at your own pace. He could see you were on edge, watching him with sharp eyes. He wanted to call out, to tell you he was unarmed and not going to hurt you, but he knew you had no reason to believe him. He had made the decision shortly after landing back at Water 7 to return, alone, to see if he could find you. He had no doubts that you would remain hidden if he returned with the others, especially Paulie, and felt he was in no danger from you.

At long last, you stood in front of him, shoulders tense, but you didn’t attack him, which he took as a good sign. 

“My name is Iceburg. I’m the mayor of Water 7,” he said, gesturing towards the city behind him. “I’m sorry my foreman attacked you earlier. Paulie can get a little overzealous.”

His eyes roved over your face, drinking in your sharp eyes and frown. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, hoping you would accept his apology. There was so much he wanted to ask you.

You didn’t respond for several long moments, and he could feel his hope fading away. Then you relaxed, your lips curling up at the corners ever so slightly. Your head cocked to the side, your hair falling from your shoulders, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized you were rather beautiful.

“_____,” you said, holding your hand out for him to shake. When he took it, he nearly swallowed it in his. His skin was rough against yours, and you could feel numerous calluses on his fingers. You wondered what kind of work a mayor did to have hands like that. The contact was drawn out as you stared at each other, each lost in your own thoughts, until you realized it had become awkward. You pulled away, looking out across the water towards the lights to cover it up, saying, “You called it Water 7. What’s it like?”

Iceburg started, pulled from his haze and followed your gaze to the city. It was a wonder, he knew, and it wasn’t often that he got to view it from a distance, let alone at night. “It’s a city built atop a city. We build some of the greatest ships in the world here.”

You could hear the pride reflected in his voice and smiled, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He was smiling, the lights reflecting in his eyes as he watched his city.

“Well, I have so many questions,” he said, turning his whole attention to you. He was sure you had many of your own, but his curiosity was burning far too hot to be patient.

You chuckled, pressing your hand to your mouth to stifle the noise. “I bet. Can I guess what you want to ask first?” you asked, sitting down in the sand. The warm sea water came up just high enough to wash over your feet before receding. It had been a solid year since you had felt that sensation.

Iceburg followed suit, sitting as close as he could to you without touching, although you got the feeling he did that more out of consideration for you than for him. His gaze was just about burning holes in you, and you could already read more than curiosity in them. 

Instead of teasing him, you said, “Right. I would guess your first question is…’How did this island just appear here?’” 

“Correct,” he said, smiling at you. It widened when you pretended to cheer, then drew a tally in the sand. “So, what’s the answer then?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you said, scooting away from him to create space before turning to him. You began to draw a crude picture in the sand, two circles, one large and one small, overlapping each other like a venn diagram. In the smaller one on the right, you drew an odd, squigly shape. “That one is my island. It’s in its own pocket dimension, if you can call it that, most of the time. Once every year, it jumps…” At this, you erased the shape and drew a new one in the bigger circle. “...to this one. Where it appears is entirely random.”

Iceburg studied it for a minute, pondering things he had heard from others. “I’ve heard legends, mostly from the older sailors, about islands that come and go. Could they all actually be your island?” he asked, staring at the diagram. His brain was working overtime trying to remember everything he had heard over the years. Even Tom had told stories of it. He had believed them, saying that stranger things have happened in the Grand Line, but Iceburg had always written them off as fairy tales.

“Most likely. My island doesn’t usually land near other islands. I get lucky...maybe once a decade. Sometimes, ships happen upon it in the middle of the sea. Their...log...poses?-- I think that’s what you call them-- don’t point to my island, though, so it spooks them. Most avoid landing,” you said, doodling absentmindedly in the sand. The water had washed away most of your drawing, leaving only a vague impression that anything had been there at all. It was sad, really. Even ships passing by were rare, and watching them flee was enough to make you feel more lonely than if you were to see no one at all.

“That would explain why no one can say how often it appears, and why there are ‘multiple islands’,” he said, pieces beginning to fall into place. “Now that I think about it, very few of the stories mention a witch living alone on the island, as the sole inhabitant.”

You nodded and smiled, then snapped your fingers, causing blue sparks to fly. “That’s me. There are so few with me in it because not many people know I’m there. I can count on less than ten fingers how many people I’ve met in the last decade.” You held your hands up to prove it. “You make seven.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “So few. You must be lonely. Why do you stay?” He watched your smile morph, not quite happy, but not sad. It was...content, maybe?

“I can’t leave the island. My magic binds me, trapping me here.”

“Oh,” he said, and reached out to touch your shoulder. “I’m sorry. Can you leave at all?”

The warmth of his hand radiated out, soothing you. It was doused immediately when he pulled away. You wanted to feel it again, but pushed it away. No doubt he would find it strange if you reached out to him and leave, and you most definitely wanted him to stay.

“I can,” you said, rubbing the spot his hand had been. The action was unconscious, and didn’t go unnoticed. “But the distance is small.”

Iceburg looked from you, to the island, then back to you. “Do you think…”

But you were already shaking your head, looking forlorn as you stared ahead of you. “I already know it’s too far. I think it’s on purpose, but the island has never once fallen within a distance I could leave.”

Iceburg could practically feel the disappointment radiating off you, and reached out again, grazing your hand. You jumped, but allowed him to take it, relishing the warmth.

“How long before you leave?” He asked it as if you were just on vacation.

“6 days. Always 6 days,” you said, suppressing the urge to lace your fingers through his.

He stood up, using his hold to tug you up as well. “Alright, well, since I can’t bring you to the island, I’ll bring some of the island to you. How does that sound?” he asked, leading you further down towards his boat.

He watched your face light up, and felt his heart pick up its pace again. No one had ever looked at him like that, and it made him want to see more. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, since I do have to work. Will you meet me here?”

You nodded enthusiastically, but he could see the happiness change to something darker. He covered the hand he already held with his other one, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “Don’t. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He found it harder than it should have been to release your hand, and as you grew smaller on the shore, he had to fight not to turn the boat around and return to you. He couldn’t imagine how lonely you must have been on the island all those years, but he couldn’t forego his responsibilities. Still, he would give you what he could while you were here.

                                                        _____

The announcement that the island was off limits went over about as well as Iceburg expected. The citizens were outraged, but Iceburg was firm. He hadn’t discussed with you at all about it, and wasn’t sure how you would feel having your island overrun with nosy strangers. Couple that with the oversized predators roaming the island, and it wasn’t safe. The foremen could handle it, but couldn’t be taken from their jobs to play babysitter. It would force the whole of the city to essentially shut down, which would be fiscally catastrophic for the island.

No, it was better that he make the island off limits, at least until he talked to you. He could make plans later, if you were okay with it.

He retired to his office amid boos, which was a first in all his time as mayor, but he would take it, and they would get over it. He was exhausted today, and laid down on his couch to nap. Even Kalifa, who had been nagging him to get his paperwork done all week, left him alone.

His eyes drifted shut, his mind racing with thoughts of you.

                                                          _____

You watched the city begin to light up as it got darker. Instead of leaving your house hidden, and therefore having to sit in the sand again for hours, you settled it down on the beach to wait for Iceburg. You had no doubt that he would show up. He seemed as interested in you as you were in him.

Not too long after sundown, when the lights had finally stopped turning on, you made out a shape approaching the island.

Iceburg chuckled when he saw you waving from the front porch of a house. 

Wait, a house? There hadn’t been a house there last night.

Tonight, he had brought his own personal yagara, since he knew now that it was safe to leave him floating in the water. But it snorted and began to slow the closer they got to shore, trying to resist Iceburg’s directions. That was strange for his normally docile bull, and he was just wondering if something was wrong when it suddenly surged forward, in a rush to reach the beach.

He looked up and saw you standing in the water, up over your knees, your hands turned up as if encouraging him. His suspicions were confirmed just seconds later when the bull pulled up right in front of you and headbutted you gently.

“Animals can sense the island isn’t normal. They take some coaxing,” you said, rubbing its head gently. “What is this, anyway?”

“This is a yagara bull. They’re used to move through the city,” Iceburg answered, watching you. The bull was eating up the attention, and you seemed equally as smitten.

“Why do you need to use them?” you asked, looking up at him. You couldn’t see why an island would need a water animal as the main mode of transportation. Iceburg determined that the yagara could go no further, and got out to stand in the warm water. It rose only to his shins, and he was glad he had kicked his shoes off in the boat. There were a few bags in the back seat, and when he hoisted them up in his arms, your eyes lit up with curious excitement.

Giving the yagara one last pat, you waded after him towards shore, almost bouncing in anticipation. As you ushered him towards the house, he remembered that he wanted to ask you about that.

“How is there a house here now? There wasn’t last night.” 

Your hand on his elbow stopped him, and you said, “Watch.” 

Of course he expected the answer to involve magic somehow, but more in the realm of ‘teleportation’, and not ‘bird legs underneath the foundation’. 

As quick as it rose, it settled again, looking once more like a nondescript log cabin beach house.

Iceburg was at a loss for words as he searched for any sign of the massive legs. Of course he had known you were magical, as was the island itself, but this was the first direct display of true magic he had seen so far, and the most unsettling. He did his best to hide his unease but, judging by the vaguely hurt look on your face, he hadn’t done a very good job.

“We can just stay out here, if you’d rather. I know it takes some getting used to,” you said, rocking on the balls of your feet. You couldn’t fault him; it had taken you a while to get over the shock as well.

“Well, no,” he said, shifting the bags in his hands. “It’s just different. I’d like to see it.”

The smile you gave him blew his discomfort out of the water, and he suddenly couldn’t remember why he had been bothered in the first place as he followed you up the stairs like a puppy. Inside was somehow larger than it looked like it should be but still proportional to the outside of the house, like the room was constantly in flux. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that was the case.

Surveying the living room as he crossed it revealed a lot about you, and the way you lived. There was a large portion of one wall dedicated to a bookshelf, which was overflowing to the point that a lot of the shelves were crammed full and haphazardly double-stacked. He would have to browse through and see what you liked, and if you wanted anything from the island. He wasn’t sure how often you managed to get new reading material. The rest of that wall was dedicated to potions and ingredients. Plants, both in pots and overflowing to grow up the rafters, decorated the ceiling. An empty bird perch stood next to an open window on another wall, beside a cold fireplace. There were three other closed doors, but he wasn’t rude enough to ask where they led.

The kitchen itself was rather modern, more so than he would have expected, but the counters were cluttered with an assortment of strange objects and ingredients that he had never seen before. A large plant sitting on the end counter caught his eye, its long tendrils wrapping around your arm as you passed.

You caught him staring and picked it up, moving it out of the way as you said, “It’s harmless, but does like to steal things. The leaves are tough, and can be made into twine and rope, among other things. You can set those down here.”

He did as told and placed them where the plant had previously been and began to pull things out of bags, arranging them in the limited space you had given him. He felt your arm curl around his side, your body pressing against him before you peered around him at what he was doing, an excited smile on your face. With plenty of space to either side of him for you to watch from, he could have called you out, but held his tongue. Heat still crept up his neck, though, because he found he didn’t really mind.

In his haste to collect things up and get to you, he had ordered everything on the menu at the water water stand, followed by some of the normal foods at other stands. A stop at Blueno’s bar had raised questions about whether he was throwing a party, but he brushed it off with a laugh.

The last bag was particularly special. It had been on a whim that he bought it, passing by the shop after the rest of his shopping had been done.

You felt the air shift, tension coming into his shoulders as he removed a box from the last bag. You moved around to stand beside him, eyeing it suspiciously while you waited for him to explain.

“There’s an island not too far from here that holds festivals everyday,” he said, opening the top box to reveal a stunning porcelain mask. He lifted it up and cradled it gingerly in his hands, allowing you to view it. The nose was long, the tip angled down, with intricate purple and black lacing painted from the corners of the eyes down to the chin. The lips were painted a vibrant green.

“It’s gorgeous,” you said, running a finger delicately over the paintwork. “This has something to do with the festivals?”

“Oh, well, yes. They wear masks like these, among other costumes. We have a shop that hand makes them. I wanted you to have one,” he said, smiling down at you gently. It was one of the few things special-made on the island that he could actually bring to you. A ship was just out of the question.

You took the mask from him, examining it with a softened grin for a moment, before tucking it back into the box. Then you turned back to him and, to his immense satisfaction, threw yourself into his arms. He cradled you gently to his chest, practically glowing that his gift was so well received.

“Thank you, Iceburg. I love it,” you said, trying not to cry on his shirt too much. It was the first time you could recall receiving a gift since you were human, and the nicest gift you could recall ever receiving, period.

“I’m glad you like it so much,” he said, caressing your hair.

Neither of you moved for several moments, but eventually you pulled apart. It was a mutual decision, with neither of you really wanting to.

With your face much warmer than was comfortable, you focused on the enticing smell coming from the remaining bags. “What is all this?”

“Well, I figured you probably haven't had...er…” He had almost said proper food, but felt that would be too rude. He glanced up to find you smirking, as if you knew exactly what he was thinking. Clearing his throat, he continued with, “Modern food in a while. So I brought you plenty to try.”

You laughed, patting his arm in appreciation before going for plates. The two of you settled on the couch, covering the coffee table with the numerous boxes so you wouldn’t have to get up for more. Between everything, you didn't even eat half of what he brought, but tasted everything at least once. It all tasted spectacular to you, especially the water water dishes. When you told him so, he seemed especially pleased.

“That’s a Water 7 specialty,” he said, sliding his plate onto the table. Normally, he wouldn’t be so rude, but he was so full that he couldn’t move. Judging by the satisfied expression on your face, neither could you.

“That was fantastic, Iceburg,” yo said, smiling at him. “Thank you so much.”

To your surprise, he reached out and took your hand, giving it a solid squeeze. “I told you, you’ve only got a week, so I’m going to bring Water 7 to you.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, but not solely because of Iceburg’s kindness. His words were like cold water, reminding you that, soon, you would return to the solitude of your dimension. After that, it was unlikely you would ever see him again.

Which was all the more painful to think about, because you were pretty sure you were falling in love with him. 

Which was absolutely ridiculous because you had only known him for two days. Still, he had shown you more kindness than you had known in decades, even when you resided in this dimension, so maybe it wasn’t. To top it off, you had seen so few people since you took the island, that it shouldn’t have been surprising that your emotions flared up like gasoline on a fire.

Iceburg realized that he had said the wrong thing when you didn’t answer and your smile fell into a frown. You seemed to see through him, fixing an empty stare at a blank spot on the wall behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, moving closer to you and taking your other hand in his. “Is there no way to break the island's hold on you?” He didn’t have much in the way of hope, but maybe there was something he could do that you couldn't.

You were taken by surprise at his question, then realized that he had mistaken your sadness over never seeing him again as sadness over being stuck on the island. It was sweet, how upset he seemed to be on your behalf, and you felt only a little bad that you allowed him to continue to think so. The truth would be so much harder to explain.

“I wish,” you said, leaning to rest your head on his shoulder. It was comforting, knowing he was willing to help you, even if it was under false pretenses. “‘Only by passing the contract on to another will you be unbound from this island’,” you said, repeating the words the witch had spoken to you before she left, leaving you alone on the island. It had been the best deal you had ever made.

Iceburg hummed, then you both fell into an uneasy silence. His brilliant mind couldn’t see anyway to get you out of it, and he already knew you would reject to submitting anyone else to this. Besides, even bringing it up would be selfish. Still, he would be a liar if he said it wasn't tempting. At least you would be free, able to stay with him. He wanted to get to know you more, show you around Water 7, and...and…

...And that was a dangerous line of thinking. Did he really want to get tangled up with someone he had so little chance of seeing again?

Once more, he had the strange feeling you could read his mind as you sat up and pinned him with an unreadable look.

Instead of giving into the screaming temptation to cup your face and claim your lips with his, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze and stood up. He caught the fleeting look of disappointment on your face before it was replaced with an understanding smile. You stood as well, and together put away the leftovers before he headed towards the door.

His yagara was waiting exactly where he had left it, and he waded out into the water.

“Thank you, Iceburg. For the mask, and the food, and...everything,” you said from behind him.

He turned to find you had stopped at the waterline, the waves barely lapping your toes. You were still wearing that sad smile, and sounded like you were saying goodbye.

But that wasn’t what this was. He wasn’t going to just leave you alone for your remaining time here, just because he was unsure of how to proceed. There was no doubt that you felt the same, but he had yet to decide what he wanted.

“You’re welcome, _____. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve had an idea I think you’ll enjoy,” he said as he patted his bull on the head. He winked at you before climbing into the boat on its back.

You watched him disappear in the dark with a pounding heart.

                                                         _____

All the next day, you were an anxious mix of excitement and trepidation. 

Whereas yesterday you were certain he would come back, today you were almost positive he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t really blame him, if he didn’t. If you were him, you wouldn’t think twice about getting involved with someone in your position, at least not so quickly. In fact, you were on the fence about it yourself. Was it really such a good idea to kindle something that would be snuffed out in a matter of days? It was slim that you would ever see him again. Would you regret it if you let it slip by?

Hundreds of variations of those thoughts plagued you all day, only adding to the tremendous stress on your nerves.

When night finally fell, your nerves were so fried that you were tempted to pick up and leave to the other side of the island and hide out until you shifted back to your plane. But you didn’t, like you knew you wouldn’t, because that was childish and unfair, so you sat out on the porch to wait.

The lights put on their usual show, dozens blinking on at a time until the island cast a shadow on the water.

From the darkness came a shadow, and you felt like you might cry as you watched Iceburg come closer. When he got close enough that you could see him properly, you found he looked as happy to see you as you felt seeing him.

Instead of getting out of the boat, however, he gestured for you to come to him. You slowly made your way out to him, feeling the sand slip beneath your feet with the ebb and flow of the current. The water was up above your knees by the time you reached him, dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.

He held his hand out to you while trying to keep the yagara from floating too far away. “I know you said you can’t go far, but I hope you’ll allow me to get you as close as I can. I really would like for you to see it.”

You frowned, looking from him to the city, your outstretched hand suspended in midair as you deliberated. The first and last time you had attempted to leave, you had almost drowned when your new found magic had tried to strangle you, resulting in you falling into the water. It wasn’t even like you were trying to actually go anywhere, you had simply been testing the boundaries.

“If not, that’s alright too.” He had thought it was a good idea, but maybe there was something else you had neglected to tell him. “No, I want to,” you said, slipping your hand into his at last. You trusted him well enough to risk it. “Just...I have to be careful. The magic is aggressive if it thinks I’m trying to leave.”

That put Iceburg on guard. The last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt. He helped you into the boat, feeling it rock ominously beneath his feet as you climbed over the side. You clung to him as the yagara turned back to the city. Just as quickly, you let go and focused on the approaching city, watching the lights grow steadily brighter, thus missing Iceburg’s frown.

But as he watched the wonder fill your face, he wasn’t too upset. Even if you grew angry at him, or left without anything more happening between you, he would never regret that he got to be the one to show you this, to see you so happy.

You turned to him, smiling and ready to say something, but then froze. Your hand came up, clutching at your chest, eyes growing wide and seeming to plead with him for help. Instead of going to you as you fell to your knees, beginning to hyperventilate from the pain, he yanked the reins on the bull, urging it to turn back to the island. He didn’t go very far; as soon as he heard your breathing ease, he stilled the yagara.

He was by your side in an instant, the small boat rocking as he knelt down beside you. One hand held yours, the other at the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles as you breathed deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, taking in your pale, scared face. It had sounded like you were choking, and it had happened in an instant. He saw now why you were so hesitant. “We’ll go back. This was a terrible idea, I’--”

He was cut off when you reached up and cupped his cheek, your skin soft against his as you pressed your thumb gently to his lips. You gave him a weak smile, but he could see that, somehow, you were happy.

“It’s not your fault. The magic has a mind of its own. This happened the last time too.” The warning the magic gave you was small, right before it slammed into effect. “I knew it would happen. And it was a wonderful idea. I didn’t think I would get anywhere near, but you did it.”

Iceburg helped you to your feet, keeping one hand around your waist in case you collapsed. You were still shaking, could still feel the flare of magic in your chest, lying in wait in case you strayed too far again.

He was relieved that you weren’t badly hurt, couldn’t imagine how he would feel if it was because of him. His arm tightened around you and, before he realized he was doing it, he pulled you close, tucking you into his side. To his relief, you didn’t pull away. He looked down, watching your fist curl into his shirt and realized that, regardless of how much he fought, he had lost the first time you smiled at him.

Keeping his hold on you, he used his free hand to steer his yagara around to face the city, then led you to sit.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, unable to contain yourself as he curled his other arm around you, effectively caging you to his chest. More than ever, you could recognize just how strong he was, what he could do if he so desired and yet he cradled you so gently. Protective, not possessive, he was warm and comforting.

You knew it was a lost cause to fight it in that moment. No matter how you thought you would feel when it came time for you to leave, it would pale in comparison to the regret of having let it pass by.

“You know, I never did ask you. I think I was too preoccupied with knowing about the island, but how did you come to be chained to it?” he asked. The yagara floated gently in the water, and he kept a watchful eye to make sure it stayed within a safe range of your island.

You laughed a little, realizing that to answer his question you would have to reveal that you had lied, even if it was only by omission. Still, you didn’t think he would be too upset, if he even saw it that way. So you told him your story.

“I was raised in a large, poor family in a small village on an island in the West Blue. I suppose I was pretty enough that a wealthy man wanted to marry me, even though I was still so young. I don’t think that my parents wanted to, exactly. But he offered a large sum of money to my parents, in exchange for me and...they agreed.” When you had first found out, you had been livid and hurt, thinking your parents had betrayed you. Which, technically they had. But as you grew older, you began to realize that they had done it only out of necessity, with several other children and themselves to take care of. It didn’t negate the hurt, and you couldn’t be sure that that was how they felt, but it helped take some of the sting out to believe it. “I ran away and sailed for a few years. It wasn’t long before I finally realized that everywhere was like my village, either poor and in need of help or overrun with powerful people who think they can do whatever they want to others.”

That was enough to make Iceburg’s skin crawl. The idea that your parents essentially sold you to another person was nothing short of slavery, and as he looked down at you, he couldn’t blame you for running away. His hold on you tightened, which you didn’t miss. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was upsetting him when you looked up and saw the black anger in his eyes. But it softened when he locked eyes with you, one hand coming up to brush the hair behind you ear. “So how did you end up on this island then?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, trying and failing to fight the blush creeping over your cheeks. In the moment, you had forgotten you were telling a story. “Well, one day when I was sailing through to a new island— I never left the West Blue, unfortunately— I happened upon this island. The witch at the time was telling me about how much she wanted to leave, but couldn’t because of the magic. It sounded like a pretty good bargain to me, since I was tired of traveling and of people. Having the magic to keep people away as well as protect myself sounded like a dream. Of course, she didn’t tell me about the whole ‘island shift’, so that was an experience.” You shifted so that you were settled between his legs, your back pressed to his chest, and his arms fell to your waist. “The weather there is terrible, but it’s nice and quiet.”

It was strange, how much you talked about disliking people, and yet here you were curled up with him and talking like you hadn’t had a decent conversation in years. Which probably wasn’t far off, based on what you had said before. He wondered if that made him special, and he chuckled at the thought.

All of that raised another, pressing question which had never actually crossed his mind until now. At a glance, you appeared to be young, 20s, by his guess. But you hadn’t said how long you were traveling before you found the island, and you said it had been a decade since you had seen anyone. “How...old are you?”

You laughed and he immediately realized how that must sound. He definitely hadn’t meant it in a bad way, but he couldn't think of any way to ask politely. 

It was a valid question, you decided, but it made you wonder the same. “I’ll tell you if you tell me how old you are,” you said, eyeing him playfully.

“Well that’s easy. I’m 36.”

“Ah. Well, when I signed the contract, I was 25. That was 73 years ago,” you said. The smile grew a little more rigid as you waited to see his reaction. You knew the answer off the top of your head, because you kept strict track of when you came to this plane. You had no way of knowing for sure, because you hadn’t asked the witch before she left, but it always shifted the day you had signed, and you wondered if that happened to her as well. She had been older than you, with streaks of grey in her hair and a deep frown. She had seemed almost sad when you began to sign, like she regretted that you were doing it, but hadn’t stopped you. You supposed she had thought you would be unhappy, but it was fortunate that it was more than you could have hoped for. “Since then, I haven’t aged. I suppose it’s the island’s way of making sure there’s always a witch.”

“You talk about the island as if it’s a sentient thing,” he said, rubbing his chin. He hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact that you were almost a hundred years old, but that didn’t stop his curiosity.

“It is, or the magic is, at least. I know it doesn’t make sense, but the magic owns me, not the other way around. I can see it and control it to some extent, but it isn’t mine. I don’t even know why the contract exists, or who made it, or anything. All I do know is that the witch before me was bound for 230 years, the one before her for 150, and so on.” The house, you had found, passed ownership with the contract, and the possessions of the others remained inside. At least until the next owner cleaned it out. You had found documents and journals going back nearly 1000 years, but there was nothing on how the island came to be what it was. It made you wonder just how old it was, that that information was lost. “I’m pretty sure the witch was tricking me into signing, but based on the way they talk, they don’t want to trick people the way I was, but the loneliness becomes too much, never seeing other people for more than a week at a time, if they see anyone at all that year.” You wondered if you would ever get to that point. Sure, sometimes it got to where you wanted someone around, but it was always fleeting. You wondered if something was wrong with you.

As if he could read your mind, pulled you close, laying his head on top of yours. He too wondered how you managed to last so long with no contact, but it wasn’t his place to ask. If you were happy, he couldn’t see how you were wrong. “Well, if you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right? It’s wrong that they’re tricking people, but, well, after so long, I don’t think I could resist either. We’ll make the most of the time we’ve got left, hm?”

You grinned, burying your face in his neck to hide the furious rush of embarrassment. He had said ‘we’, and even the knowledge that there wouldn’t be a ‘we’ after this week wasn’t enough to douse the warmth of happiness. You had someone, even just for a little while, and it was enough.

“I suppose since you know so much about me now, it’s only fair you talk about yourself. How did you become mayor?” you asked, looking out towards the city again. The yagara had floated a decent ways sideways, closer to the massive door of Dock 6, but remained well within the boundaries your magic had placed.

“Ah,” he said, looking up at the door with a fond smile. He started off explaining to you about Galley-La’s history, which led farther back to Tom and Tom’s Workers. He began to grow sad as he explained what had befallen his mentor, and his friend Cutty Flam, and you laced your fingers with his in silent sympathy. After that, you fell silent, content to rest your head on his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.

He didn’t have much to say after that either, caught up in reminiscing about old memories he had never talked to anyone about. Even Kokoro, who was intimately involved in the whole ordeal, didn’t talk about it with him. And there was no way Franky would, he still felt the sting of guilt for causing it.

After a while, the gentle sway of the boat, accompanied by the warmth Iceburg provided, became too much. Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep.

It took him a little while to realize it, but he chuckled when he did. You looked peaceful, not unlike the content look you wore whenever you looked at him, or talked about your life. But it was nice in a different way, and he wondered if you always looked like that when you slept, or if it was just him. 

He turned the yagara back towards shore, guiding it as close as he could. You looped your arms around his shoulders when he lifted you into his arms, snuggling closer to him as he waded through the water. As he stepped through the front door, he realized he had no idea which of the other three doors led to your bedroom. He hesitated, but then you pointed, and the door straight ahead opened.

He chuckled at that, thanking you quietly as he entered. Your bedroom was markedly less cluttered than your living room, with a bed, a wardrobe, and another bookshelf the only furniture in the room.

And you had moved that clingy plant in, as well.

He gently laid you down on your bed. You let go easily enough, but before he could pull back, you had sat up, looking tired but determined. Your face filled his vision, and then he felt your lips on the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, Iceburg. I don’t have the words to describe how happy you’ve made me,” you whispered when you pulled back.

Your eyes were closed, and you were still close enough that he could feel your lips move against his. There was no thought as he cupped the back of your head with one hand, tangling his fingers in your hair as he captured your lips properly with his. He could feel your soft hand at his neck, the other curled around his arm, using that to pull yourself closer. Sooner than he would have liked, you pulled away, gazing up at him with a tired smile. His thumb stroked over your lower lip as he fought against the temptation to kiss you again. He still had to sleep and work in the morning.

“I should go,” he murmured, but made no move to leave.

Only when you nodded, giving him a playful push did he step back towards the door, which closed behind him when he was through.

Before you fell asleep, you couldn’t help but laugh. Turns out, it wasn’t lipstick.

                                                          _____

Iceburg was exhausted the next day.

It was the early hours of the morning by the time he got back, and that combined with the previous late nights had finally caught up with him. He was flipping mindlessly through paperwork, signing whatever Kalifa placed in front of him without reading it.

At long last, he was done. Looking at the time, he decided there was enough for him to get in a few hours sleep before he returned to you.

In the meantime, you had been tending your garden. Though you tended to roam the island most of the time, there was a special spot in the center of the island that was clearly the house’s “nest”. It was a literal nest, made of massive amounts of grass and foliage. It was also where the previous witch had kept her own garden, and you were sure that it had been in use for centuries, making it the richest soil on the island. 

The plane you spent most of your time in was shrouded in fog, and you had never seen the sun there, so the plants were specially cultivated to live with little to none. That meant that, when you felt the shift begin, you covered them with a tarp to protect them from the harmful sun. 

Still, they needed water, and the few minutes they would be exposed wouldn’t hurt them. Most of them were ready for harvest, which you would do when you got back. That thought made you wilt a little, but you pushed it down as best you could. You didn’t want to spend any more time moping. It was almost funny how in a few short days Iceburg had weaseled his way into your heart so much that you would forego your solitude for him.

You had started tending later in the day, when the suns rays were weaker so, by the time you were done, the shadows of the trees were starting to blend in with the darkness of the approaching night.

Rising to your knees, you covered the plants back up with the tarp and looked at your hands, deciding to shower on the way back to the beach.

It was past the time he usually arrived by the time you arrived at the beach, but not by much, so when he wasn’t there, you wondered if he had been so impatient that he didn’t wait at all. 

But that didn’t sound like him. No, something must have come up.

You decided to wait, allowing the house to settle down on the sand. Hours passed and there was still no sign of him. Trying to stem the tide of disappointment in your chest, you finally gave in and went to bed.

                                                          _____

Iceburg awoke to the first rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. When he realized that, he jerked up from his prone position, wincing at the pain in his back. That couch wasn’t good enough for a short nap, let alone a good night’s sleep.

There was a knock at the door, and Kalifa entered, looking not at all surprised to find him there.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, Iceburg,” she said, setting a steaming mug on his desk. She turned to look at him, a knowing glint in her eye. “It’s going to catch up with you.”

He hugged out a tired laugh, even though guilt was eating him alive inside.

“Well, that won’t be a problem for much longer,” he said, standing up. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, it won’t be a problem anymore. He picked up the cup she had just set down and blew on it before taking a sip. The taste of strong black coffee made him wince. It wasn’t the way he normally took it, but today wasn’t a normal day. “Thank you, Kalifa.”

She nodded and made her way out with one last knowing glance.

Finishing his coffee, he made his way to the bathroom. Although it wasn’t something he made a habit of, there were enough occasions where he had spent the night in the office to warrant keeping a spare set of clothes handy.

As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t deny that he had needed the sleep. Still, he could only imagine how you must be feeling. He supposed he could only hope you would understand.

It was this hope that allowed him to get through the day, absentmindedly filling out the remaining paperwork as he watched the hands on the clock circle around.

When the bell chimed to signal the day was over, instead of immediately rushing out to you, he decided to go home and shower, changing into something more comfortable. While he was near desperate to get to you, he also needed to feel a little more human after sleeping in the office.

At long last, he was properly ready to face you. As if he sensed his master’s urgency, Iceburg’s yagara took off, weaving through the streets as fast as he could without being a danger.

The island came into view, and his heart leapt into his throat. Relief collided with apprehension when he saw your house sitting where it had every other night. He had thought he would have to go searching for you, that you would be too angry to see him.

But he saw you on the porch swing, watched you perk up as you caught sight of him and step off the porch as he splashed down in the water.

You hesitated at the shoreline, waiting until he stood in front of you. Before you could even open your mouth, he was grabbing your hands and apologizing.

“I fell asleep yesterday and didn’t wake up until this morning. For what it’s worth, I woke up terribly sore. I’ve been waiting all day to come see you. I’m so sorry, _____.”

You let him ramble without interrupting, and when he finally opened his eyes, he found you looking up at him with the softest smile.

“I was upset last night, don’t get me wrong. But...after I slept on it, I realized you must have had a good reason.” Realized wasn’t exactly the right word. Really, you had placed all your hope on it. The gamble had paid off either way, because he now stood in front of you. “I should apologize as well. I didn’t consider how hard it must have been on you, working and then spending most of the night with me,” you said, placing your hand over his heart. The steady rhythm drummed under your palm, a little faster than normal.

He returned your gentle smile, eyes closing halfway as his hands cupped your cheeks. His lips were soft against yours, slanting over them and claiming them in the gentlest way he could manage.

Your hands settled on his stomach, content to lean into him and let him lead. His tongue ghosted over your lips and you willingly parted them. You were met with the fresh taste of mint as his tongue swept over yours.

His hands left your face, sliding down over your shoulders, all the way to your thighs. Before he could try and lift you up, you pulled away, taking his hand in yours and leading him up to the porch. You would be damned before you got caught out on the beach, even if you were never going to be seen again. At the door, he got impatient and pinned you against the wood, skimming his nose down your cheek as he peppered kisses to your neck. His hands massaged your hips, your shirt beginning to hike higher up your sides. You laughed and gently pushed him back, reaching down to skim your fingers over the prevalent hard on in his pants. His hips twitched, and he glared at you as you slipped from his arms, disappearing into the house. 

Somehow, you were nowhere to be seen, but your shirt lay on the floor just inside. He caught sight of your shorts flung over the back of the couch. As he approached your closed bedroom door, he saw your bra hung off the handle.

He couldn’t hold back a laugh as he picked it up, heat rising up his neck to engulf his face. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck as he picked it up and examined it before opening the door. It swung inwards without a sound, and if he wasn’t hard before, he was when he found you laying back on the bed, wearing only your panties. You were propped up on your elbows, watching him stand in the doorway, his eyes taking in everything before him.

Carelessly, he tossed the bra to the floor, making a beeline for the bed. You scooted higher up as he came to hover over you, one knee pinned between yours, trapping you beneath his immense frame.

“Took you long enough,” you said, ending on a chuckle. You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, destroying his hard work, but he couldn’t be bothered to mind.

Instead, he leaned down, gathering your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. “You’re a witch, you know that?”

At that you actually tipped your head back and laughed. “Yes, yes I do.” 

You pulled him back down and forced his lips to yours, allowing your fingers to skim down until they found the buttons of his shirt. By feel rather than sight, you made short work of it and pushed it off his shoulders. You groaned against his mouth as you ran your hands over his shoulders and down his sides, feeling the skin and hard muscles flex under your touch. He certainly had the body of a shipwright, strong and lean and tanned from working on ships day in and day out.

You heard the sound of a zipper followed by the rustle of clothing hitting the floor and moved your head to the side for breath, and so you could take him in. He was just as gorgeous as you had expected him to be under all that clothing, standing up straight and proud as he stood completely naked before you. His cheeks were tinted red, and only deepened the longer you stared, until he couldn’t take it anymore and knelt back down on the bed, settling his hands on your knees. Long, delicate fingers slid up your thighs, squeezing here and there, trailed closely by his lips. Your breathing deepened, butterflies fluttering in your stomach in anticipation, until his hands parted your thighs properly, pushing your legs out and over his shoulders. His nose skimmed your outer lips, his tongue licking from the bottom of your quivering slit up to your clit, drawing it into his warm mouth. He sighed, feeling your juices drip down his chin and brought his hand up, slipping just the tip of one finger inside you.

Your hips jerked, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching down to gently card your fingers through his hair, breathing out how good it felt. That one finger finally filled you, brushing over a particularly sensitive spot instantly. On the next stroke in, it was joined by a second, and you couldn’t help the moan that followed it’s entrance.

“Iceburg,” you moaned, tugging gently at his hair. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit as he set a slow, steady rhythm, seeking that spot he had touched earlier. 

It took him a few tries, but he found it, judging by the stutter or your hips and the breathy gasp you took. He curled his fingers up, massaging gently, until you fluttered around him. 

“Oh, oh,” you cried, back bowing off the bed as the coil in your belly snapped. He was so gentle as he eased you through it, drawing it out until you begged him to stop.

He came up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed back over you. You gave him a wavering smile, your eyelids fluttering. Your pussy was still throbbing, but you still wanted more, and jerked your hips up, rubbing along the length of his cock. He groaned, rolling his hips down to nestle between your soaked lips, grinding against your clit in the process. A jolt of pleasure zipped through you, tempered by your being still sensitive, but you didn’t care. You wanted him inside you, and you moaned, asking with your hips for it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even as he braced himself on his elbows over you. The height difference between the two of you had never been more obvious as he towered above you; you had to tilt your head back in order to make eye contact with him, but you nodded, begging him with your eyes.

He angled his hips down, catching the tip of his cock in the opening of your pussy, his entrance eased by your dripping walls. You had just came, but were already so wet for him again, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him. He was only halfway inside you, but was already panting, his head drooping down to rest on his forearm. Your hands were wrapped around his wrists, nails digging into his skin as you held yourself still for him. You couldn’t stop yourself from squeezing around him, your body aching for him to seat fully inside you.

Finally, his hips met yours, cock throbbing inside of you as he was fully engulfed in the warm heat of your body. His breathing deepened as he pulled out and rolled his hips back down, driving deep inside you again. With every meeting of your hips, he was grazing your still sensitive clit, but you were past caring at this point, lifting your hips to meet his desperate thrusts every time. You were already speeding towards your second orgasm, somehow, your ankles locking around his back and limiting how far he could pull out of you.

He made up for it by driving harder down into you, grinding deep into you and trapping your clit between his body and yours. You jerked, crying out as you careened over the edge, unable to help yourself as you rolled your hips up into him, begging him not to stop. You were so lost in it that you almost missed the low call of your name, his arms shaking as he worked to hold himself up over him even as you milked him dry. His head came down to rest on the bed, his chest heaving then flexing as you ghosted your fingers down it.

He laughed at the tickle and rolled off of you, flopping down onto the bed with an arm behind his head. The room was silent for several minutes as you both calmed down and steadied your breathing, then you scooted closer to him, laying your head in the dip of his shoulder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you were on the verge of falling asleep when he moved, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. His other hand came up to cradle your chin, tilting your head up enough that he could claim your lips. Even though you were exhausted, you knew you only had this one night and didn’t want to waste it by sleeping. You pushed closer, slipping your tongue out to graze his lips, and felt them turn up into a smile against yours.

“I feel the same, but I need a moment. I’m not as young as you,” he said, pushing the hair stuck to your forehead back.

You laughed, hitting him playfully in the chest at his joke. “98 years young and still pushing better than you.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your back and gently pulling you until you sat up and straddled him. He was only half-hard, but viewing you as you sat atop him was doing wonders for that.

It wasn’t long before he took you again, just as gentle as the first time, then again, and again. The last time was almost desperate, all grabbing hands and passionate kisses, like you knew it was going to be the last time. He held you close as you sat in his lap, riding him until the wave broke again, and even after, you didn’t move for a long time, not wanting to admit that it was over.

At last neither of you could deny it and he pulled his soft cock out of you and laid down, settling you on his chest, legs wrapped together, his fingers tangled in your hair. Sleep came quicker than you wanted, but you were content.

                                                        _____

You awoke the next morning sore and still tired. As you tried to roll over, something pulled you back into the warmth of the sheets. For just a moment, you laid back down to snuggle up, then reality hit.

Your gasp startled a still groggy Iceburg, who looked at you in confusion. You rolled over in a panic, hovering over him as you shook him.

“Iceburg, you have to go. Once the island begins the shift, you’ll be trapped,” you said, pushing on his chest.

That got his attention, and he sat up, immediately scouring the room for his clothes. It wasn’t until you were both fully dressed and hurrying across the porch that he paused to look at you. Warmth filled his chest, tempered by a terrible sadness, when he realized that, even though you no doubt wanted him to stay, you were willing to let him go because you knew he couldn’t.

He wanted to, so badly he could almost taste it, he would trade his soul for it; it was so tempting to throw caution to the wind and remain with you.

But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Too many people relied on him, and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to abandon them.

Still, he could only imagine how you must be feeling, and he reached out to grab your hand, pulling you to a stop.

“Iceburg, what are you--? You have to go,” you said, trying to tug free. He needed to leave, and quickly, if he wanted to escape. You knew, by the way he talked about Water 7 and it’s citizens, that he could never be happy leaving the city he loved, and you would never ask him to choose between it and you.

“I know,” he said, but still pulled you around and into his arms. Before you could say anything more, he covered your lips with his, feeling you go limp as you gave in. He put his all into the kiss, conveying every unspoken emotion through it, because he knew he might never have another chance.

You allowed yourself this last moment with him, your arms wrapping around his neck to hold yourself to him. You had known it would be hard, had prepared yourself as best you could, but no amount of preparation could compare to the actual stinging pain of separation. Still, you couldn’t regret it. It was the first time in a long time you could say you would be unhappy going back. Even if all you had were memories, you would treasure them.

There was a growing sense of urgency as you felt the push and pull of magic. The shift wasn’t instant, but once it began it would be too late. You sloshed through the water, unheeding of the way it soaked your shorts. His bull was neighing, sensing the powerful change in the air. You stopped and turned his hand palm up, pressing a small object into his hand. “This will guide you to me; it’s imbued with the island’s magic. Just set it on the bow of your ship, and it will point my way. Now go, you’re out of time.”

You pushed him towards the boat, but he turned around one last time and kissed you.

He climbed over the side, his restless yagara already turning towards the grey city walls, and turned to look at you, drinking in your face in the hopes it would sear into his memory, like you had into his heart. 

“I’ll see you again. Maybe years from now, but I’ll find you,” he said as tears began to cascade down your cheeks.

His heart wrenched as you smiled through the sadness and nodded. “I’ll hold you to it. Goodbye, Iceburg.”

Even as you said that, you found yourself moving out, following him until you could almost no longer touch the bottom, watching him grow smaller and smaller until he was just a speck.

He couldn’t remember the ride back, only that he continuously turned around to watch you grow smaller, standing alone in the water. He couldn’t remember getting to work, only the concern his workers expressed at his having been late, but he waved them off. Locking himself in his office, he let only Paulie and Kalifa in, alternating between busying himself with paperwork and watching the island.

He could see now what you meant by a gradual shift, and why it was so important he leave. He supposed being on the island, it wouldn’t ever appear as such, but from his office the island appeared opaque, and seemed to be smoking. It grew more pronounced as the day carried on, until it was more smoke than island. The shadows of evening had long since swallowed the beach up, but you had moved your house hours before, and he thought he could understand why. Watching from his window grew to be too painful at times, at which point he would draw the curtains, obscuring his view. 

Inevitably, though, he would open them again, scouring for a glimpse of you.

It was almost a relief when it grew too dark to see the island anymore, but it also brought with it pain, because he knew it would be gone in the morning.

As if it had bit him, he was reminded of the object you had forced into his hand. At the time, he had deemed it infinitely less important than the final moments he had to hold you in his arms, and so had stowed it in his pocket.

He now pulled it out, finding it to be a battered log pose. Examining it more closely, he determined that it was broken, the needle snapped off at the stem. Yet, as he moved around the office, it always pointed in the direction of the island. He clenched it in his fist, being forcibly reminded of you as he felt the magic roll off of it in waves. Maybe it was because the island was saturated in it, but he had never felt the pull quite so intensely as he did with that log pose in his hand. 

He made a mental note that he would need to get a sturdy container to protect it until he needed it next. A calendar sat on his desk, and he picked up a pen, marking the days that he had spent with you. Not that he could forget them, but he wanted a physical reminder, something tangible he could hold onto.

He sat back, his chair creaking underneath him with the motion, and smiled. He would find you again, he knew it, even if he had to wait a hundred years.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

A Little Piece Of Heaven (part one)

[Tour!verse]

TW: Surprisingly not many...I guess mockery of religion, specifically Christianity and anything in that branch. Very minor mentions of self harm (like one time- if you blink you’ll miss it). But mainly this fic is just psychological.

———————

Lord of The Flies

Let’s get something clear really quickly: Joan Meutas was not religious. Did she used to be? Unfortunately, yes, but after seeing the world for what it really was, after getting an axe to her vagina from her beloved husband, she has realized that there was no merciful God who would save lost souls. It was all a hoax by crazy old folk from wherever Jerusalem was to herd people into one belief, thinking that it may make them more humane and friendly. But religion has done more harm than good- Christianity damns all non CIS heterosexuals to hell, Jews got murdered by the thousands, that one branch literally won’t eat anything besides fucking grain or some shit, Catholics are just rude as all hell, those fasting things literally cause people to STARVE TO DEATH, and for what? To appease some higher being? Do they truly think they will be saved? If God was so merciful and wonderful and kindhearted, why would he make things like murder and cancer and rape and torture?

Joan even once heard that the Bible stated that when a woman was on her period she had to leave her village and wasn’t allowed to come back UNLESS she had a turtle dove. She’s never read the Good Book before, so she doesn’t know if that was true or not, but it doesn’t sound unlikely given all the stupid rules she’s heard about.

So, no, Joan was not religious.

It’s strange, she thinks, how offended people get when she says it or simply hints at it. Their eyes will practically bug out of their skull and they probably pray for her “lost soul”, maybe even do that weird cross gesture on their chest when they think she isn’t looking. They look at her as if she was actually a demon spy loosed from hell and not just someone who has enough common sense to realize that an “all powerful father” was complete and utter bullshit.

That’s the thing- it’s like the word “atheist” was purposely made to seem like the most evil string of letters to ever be created. You know the words- those synonyms that just sound much worse than the actual root phrase (molest, slaughter, moist). Atheist just has this dark shade to it. Or so religious people say.

But enough of that! There’s a reason why such a taboo subject is being brought up.

Joan was going to contact Death.

As they say, desperate times calls for desperate measures. And desperate Joan was.

You see, her queen- Jane Seymour- used to be quite the woman. Sharp, beautiful, powerful, but also warm behind the closed court doors. Joan was very lucky to see this side of her as her youngest lady in waiting, often getting called gentle pet names and sometimes pats on her head if she was particularly lucky that day. As a touch-starved orphan servant, this was like a pot of gold to Joan- love and affection is something she’s craved long before reincarnation in the modern world. And, speaking of the resurrection, Joan thought she would get even more of Jane’s “Mum Treatment” since they had more time on their hands, but she was very, very wrong.

Jane...Jane was different. She changed. No longer was she the motherly, caring, strong woman from the past, but instead coming back as some reduced version of herself- slightly younger (24, 25, maybe even 23), more awkward and timid, and much less maternal. The way she now looked at Joan wasn’t with compassion, rather...plain curiosity, sometimes even aversion. Her memory of her young lady in waiting has waned- it was as if she didn’t remember that Joan had been at her side the whole time when she was bedridden after giving birth to Edward! Like she couldn’t conjure up the remembrance of a teenager literally watching her rot away and slowly die for days!

To say the least, Joan was not happy. Add in trauma, insomnia, hate on social media, constant stress and pressure from her profession, and a severe lack of friends and you can probably see why Joan was going to such extreme measures.

Now, she knew about the stories. She’s read The Monkey’s Paw. She knows about the consequences of one’s actions. Joan wasn’t going into this completely stupid- have some faith, will you?

Gambling with Death was a risk. A huge risk that could very well end with her soul being ripped out of her mouth or her flesh being worn by a supernatural being that then goes on to commit atrocities under her identity. And not only was it a massive risk to take, it was also very, very stupid.

If I have to spell it out for you, listen closely: Death knows things. A lot of things. They don’t call him the “Lord of The Flies” for nothing. Which is why he loves to play games for those desperate enough to contact him because he knows he is much smarter than whatever pathetic, miserable piece of useless garbage comes clawing at a mirror, begging him to reveal himself. And unless you have every secret of the universe, you’re probably going to get ass-blasted back to Tuesday.

Oh, what am I saying? You won’t get a second chance.

You’ll be long gone by then.

And whatever state the cops find your body in the next morning depends on whatever mood the beast was in.

However, in Joan’s case here, she is desperate and stupid enough to take the risk. In her eyes, she doesn’t have much to live for. She’s a slave to SIX- day and night she’s working endlessly over musical paperwork and the same songs over and over and OVER again. It doesn’t help that she isn’t the closest to the rest of the cast and is often left alone when everyone else goes out and has fun. The scars on her wrists are evident of how many nights she’s been alone.

Without Jane, she has nothing to live for. She needed her.

And that’s exactly why she was sitting on the floor in front of a mirror propped against the wall in the dark theater surrounded by candles and a semicircle of salt.

Joan has done a lot of studying up to this point. She knows she has everything correctly, now she just has to get Death to appear...and hope he doesn’t immediately pull her small intestines out from her throat for bothering him.

Joan stares into the mirror as hard as she can, closes her eyes, then counted to ten. Her eyelids lingered shut for longer than she would like to admit after she hit the number one, but she eventually pried them open.

It was not her reflection staring back at her.

To be honest, Joan wasn’t exactly sure of what she was expecting to see. Some parts of her believed nothing would happen, other parts convinced itself that a grim reaper-like figure or a horned, goat-legged demon would be kneeling on the other side of the glass wielding a scythe or pitchfork. However, a suit-wearing young man was not really something that crossed her mind in her theories.

If Joan wasn’t a lesbian, she might have found him attractive, but he definitely was at a straight woman’s perspective. Perfect smile, the most amazing cheekbone structure, unflawed olive skin, neatly combed brown-blonde hair, a broad chest, phenomenal shape- if it weren’t for his yellow eyes with slit pupils, he might have been the perfect lady’s man (although, knowing straight women, they probably wouldn’t care for his demon eyes- after all, you don’t need to see someone’s peepers to suck cock!).

Joan sat completely bewildered, all of her confidence draining and being replaced with dread that drenches her like a thick, dark oil spill. She can feel her hands, which are lying in her lap, starting to tremble and clenching her fingers doesn’t help at all. The ability to form a coherent sentence slips from her mind, so Death speaks first.

“Hello, Joan Meutas.”

This guy is the real deal. He pronounced her last name correctly!

Joan opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water and Death is thoroughly amused by her sardine impression. He watches her through the glass, waiting patiently for her to learn how to enunciate again.

“H-h-hello-”

“Yes, yes, h-h-hello to you to,” Death laughed. He wasn’t directly trying to be cruel, but Joan’s self esteem was far enough into the ground to hear his jibe as a mockery of her understanding of the English language. “If I let you speak the whole time we are going to get nowhere! Pull yourself together, kid. You should see the look on your face! You look like you just got caught making out with the family goat!”

Joan’s expression remained one of fright.

“What? Didn’t you own a goat back in- god, what year were you born? 1517 or 1525? Historians paint it as both! But I thought a family farm animal was the big rave back then! I apologize- I need to catch up on the modern slang. Say, would you be considered a ‘boomer’? Because I have been DYING to use that phrase on someone who contacts me. Could you imagine it?” He warps his voice into one of a pruny old woman, “‘I wish for great fortune!’ ‘Okay Boomer.’” Death bursts into fits of maniacal laughter that sounded as if a thousand lost souls were chortling together at once.

Joan is still silent, but during Death’s monologue she was able to wire her brain back to functionality. She sits up a little bit straighter and Death notices, so he containers himself instantly, also fixing his posture.

“Ready to talk now?” He asked.

“Yes.” Joan answered.

“Wonderful,” There’s a glint in his piercing yellow eyes, “What is it that you desire of me?”

Joan gathers up all her courage, sits up a little taller, and says, “I desire to challenge you to a game of question-and-answer.”

The glint flares into a blaze of confidence. If Joan stares hard enough, she swore she could almost see the fires of Hell burning in his eyes.

“How fun,” The words ooze out from Death’s pale lips, soaked in liquid menace. “Shall I go over the rules?”

Joan nodded. She knew them, she knew she did, but it would be good to hear them one last time.

“Very well,” Death said. He cleared his throat and began speaking as if he were reading off of a manual, “Death’s Gambit: A two-player game between the Lord of The Flies himself and a human. After being conjured- just gonna skip over that process, you’ve clearly got it down, kid- and initiating the game, both parties will have sixty-six minutes and six seconds to answer as many questions correctly as possible. Anything can be asked- trivia, personal inquiries, riddles, even dares, as long as the salt circle is not exited. The catch of the whole thing is this: The Prince of Darkness is obligated to tell the truth only if the human answers correctly to his question or does a requested dare or the human manages to stump him. However, if he answers correctly or the human answers incorrectly to HIS question, he may lie about whichever question he wants. The score will not be revealed until the very end once the time is over. If the human wins, the Keeper of Souls MUST grant any one wish they have. If He-Who-Lies wins, the human will be the victim to whatever losing punishment he comes up with. Remaining rules include: The salt circle cannot be left- you may find yourself no longer in your dimension-, the game cannot be quit until the time is over, items like watches or phones are not permitted to be used to look up answers or keep track of the time. Good luck and Beelzebub be with you.”

Despite knowing this all already, hearing it out loud, spoken by the beast himself, made it all hit home for Joan. She was really doing this; she was gambling with Death.

She had to be the stupidest fuck to ever grace God’s green earth.

“Are you ready to begin?” Death asked.

Joan took a deep death and answered, “Yes.”

A wicked smile curled on Death’s lips. The candles around Joan blaze.

“The game is on.”

A dark feeling weighed down on Joan after that was spoken. The air around her seemed to shift. Her gut was screaming at her to run away, to hide, to do something other than just sit there, but she couldn’t move. Not from fear, but from sheer will. She couldn’t be stupid. Who knows what lurked outside her thin salt circle....

As he usually did, Death initiates the game and asked his first question.

“What was the name of Catherine Parr’s true love?”

Like that, a cold stone drops deep into the pit of Joan’s stomach. Of all the questions she expected him to start off with, Tudor history was not one of them. It startles her, takes her by surprise, and she realizes very quickly that that’s exactly why Death asked it. He’s trying to disorientate her right off the bat and weaken her before she has the chance to get some points in.

She could not let that happen.

It’s just that- she didn’t know Tudor history outside of knowledge on her queen and whatever is said in the show. The others certainly did talk about their past lives, but Joan- she-

It stung, to say the least, when she realized that Death knew about her nonexistence friendships with the queens. And that he was targeting that.

“Thomas Seymour.” Joan finally said.

She was pretty sure that was the right answer...but not completely positive. And, because of that, her worried mind began to scream doubts inside of her brain.

Was that a trick question? He’s supposed to be the embodiment of pure evil- wouldn’t he think Henry is Parr’s true love? Was Henry the right answer?

“Your turn.” Death said, not reacting to Joan’s answer, which scares her even more.

“What’s- why did you choose to show up in that body?”

“Oooh, you’re starting with a personal inquiry!” Death said, laughing, “How fun! And I hope you’re not flattering yourself, Joan- I don’t look like this to make your pussy wet. Trust me, I could look way more attractive, but I know you.” Those three words slither into Joan’s ears and made her shudder. “Isn’t the whole point of being a lesbian to not be attracted to men?” Death laughed again, “But I look like this because I want to. I can take whatever shape I want! Remember that one time I was a snake? That was weird. Although, peeping at a naked chick was pretty damn fun. As a lesbian, you could probably appreciate the sight.”

For just a moment, the image of Death disappears, the mirror hazes to white, and Eve appears. Not the paintings you always see- THE Eve, bare breasts and vagina and all, and if Joan weren’t also asexual, her own genitals may have been burning with desperate pleasure.

“She was a sight.” Death said, returning to view. He chuckles, then immediately goes to his next question, “What was the exact height of Mount Everest in the year 1666?”

Joan’s heart just about stopped.

How in the holy hell was she supposed to know that? Then again, that was probably the point of asking such a thing.

“Three...hundred feet?” It came out as a question, but it’s taken as an answer and Death doesn’t react except for a slight twitch of his nose. “What...is the hardest piece to learn on the piano?”

“Liszt.” Death answered smoothly. “What animal can see the most amount of colors?”

“A...dolphin.” Joan physically cringed at her answer. “Who wrote Liszt?”

Is this what she was going to be doing the whole time? Asking the King of Hell fucking piano trivia?

“La Campanella.” Death once again answered perfectly. “What is the full chemical name for the antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication, Zoloft?”

Wasn’t that the medicine Joan was supposed to take for her anxiety?

“I- I don’t know.”

Death just hummed and awaited his next question. He didn’t laugh at her like she expected him to, which slightly lightened the blow of her stupidity.

“What’s my favorite song in SIX?”

“None of them. Why did you stop taking your Zoloft pills?”

The answer followed by such a question felt like Joan was just punched in the stomach with a spiked gauntlet. She swore she was winded by some unseen force (probably shock). Her breath hitched in her throat and she seemed like a little kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I-” She hunched her shoulders around her neck. Death is giving her a curious look, which was at least better than worry or concern. “They- they weren’t helping me...so I didn’t think there was a point taking them if they weren’t going to fix me.”

Death hummed once more, this time louder and more enthusiastic. He clearly liked her answer.

“Interesting,” He mused, then quiets himself for the next question.

“What’s standing behind me?”

Ever since the game began, Joan picked up on the presence of something staring at the back of her head. She could feel their eyes burning into her skull, sometimes even breathing on the back of her neck.

Death smiled. “See for yourself.”

Joan saw nothing in the reflection, just darkness beyond the candles and Death, and she was not about to go and look away. She was scared about what would happen if she turned her gaze away from the mirror for even a second.

When Death realized Joan wasn’t going to fall for his tricks that easily, he quirked an impressed eyebrow and moved on.

“Will you greet the worker who just came in?”

Joan glanced fearfully to the corner of the room. A figure is hunched there. The glow from the candles just barely licks at their claws.

“What was their name? Terrance?” Death said, “Doesn’t he work in lightning?”

“That’s not Terrance,” Joan murmured.

Death took it as an answer, it seems. He leans in close to the glass and when he whispers, his hushed tone is right at the back of Joan’s ear.

“You don’t want to know what he really is.”

Joan can feel a panic attack rising in her chest. Death is trying to scare her, stray her from answering coherently or correctly and get her to waste time by freaking out. She had to steer the game back into calmness.

Or, rather, however calm a Devil game could get.

“What do I have in my pocket right now?”

Death seems a little bothered that the cryptic theme was interrupted, but he gets over it.

“One black pen that’s almost out of ink, a granola bar you promised yourself you would eat, and a rosary you stole from Aragon.” He said, “Oh and, by the way, that isn’t going to protect you from me. So return it as soon as possible or Aragon is gonna be PISSED!” He laughed, imagining the storm the golden queen would cause if she caught Joan with such a precious belonging.

Joan swallowed thickly. She didn’t want to check her pockets. She didn’t want to know that he was right.

“What is the color of the sky?”

It seemed like an easy enough question, but Joan, believe it or not, knew better than to fall for such a simple trick. She wracked her brain for a moment, then answered, “Black.”

Death doesn’t react aside from licking over his dried lips. His tongue is too pointy. Joan moves on.

“Does Jane care about me?”

Honestly, the question kind of surprised her. It bubbled up from her throat from out of nowhere- yes, she had been wanting to ask it so badly, but she didn’t actually expect it to come out.

“Yes.” Says Death.

For a moment, joy bursts through Joan, but the metaphorical, celebratory confetti is sucked up by the vacuum of doubt.

Is he lying? Is he giving me false hope? Or is he telling the truth?

“What’s your blood type?” Death asked.

“A...AB.”

Like Joan fucking knew that.

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Blue.” Death smiled, “Because the blue sky would always remind you of opportunities for a better life.”

A shiver runs down Joan’s spine. She didn’t like how he knew that.

“What’s something that you can’t eat for lunch or dinner?”

He’s asking a riddle. Joan bit the inside of her cheek, thinking.

It couldn’t be a food. That was too easy.

Think, Joan, think!

“...Breakfast.”

Death chuckles. Joan doesn’t know what to think of that.

Twenty minutes pass by in a blur. Cold sweat soaks Joan’s brow, dripping down her face, but she’s too scared to move from her stiff position. Her back muscles hurt from sitting like a statue for so long- how the hell does Death look so relaxed? Then again, he doesn’t really have much to worry about.

He doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of being mutilated or dragged to Hell or that that figure in the corner has been getting closer and closer as the minutes passed by.

“Do you think every human deserves to live?”

The question came out of nowhere, really. Death had been asking mostly trivia up until that point. He tittered at Joan’s stunned expression, then raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”

“No.”

Joan didn’t hesitate because she knew it was the truth. Not everyone deserved to live. Rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, racists, homophobes, terrorists, abusers- they didn’t deserve life. People like them deserved to die.

And anyone who doesn’t believe that is a fucking idiot.

“Do YOU think every human deserves to live?”

Death scoffed. “Of course not.” He peered at Joan, really analyzing her for the first time. His yellow slit eyes raked over the girl, making her feel uncomfortable and violated. “You know, you and I think a lot alike. Not many humans give ‘no’ as their answer. They think optimism will make them seem like a good person. It’s pathetic.”

Joan just nodded silently.

“Now...where were we? Oh, yes.” Death leaned in, “Which queen suffered the most?”

Joan furrowed her eyebrows. The whole point of the show was to not compare, especially traumas, but...

“Katherine Howard.”

Come on- clearly K Howard had it the worst. The girl was violated by four different men before she was an adult! None of the other five stories combined could possibly rank to the fifth queen’s suffering.

“Honestly, I think the same!” Death said, “I mean- what is UP with the whole ‘one of a kind, no category’ gimmick? How stupid! Last time I checked, being a victim of sexual abuse doesn’t make you ‘one of a kind.’ Why would you even think of it that way?“

Joan nodded slowly.

“I agree,” She said, “Um- here’s my next question: Is this question false?”

Death raised his eyebrows and cooed in obvious interest.

“True.” He said, smirking. “My turn. Do you resent the queens?”

Joan actually recoils. Death laughed.

“I-”

Did she? Did she resent the queens? Surely she didn’t... She couldn’t! The queens were perfect! How could anyone ever hate them?

“No.”

Death almost looks disappointed.

“What’s worse than death?”

“You’re living it.”

Cold sweat drips down Joan’s face. It stings her eyes and is salty on her tongue. She hears noises all around her, but doesn’t dare to look. She already knows “Terrance” is on his knees beside the salt circle and his leaning his face in right next to hers. She can smell the rot on him.

“Have you ever wanted to hurt the queens?”

Death’s questions are definitely ramping up in darkness. Was the time close to ending? Is that why he’s getting deeper?

Joan shut her eyes tightly for a moment, but opened them quickly when the fear of losing sight of Death nagged at the back of her mind. Before her, on the other side of the mirror, the being is waiting patiently, eagerly for her answer.

“Sometimes,” Joan breathed, “Yes.”

Death smiles a wicked smile.

“How interesting,” He purred, then gestured for Joan to ask her question.

“Does God exist?”

“Unfortunately.” Death groaned, then laughed. He inspected Joan again. “How would you hurt the queens?”

Joan felt her stomach ache. She didn’t like that question. She didn’t want to think about actually hurting the queens, even if she’s considered it one or two times before.

“I- I haven’t really given it any thought.” She answered, then quickly sputtered out her next question before Death could comment, “Does the Bible speak the truth?”

“Of course not.” Death said. “My next question is this: If I were to give you a task, would you do it?”

“Depends,” Joan said, “What would the task be?”

Death held up both arms in a shrugging motion. “I don’t know! Pick up my dry cleaning? It depends! Don’t put me on the spot like that!” He then laughed that horrible laugh again. Once he contains himself, he says, “Time is ticking. The game is almost over. I want to switch things up before we end. I have a dare for you.”

Joan nods.

“Stab yourself in the hand.”

That flush of icy cold dread floods through Joan’s system again. Every part of her being screamed at her to refuse, there will be other offers or questions she could make up for, but she knew that was just false hope. Like Death said: time was almost up. She couldn’t risk refusing and docking more points (if she isn’t in the negatives already, that is).

“Fine.” She forced out through her teeth.

She reached for the pen in her pocket, but Death held up a hand.

“Don’t use that inky thing,” He said. “It won’t get the job done. Please- allow me.”

He flicked his wrist and a large carving knife appears out of thin air and clatters to the floor in front of Joan. She stares at it for a moment, then picked it up, setting her left hand down in its place. She took a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and plunged the blade down.

Joan couldn’t choke back the scream that burst from her lips. She cried at the pain, sobbing in horror when she looked down to see the knife practically pinning her hand to the floor. Dark red blood pools around her fingers, gushing and spurting like spigot from the wound when she pulls the blade free. She cradled her wounded hand close to her chest, weeping weakly.

“Very good,” Death cooed, clapping.

Joan raised her eyes slowly and Death smirked at how lit up they were, almost like hot coals.

“I have a dare for you.” Joan growled, her voice low and dangerous.

“I accept.”

“Change your eye color to blue.”

For a moment, Joan swore she saw the slightly twitch on Death’s features. She watched him close his eyes, sit their silently for a moment, then open them again.

They were still yellow and slit.

“I cannot.” He said. However, he wasn’t angry or irritated at being stumped, rather amused. “Next...what is the flying speed of a swallow?”

Joan ripped off of a strip of her shirt and wrapped it around her bloody hand, hoping it would be a good enough substitute for real bandages for now.

“African or European?”

Death grinned. And that grin only grew wider as the candles around Joan went out until only the one behind her remained lit.

"̸̡̢̢̣͓͚͖̪̼̪͑͊̈́͋̀́̾͗͘ͅT̷̼̺͈̮̜͔̙͂̋̉͋͛̈̿̀̕͜͠͝i̸̢̹̙̼̠͓͚̖̗͔̮̔̌͂̓̐̊̈́̔̃̕m̸̡̱̤̱͙͎̦̱͙̪̻̓̅͌̉̀̈́̐̄͒̌̕͘͝e̸̟̳͒'̸̗͎̞̙̋̎̓́́͑̉͐͑̈́s̷̰̬̙͖̲̩͚̥͈̝̩̻̻̮̭͂̀̐̓̑̓͌̓̀́̐̐ ̷̡̳͍̗͉̝͔̃̑͛̀͊͌͆̌̒̃̔͘̚͠ͅû̵̞̠̣͉̻̖̅̓̄̏͝p̷̛͖͎̮̖͇̬̮͉̥̲͈̟͊̃́̃̏̇̇͛͗̅̕͘,̷̢̧̧̹͈̗̝͙̪͉̖̆̈́ͅ ̸̲̩̥̇͂̓͌̀̋͗̀͛̚J̵̼̣̋ö̴̡͕̺̪̠͓̹͔̂͝ą̶̡̜̭̤͖̭̫̝̘̆̂̾̐͊̾̒̂̏n̶̛̛̬̦̥̠̮̐̓̃̋̍̒̂͐̂̽ͅ.̴̪̰̩̀͊̑̐́̂͗̍̐̈́̚"̴͍͆͛́̈́̈́̍͆̀͗͘͝͝

It was almost impossible to breathe. Joan can barely hold herself together- the tears are flowing freely and she can’t get them to stop. She would say a prayer for her damned soul if it weren’t for the whole atheist thing, and she worried that Death would get angry at her for it, even if it was said in her mind, which he couldn’t possible read (or, at least, she hoped he couldn’t).

Still, she bowed at the waist and thanked Death for the game.

“Let’s tally up the score, shall we?”

Joan first saw blood start to spread across Death’s midsection, then a sharp sting struck her in the stomach. She hissed in pain and lifted her shirt slightly, as did Death, and they both saw tally marks upon their flesh.

Death had twenty-three.

And Joan watched in shock as a twenty-fourth tally carved down through her skin right before her eyes.

“Congratulations, Joan Meutas,” Death says, “You’ve won. What is it that you wish for?”

[ober-affen-geil]

So I have. Done. A meta before. On Michael and Alex outside the trailer in 1x09. But it turns out I have more to say on the matter and a slightly changed outlook so here we go.

I want to start by referring to this most excellent meta because it touches on a lot of the same points as mine, mostly being the massive disconnect between Alex and Michael in this scene. I want to focus on Michael here though, because I’ve already talked a lot about how pivotal this scene is for Alex. (Here is the big one, there are many others.) Also because I believe in this scene, Michael thinks he’s getting that pyrotechnic breakup he asked for in the beginning of the episode, and I am devastated for him.

*Disclaimer before I start: I am not completely disregarding what Alex is going through in this scene. I am focusing on Michael. I am not dismissing, nor undercutting how important this moment is for Alex. It is. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about so. Just be aware I’m not at all giving precedent to Alex’s point of view.*

We start off with Alex pulling up, and you can tell Michael is trying to treat him like a normal customer. It’s killing him inside, but Alex told him it was over and he can be an adult about this. At least he can try. And then he pulls the necklace out of his boot and Alex reacts like he’s hurt and that’s not fair so Michael pushes back to the topic at hand. (What were you saying?)

But then Alex starts to leave walking away again which is just fine by Michael. It’s typical, it’s what he did when they were “together”, why would it change now. It’s expected. But then Alex flips the script. (I’m tired of not saying what I want to say.) And Michael has had it up to here with him.

Because, from Michael’s view, no one has ever prevented Alex from saying what he wanted to say. Not when he’s with Michael. Michael has never found it difficult to speak most of his absolute truth when he’s with Alex, so Alex’s apparent inability to do the same is just one more indicator that Michael’s feelings are not as strongly returned. (See this wonderful meta for more on their love language gap.)

And now not only has Alex apparently decided to make a grand gesture, he’s doing it after he told Michael it was over. Publicly. So Michael is. Yeah. Michael is just about at the end of his rope. (What do you want to say, Alex?!)

And then. And then. 

“That I loved you.”

A sentence which takes the wind from his sails and the breath from his lungs. It literally stops Michael in his tracks it is that unexpected.

Alex doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about this “thing” between them. Ever. All he does is accept what Michael gives him and walk away, again and again. So to hear the word “love” from him in relation to Michael, even in past tense, is shocking. But he’s not done.

“And I think you loved me. For a long time.”

And this. Wrecks Michael. Just when he thought Alex Manes had razed him to the ground he finds out there was still a part of him left to hurt. His reaction is of someone who is absolutely destroyed, his only response is “Yeah” because what is he supposed to say to that? Everything he does and says around Alex is designed to show him he loves him and if Alex doesn’t get that what more is Michael supposed to do? “I think you loved me,” as if Michael’s love could ever be doubted. As if he could ever love Alex Manes in past tense.

But no good will come of him trying to correct that. He’s done what he can to say how he feels in the past and apparently it hasn’t worked. So he stands there and listens to Alex stumble over his words. He can’t quite keep it to himself when Alex talks about their connection though, because it’s such a powerful pull. It always has been.

When he says “Cosmic” it’s an argument. It’s a plea, it’s disbelief, and it’s desperation. “This is us. This is what we have, why would you deny that? Why would you say it’s not enough?” But Alex plows over it, dismisses it, and well really that’s par for the course isn’t it. Michael pours his heart out and Alex doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t take it, doesn’t want what it means. Like outside the trailer in 1x02, he will accept Michael’s hands on his body and nothing else. And then Alex says “I want to be friends?” like he’s not even sure about that and Michael just.

I know I already linked to her meta above but I gotta quote @chasingshhadows here because this is it exactly: “This is a man who knows that he and Alex will never be able to be just friends, but who also knows he won’t be able to stop himself from doing whatever Alex asks...That laugh says he knows that what comes next is going to hurt and he’s going to let it.”

It does hurt. What comes next. Because what comes next, so far as Michael knows, is Alex asking a very dangerous question.

“I wanna know who you are, Guerin.”

And Michael makes a choice. If Alex won’t set them alight, he will. Because that look in his eyes as he stalks towards Alex is predatory. It’s dangerous. It’s “if you wanna play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”

His next line is so, so significant. Aside from giving me heart palpitations, his wording here is incredibly indicative of self-destruction. He douses himself with gas, hands Alex a lit match, and dares him to use it.

”Do you wanna know who I am? Or do you wanna know what I am?”

This goes beyond Michael offering to tell Alex the truth. Look at the wording of the second question, “what I am”. Michael is othering himself. Of the three siblings, Michael is the only one who takes genuine pride in not being human. He has seen the worst of what humanity has to offer from a young age and that has given him an aversion to even pretending to associate with them. Max and Isobel may secretly wish they were “normal” (and by normal, I mean human) but Michael has never wanted that. Michael wants to go home because Earth has never been that for him.

So for him to use this language to describe himself, to play into the picture of the monstrous alien “other” that invades the planet, is him just pulling the pin and waiting for Alex to back away in disgust and horror. He’s braced for it. It’s what he intended to do with that sentence; it’s him slapping the naked truth onto the table and saying “this is the part where you run away.”

But Alex doesn’t run. He doesn’t even step back when Michael pushes into his space. All he does is look at him, take a breath, and say “Yes”. And I would kill for a reaction shot in that moment because Alex just pulled the rug out from under Michael again. But alas. It is left to our imagination.

Anyway. That scene always takes my breath away, even moreso than the Caulfied scene, so I needed to get that out there. A recovery center has been set up for those who need it, complaints may be submitted to my ask :D

[storytellingape]

london calling

NOTTING HILL AU

MCSACKLER

13,000 words (unfinished)

There are two things Thomas loves most in the world: London and a good book.

To a lesser extent he loves other things: a perfectly pressed shirt, the smell of fresh paint, and not the least finding good homes for all books in his possession. He has multitudes stowed away, books hidden in cupboards and wedged between shoeboxes, tucked away in tight nooks and corners while a dozen more spill forth from the depths of his dresser drawers.

Of course, it wasn’t always like this. There’d been a time when things were not in such a state of chaos, when books didn’t materialize at every turn like uninvited guests popping round for tea. Around that time, Thomas worked for Harrods where he kept a tight ship. He was terrific at his job, excelling in detail work; he knew where everything was even with his eyes closed and had a mental grid of every floor stamped into his mind. Then he lost out on a promotion: ten years of hard work crawling his way up from the till and Nigel Bannerman had sent it all tumbling down with a smirk but that’s a story for another time and almost futile to discuss.

The story is set in Windermere which is approximately 400 kilometers away from London. In a bookshop at the end of street with a hunter-green awning, Thomas McGregor flips the sign at the door from closed to open.

The shop, like his violent aversion to dairy and small animals, has been in his family for decades and Thomas has been  its sole proprietor ever since his uncle had legged it to Sussex to try his hand at beekeeping. It’s a dying business when most people prefer digital over print, the commercial familiarity of a big name brand over a shabby little bookshop that hasn’t had a facelift since Margaret Thatcher first became PM. The shop is a fire hazard waiting to happen, crowded and small, poorly lit.

Thomas’ uncle’s only condition before allowing Thomas to take over was that he leave everything as is, undisturbed and untouched. A man of nostalgia and tradition. Thomas has taken that to mean quite literally, electing to keep the unfortunate wallpaper, the brass deer bust, the rotary phone, the paisley sofa. On a regular day, the shop gets about half a dozen customers, rarely more. Most of them are repeat customers, regulars, or tourists asking for directions after mistaking the shop for an entirely different establishment altogether.

This is how Thomas meets his assistant Stensland, who’d wandered in one day and simply never left. That’s an exaggeration: he leaves after business hours and after getting into rows with customers who question his literary tastes. Thomas can’t even remember why he’d hired him, or when, or how; one morning Stensland was just sort of there, making coffee and eating scones, telling Thomas about the new Murakami novel and offering to clean the windows. He’s helpful. Most of the time.

McGregor’s sells all kinds of books: secondhand and brand new, academic and fiction, self-help and the Bible though really the pièce de résistance are the rare and obscure pulp novels sitting in a neat row on an isolated shelf. Mostly people ask for the latest young adult novel anyway or Stephen King, which Thomas stocks on occasion.

It’s easy to accumulate books this way: sometimes Thomas goes on day trips to Marylebone in London to check out what the other shops are selling, or he walks into Foyles or Hatchards to admire the sleek shelving. He always leaves with a book or two tucked under one arm, which he sells for half price back at home in Windermere after peeling off the tags. During these excursions into the city, he feels a kind of triumph but also a certain blankness that’s harder to define these days.

*

Home. Home wasn’t always Windermere. Home was London once upon a time, in a nice little neighborhood near Kensington where the exorbitant rent guaranteed the best views.

There’s nothing to see in the country: just farmland and small houses, and so much green. It’s beautiful, yes, but only to those who don’t have to suffer through it everyday. People see Windermere and imagine that life is easy, and that’s true to an extent but what they don’t know is that it is also slow and dismal; the monotony breaks you down in tiny increments. It’s not the kind of place where it’s easy to disappear. In London you can constantly make and remake yourself.

People know your business here; they know your last name, they know your family tree. Generations of McGregors have lived and died in Windermere but Thomas is the first one to set up shop out of necessity rather than choice. Harrods had spurned him by denying him that promotion. Not just any but the one he’d been eyeing since first setting foot in lower management, several years ago. He was still reeling from the betrayal, a year after the fact. His uncle’s offer of a job couldn’t have come at a better time though Thomas only meant to do it for a few months until he found his motivation to do anything again.

But time is a funny thing and filial obligations even funnier and this, this is his life now: shelving and re-shelving books, selling used James Patterson novels for 50p. He’s losing money faster than he can make it. And on top of everything else, he keeps amassing books and running out of places to put them. Thomas wonders how his uncle kept the shop afloat for over thirty years with his terrible bedside manner and aversion to teenagers who make up the bulk of their customer base. Thomas is a stark contrast; he breathes customer service and can chat up a complete stranger.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays see the shop’s peak in foot traffic. On weekends, there’ll often be a few tourists. Business fluctuates depending on the weather and season though that’s only true half the time. A typical day in the shop is punctuated by stretches of silence, interrupted from time to time by Stensland commentating on whatever it is he happens to be watching on YouTube. When the bell at the door tinkles, Thomas shuffles out of his little office in the back to assist the potential customer. That’s his favourite part of the day, when he gets to talk to people about their favourite novels and make recommendations based on the genres that interest them.

He has made it his mission to sell all the ‘hurt’ books sitting outside in a dusty box, books that have been dogeared to death and roughly handled because even books with shabby appearances have their worth and deserve a home. He hasn’t succeeded so far, the box is only a third empty, but one day they’ll all be gone and not because someone has stolen them. It’s this kind of sentiment that his uncle often berated him for; books don’t have feelings, he’d say. Stop anthropomorphizing them Thomas! They were made to be consumed.

“I’m going out for a walk,” Thomas says to Stensland on a day like all others as he massages a crick in his neck.

It’s a slow day and they’ve only sold two books and it’s already half past two. When he doesn’t get a reply, Thomas checks the counter where Stensland is planted throughout most of his shift and sees that Stensland is fast asleep, his arms folded across his chest, his head twitching forward intermittently. Not surprising as the only reason Thomas has hired him, he suspects, is for the company and occasional entertainment he provides, not his work ethic. He takes far too many froyo breaks and is late half the time. He reads sci-fi and trashy romance novels.

Thomas decides not to wake him. He’s gone for only an hour, walking around aimlessly. He goes for a coffee, and buys Stensland a buttered roll and his favourite blended drink, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. When he returns to the shop, Stensland is nowhere to be found and there’s a man in a leather jacket hovering by the shelf of pulp novels. He already has three books in his grip: two on photography, the other self-help.

The man shoots Thomas a brief look when the bell at the door tinkles to announce his arrival. Thomas sets the drink and pastry down before offering the man his assistance. “Can I help you?” he says, remembering to keep a respectful distance. He folds his hands in front of himself and affects a bland, pleasant smile.

The man looks up. His smile shows a hint of dimple but it’s brief and he turns away again. Thomas has  a feeling he’s seen him before, though he can’t place when or where: not in town certainly, where he knows everybody. But somewhere. The man has a very distinct face.

“Do you work here?” Ah, and he’s American. Therein lies the rub. A tourist most likely. The man picks up The Case of the Seven Sneezes and rifles through the pages with a thumb. His eyes move along the text, never stopping.

“Well, it’s my name on the sign outside,” Thomas says.

“McGregor?” Abruptly, the man stops reading to give Thomas an appraising look that has Thomas feeling mildly self-conscious.

“Ah, not the McGregor,” Thomas says, clearing his throat. “That’s my great great grandfather but a McGregor. It’s a family business, you see.”

The man hums. He lifts a book to eye-level. You’re Lonely When You’re Dead, the cover worn from mishandling. His entire hand encompasses it spine to edge. He has massive hands. Everything about him is — massive. His presence fills the room. And still Thomas struggles put a name to his face.

“Are these any good?” He means the pulp novels. They’ve always been quite a conversation-starter; the lurid covers and outlandish titles attract everyone’s attention as does the sexual imagery.

“I haven’t read them yet,” Thomas confesses. He tried a few times but the writing could never sustain his interest. He prefers his literature maudlin, written before the turn of the century, peopled with solemn characters hellbent on murder, revenge, or rising above their station. “It’s an acquired taste like marmite or black pudding,” he continues. “They were popular in the 1930s a little bit before the first world war. They’re absolutely ridiculous but they have a kind of charm, I suppose, if you look hard enough. Some people collect them and sell them fifty times their worth on eBay. My uncle bought them as a young man; I imagine he’s read all of them.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “There are about a hundred of these that you’re selling. He’s read them all?”

“He had a lot of free time.” Thomas shrugs. “And he was a professor. Of literature.”

The man laughs, not meanly like a schoolyard bully, but in amusement, his dimples making another appearance. He’s handsome, and Thomas has only just started noticing this, hit by the sudden realization like a lighting bolt when the man grabs a handful of random pulp novels and flashes him a soft grin showing a hint of teeth.

“I haven’t read a book in a long time, I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Are you visiting?” Thomas asks, as he rings up the man’s purchases. It’s an innocuous line of inquiry and there’s a moment of silence before he receives a reply.

“Kind of. I’m here for work.”

“You’re in Windermere. For work?” If Thomas sounds incredulous it’s because he’s never heard that one before. “This is often where people go to retire or hide from their mistresses,” he explains. “No one goes to Windermere for work.” Least of all men like this one who seem better suited to the whims of London. What does he do for a living, Thomas begins to wonder. He doesn’t seem like a businessman, or a corporate executive, or a banker though his clothes fit him very well and seem mortifyingly expensive. It’s the shoes that give him away. Thomas knows the look and style of high end brand; he worked for Harrods after all for ten thankless years. This man looks like he could afford shopping there.

“Are you, then?” The man prompts, and when Thomas gives him a confused look, he adds, “Hiding from a mistress?”

Thomas flushes, not meeting his eyes. Often when he makes small talk with customers, he’s met with either apprehension or polite letdown, never encouragement. It throws him off his game. “Ah, I’ve got no mistresses to speak of. That’s not really my area of expertise,” he says, “Women, I mean. And mistresses. Do you want a pastry to go with that? I seem to be babbling.” He holds up the buttered roll between them, which has sweated through the flimsy paper.

“Thanks,” the man laughs, accepting it.

Thomas hands him his change afterwards, a crisp one-pound note. “You saved this business by buying more books than the average patron. Thank you,” he jokes.

“I’ll be sure to come back then,” the man says with a smile. “I was going to steal them but now I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” Thomas says. “As stealing is bad for business.”

The man laughs, then he mimes tipping a hat. When he’s left, Thomas slumps against the wall like a deflated balloon, feeling oddly winded.

The bell at the door chimes again shortly thereafter but it’s only Stensland, his assistant, panting and wearing a different pair of trousers.

“Sorry I left, it was an emergency,” Stensland says, wiping his hands across his bright-orange shirt, same as his hair. “I had to go number two and you know how bad the plumbing is here.”

His expression brightens when he sees that Thomas has bought him a drink. “Ooh, is that for me?” he says.

*

The weather in Windermere, for the most part, is pleasant and temperate. The rain is terrible. It stops for nothing and no one and goes on and on throughout the day, sometimes lasting deep into the night. It rains on a Wednesday, when Stensland is on his day off and Thomas has stepped out for lunch. There’s a deli across town with quaint seating and better Wifi than anywhere else, that makes the best quinoa and mango salad Thomas has ever had. He’s halfway into his lunch when there’s a sudden downpour. Thomas looks up at the sound of rain hitting the sidewalk and remembers where he’d left his umbrella. It didn’t rain in London as frequently as people who didn’t live there liked to believe but in Windermere the rain came often without warning. It could be sunny in the morning, then a torrent well into the afternoon.

An hour later when the rain shows no signs of letting up, Thomas braves the deluge and makes a run for it. It’s only a five minute walk if he hurries. He darts under awnings and bus stop roofs for cover, skidding and slipping in his brown leather shoes. Then he hears his name being called from across the street and he stops abruptly to whip around and face his interloper.

“McGregor!” the man says, and Thomas squints through the rain dripping into his eyes, trying to remember how he knows him. He meets a variety of people everyday, old and new customers, people who come back to the shop and people who don’t. “It’s you! What are you doing out here without an umbrella?”

The man jogs briskly towards him, tipping his bright black umbrella towards Thomas to shelter him from the rain. He stands close enough for Thomas to feel the warmth of him. Thomas notices for the first time the whiskery beginnings of a mustache and goatee. He smells nice, like expensive cologne, nothing too overwhelming or citrusy.

“Sackler,” the man says when Thomas continues to look at him blankly and noiselessly. “Adam. Though I don’t think I introduced myself last time. I saved your business? Bought a dozen books last week and you thanked me for my patronage.”

Thomas nods slowly. “Right,” he says as he remembers. The American. And now he has a name: Adam. They walk the rest of the way, avoiding wayward cyclists and other pedestrians with no trouble, Thomas wet as a drowned rat and just as pitiful while Adam tries his best to keep pace. Their shoulders bump a few times; they exchange smiles.

Thomas drips rainwater all over the carpet. He excuses himself for a moment, thudding up the stairs to the loft to change out of his clothes. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror just as he’s pulling a shirt over his head: the blindingly pale back that hasn’t seen a proper sun since 1998 and the narrow but soft waist. Still: nothing to be done about that and he’s made peace with his over all appearance in his thirty-four years of living. He emerges a fair bit later with a towel round his neck and his hair standing in static tufts, skin feeling clammy but otherwise dry.

Adam hasn’t left. Thomas catches him poking at the shelves and picking up books.

“Hi,” Thomas says, announcing his presence.

Adam tears his gaze away from a hardback edition of Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island. He has shaggy dark hair framing his jaw and it softens the jut of his nose. “Hi,” he says.

“Thank you for the er —” Thomas gestures vaguely at the whole of Adam, trailing off. Handsome men don’t render him speechless all that often, but there’s something about Adam that makes his reflexes sputter a bit before he can find his footing. Maybe it’s to do with the fact he hasn’t had a handsome man walk into his shop, ever, barring that one night a detective in a red flannel shirt asked if he knew someone named O’Malley.

“Sure. Don’t mention it. I mean…” Adam shrugs, trailing off as well, but he does it in a charming way that isn’t as awkward.

“Would you like some tea?” Thomas asks, his usual tactic whenever a conversation hits a low point, which when you’re him is often. He finds that tea always fixes everything more so than a glass of scotch. Tea is warmth and home, a reliable source of comfort however brief; scotch is fist fight in a seedy back alley in Glasgow, leaving you concussed and missing a pair of pants in the aftermath.

“I’m more of a coffee man,” Adam says. Ah, Thomas thinks. A true American.

“I can make you coffee. If you like.”

Adam gives him a look of mild appraisal. He has eyes a shade lighter than his hair but they’re difficult to read and Thomas shouldn’t be looking into the eyes of strange men anyway so he breaks his gaze abruptly. “If you don’t mind,” Adam says.

Thomas excuses himself a second time to disappear into the kitchen upstairs.

Thomas lives in the loft above the bookshop, a cliché to end all clichés. His uncle has a house in the outskirts of town, with a lush garden and several spare rooms, but it always terrified him, the thought of living alone in such a seemingly infinite space as if he were a country governess in a gothic novel haunted by the unrestful spirits of his ancestors. Mostly, he hates being alone and living in cramped quarters lends the feeling of not-quite aloneness. Living in town means living with the noise of people and foot traffic which although pales in comparison to the city’s, reminds him enough of his days in London.

It’s not the same living conditions as he’s accustomed to: a sagging double bed tucked under the eaves and dingy yellowing wallpaper shadowed with the ghosts of posters past. There’s a kitchenette, a bath, a profusion of unhelpfully shaped cupboards which he uses to store new books. Six months ago he brought a reading chair upstairs and parked it next to the window so he could watch his patch of street outside and the comings and goings of everyone that passed his shop. He saw it all.

The kettle whistles and he finishes pouring the coffee. “Up here,” he calls, leaning over the banister to peer down at Adam who’s sat on the countertop and invested in twirling a complimentary Windermere postcard in his hands. He follows Thomas up the stairs, stopping abruptly to survey the room. The loft isn’t made to fit more than two people. Adam can cross it in several strides but it’s clean enough and cozy, outfitted with soft rugs.

“Fuck, wow,” he says. “Nice little setup you have here.”

Thomas doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic but he accepts the compliment anyway.

“Sorry about the… smell. And the books.” Thomas clears a spot at the breakfast nook and invites Adam to sit. He realizes he hasn’t had anyone up here since he started running the shop. Well, except maybe for Stensland, but he mostly comes up to raid the fridge and nap during his shift.

“No it’s, it’s really cool,” Adam says. He glances around: the flypaper on the wall, the window fringed with succulents, the bed in the corner with mismatched quilts, and then back to Thomas again, his gaze lingering a beat too long.

Thomas flushes. His fair colouring makes him red down to his throat.

They sit at the table, knees bumping. There’s hardly any room but the same could be said for the loft itself. Thomas has laid out a plate of scones which he reheated in the microwave but they’re still as good as they had been this morning. The bakery that sells them makes them fresh every day.

Adam starts stuffing one in his mouth and eating with his mouth half-open. Thomas supposes no one can be perfect and discreetly flicks crumbs off his lap.

“How are the books?” Thomas ventures.

“I have a confession to make,” Adam interrupts him.

“Please don’t tell me you’re a serial killer and I’ve made the mistake of inviting you to my home,” Thomas says in a rush. Perhaps he’s been alone too long because Adam just stares at him for a long time before blinking.

“What?” he says, sounding mystified. “No, what? Do I look like a serial killer to you? I was gonna say I was a comp lit major in college but I didn’t do anything with it and I haven’t finished a book ever since I flunked out. No book ever resonated with me, but movies. I love movies. I’m more…into visual arts, you know what I mean? What’s the last movie you’ve seen?”

Thomas shrugs. “Forrest Gump?”

“Seriously?”

“It was on telly the other day.”

“Fuckin’ Forrest Gump?” Adam lets out a guffaw though he sobers up just as quickly when he sees that Thomas is not impressed. “I’m an actor,” he settles on.

Which explains why he looks so familiar, Thomas thinks. “Have you been in anything I’ve seen?”

“You know you’re the first one to ever ask me that in a while but to answer your question, no, probably not. I mean I’m not exactly Tom Hanks. I don’t make those kinds of movies.”

“What do you mean those kinds of movies?” Thomas says, genuinely curious. “The kind that gets awards?”

Adam gives him a wry smile. “Sure.”

“Well, at least you’re not in pornography,” Thomas says. “Or are you? Not that there’s anything wrong is that.”

Adam laughs again, giving Thomas a look that seems to vacillate somewhere between open amusement and utter disbelief. His smile could thaw snow drifts and cut glass at the same. It makes him seem dangerous but also like the kind of person who would help you change your tires in the middle of a deserted highway. “You think I could do porn?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested in Thomas’ answer.

“Well, you’re a strapping young man,” Thomas replies. And it’s true: underneath those clothes he’s probably a specimen. He works out; that much is clear to any impartial observer. Which Thomas happen to be. Completely impartial, in fact.

“You sound like an old person. ‘Strapping young man’? We’re the same fucking age, I bet.”

“I’m thirty-four,” Thomas sighs.

“Two years older then,” Adam hums. Then he picks up a book sitting on the kitchen counter. It’s the new one from Nora Roberts, rather dry and depressing, set in Turkey. “You’ve read this? All these books?” He gestures to the room at large, all the corners bursting with books. Thomas shakes his head and launches into a very long and involving story of how he’d ended up with more books than he knows what to do with, starting from the very first day he’d set up shop two years ago. It began with that first book which he’d purchased on the way to Windermere and read on the train there. There are brighter points in the story, emphasized by Thomas’ wild gesticulation, but mostly he rattles off the titles of all the books he’s bought since, like it’s a spelling contest where speed actually counts.

When he finishes, the rain outside has thinned to a drizzle and Adam has eaten all the scones, drunk all the coffee. The atmosphere is slow and settled. Adam’s half smile shows a hint of front teeth when he helps Thomas clear the table.

As Thomas is ushering him out, Adam’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks his messages and darts Thomas an apologetic look.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave,” he says, sounding sheepish. It’s already late, judging by the grey haze outside softening the murk on the windows. “Thank you for the coffee, and the scones. And the uh life story I guess. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you really well.”

Thomas groans. “Oh  god. I talk too much don’t I?”

“A bit,” Adam admits. “Okay, you talk so fucking much but the accent makes it bearable, makes it kind of sweet.”

“Right,” Thomas says, trying to remember the last time he’d been called sweet. He has a memory of his mother back in primary school, sending him to class wearing a red bowtie and matching jacket. She died when he was eleven. Car accident, the usual story. Afterwards, he lived with various relatives, first in Cardiff, then in Berkshire where he spent most of his young life before moving to London at age twenty-one to try his luck. He got a job at Harrods after working six months as a telemarketer.  

Adam shrugs into his jacket, the same one from a week ago when he’d bought all those books. Thomas hands him his umbrella which he’d left drying by the door, a puddle now seeping into the soft rot of the floor.

Adam nods once he’s all sorted. “I guess I’ll see you.”

“I suppose,” Thomas says, though these words mean nothing and he keeps twisting his fingers into nervous pretzels.

Neither of them moves.

Finally, Adam blinks. “Do you have a business card? With your number on it and your address? Not your personal number or address, I’m not a freak, but the shop’s. It’s my last day in Windermere. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow and in case I find myself in your neck of the woods again, I want to make sure I have the right place. I have zero sense of direction. I’ll need a map to get anywhere. You’d think being a New Yorker I’d have better geographic sense but I spent most of my adult life drunk on booze so my memory is kind of fucked up.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you getting lost now do we,” Thomas says, as he hastily scribbles his number and address on the back of a receipt of a kebab place. His hand shakes. Business and personal information are practically interchangeable; after all he lives above the shop and his name hangs on a sign right outside it.

“We can’t afford a business card but I suppose that will have to do. Unless you want me to write you a map as well. In which case I wonder if I might interest you in a little travel pamphlet written by a lifelong local…”

“You wrote your name,” Adam points out, perusing the bottom of the receipt where Thomas had signed it. “Thomas. Thomas McGregor.”

“Force of habit,” Thomas says, forcing out a laugh. “Sorry. Anyway, do drop by whenever and don’t be a stranger.”

“Of course not. We shared such intimate life stories, how can I ever forget you?” He grins at the embarrassed look on Thomas’ face. “I’ll see you, Thomas,” he says, no less cryptic, then he’s off, and the door closes behind him with the jingle of a bell.

*

Stensland is quite the character. It’s difficult to fathom how he ever made it to his late twenties without being shivved in an alley or chased by a wild pack of dogs. He’s the worst employee Thomas has ever had the misfortune of hiring, but he’s useful in less discernible ways, more worldly. For example, he can name all the top 100 hits from the summer of 2013 backwards and forwards. He knows the names of all members of the pop band SClub 7, and he consumes more American media than is strictly healthy. Also he makes a great cup of Earl Grey and can haggle anyone including the baker.

One morning he bursts through the door armed with discount pastries and a pilfered copy of The Sun. “Thomas!” he cries, dropping everything onto the counter before shoving The Sun into Thomas’s chest, opened to a grainy photo of a familiar shopfront. “Thomas! I can’t believe you! You met Adam Sackler and you didn’t tell me? How could you?”

Thomas is confused. “Do you two know each other?”

“Well not as intimately as I like! But of course I know who he is! I don’t live under a rock! He’s only the star of every vivid sex dream I’ve ever had in the last five years, but also Detective Yorick, Captain Cobalt, and The Steely Eye.”

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes Stensland speaks with no pauses or punctuation, making basic information hard to parse. Thomas suspects he learned how to communicate by watching wildlife documentaries as a child or making random noises with his mouth. “None of what you’re saying is making any sense to me. Slow down, Stensland, you’re giving me a headache.”

Stensland shakes his head at Thomas as if to say you poor pathetic sod, who knows nothing of the world and then points at the page again with a sugar-dusted finger. “You’ve made the shop famous. Look! People saw him coming here a few times and then leaving hours later. I’ve always thought you were a bit prudish but I guess you showed Adam Sackler a good time because he’s apparently talked about the shop on Graham Norton.”

Thomas finds all the blood draining from his face. “What?” he says, feeling faint. But there it is, on page 3 of The Sun under the heading ADAM SACKLER AND HIS BOOKSHOP ROMANCE? Several photos from that afternoon: of Adam walking him home in the rain, an umbrella over both their heads, of the two of them disappearing through the door of the shop, of Adam leaving hours later at sundown, alone. He knows what it looks like. But it can’t be farther from the truth.

“He mentioned the shop on Graham Norton?”

Stensland nods. “Says so in the article. Also apparently they think you’re some sort of witch, selling incense and pot along with all the books.”

A quick hop on Google pulls up a video clip of Adam on Graham Norton. It’s three minutes and forty-two seconds long, and he talks about his new movie where he’s playing an AI who mostly has his shirt off. Graham Norton asks if Adam has plans of ever coming back to the UK and Adam smiles in a calculated way before answering.

“Sure,” he says, and he’s more handsome in real life than he is under harsh studio lighting, “There’s this bookstore I’m fond of in Windermere called McGregor’s. I met the owner one time; he made me coffee and fed me like, fu[beep] scones fresh from the oven or some shit. It was all very charming and British. Very sweet. You should check it out if you haven’t.”

“This is in Windermere?” Graham Norton repeats, raising both greying eyebrows. The audience laughs while Adam looks mildly uncomfortable. “People go to die in Windermere, Adam. It’s the American equivalent of Arkansas, only posher.”

“Maybe someone with less imagination would think that,” Adam says mildly. “But I think it’s a really great place.”

The clip ends there. Stensland clicks out of the window and faces Thomas with his hands pressed to his hips.

“He should work for the local tourism board,” Thomas opines, still reeling from everything that’s happening: the realization that he’s met a famous actor and it slipped past his notice, the fact that there are photos of his family’s bookshop splashed across a tabloid read by thousands. That despite all this, he’s still sort of hoping Adam would walk through the door like he’d promised, asking for the latest Franzen.

“Tea and scones? Very British? It all sounds like a very euphemistic way of saying you gave him a blowjob then let him bend you over a desk! Three times!”

“Stensland,” Thomas says, horrified. “I didn’t have sex with him! I didn’t even know who he was, quite frankly, until today. I thought he was just an American, a tourist wanting to buy some trashy books! Is he really as famous as you say he is?”

Stensland’s expression softens, like ice cream melting in the shade. Thomas has only seen this expression once, when Stensland’s favourite couple broke up during season three of Dawson’s Creek after which he had to take a week off to recuperate even when he’d seen the episode five times.

“Oh no. You weren’t lying. You really don’t know who Adam Sackler is, do you? Poor thing.”

Stensland grabs the keyboard off the desk, typing Adam’s name into the Google search field. A dozen images and links pinwheel across the page. Stensland shows Thomas pictures, stills from movies Adam has been in. He’s worked with Liam, the lesser Hemsworth, Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig. He won an MTV award for Best Onscreen Kiss alongside a male costar whose name eludes Thomas, and he’s apparently openly bisexual.

But the real question is: “Why is his shirt always off?” And shiny with oils, Thomas doesn’t say.

“It’s a character choice.”

“He’s playing an alien in space. And in the last photo wasn’t he supposed to be playing an eccentric doctor?”

“Thomas,” Stensland sighs, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “It’s part of his charm. He’s contractually obligated to have his shirt off in every movie.”

Thomas wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. That seems a bit exploitative to me.”

“Hush,” Stensland says, holding up a finger, and the rest of Thomas’ afternoon is swallowed up watching clips of Adam on Youtube in between ringing up customers and re-shelving books. The experience leaves him feeling a bit strangely detached. He sees Adam in various scenarios: swimming in the ocean, locked in a sword fight, romancing a beautiful Parisian woman along the Champs-Élysées. In some of these clips he has his shirt off, in others, he’s grunting and soot-covered, wielding some sort of weapon.

Later in the day as he’s flipping the sign at the door closed, a camera flashes in front of Thomas’ face, leaving him blinking and blinking.

Sunspots dance in his vision and when he comes to seconds later, there’s a woman with very red nails standing just outside, holding a tape recorder. “Hi, I work for The Daily Mail, do you have a minute?”

*

To say that Thomas’ life changes after that is understatement. Reporters don’t arrive at his doorsteps in droves but a few drop by to visit and occasionally buy a few books in exchange for a sound bite. He says pretty much the same thing to all of them: that he sold Adam a few books, that he didn’t know who he was at the time, and that the scones Adam kept raving about had been bought from The Little Windermere Bakery which is right across town.

A few of his photos end up on The Daily Mail and Metro, all of them unflattering but one.

Stensland eats it all up.

Just as Thomas is fielding another reporter, his phone goes off in his pocket. Thomas has made it a point not to pick up calls from unknown numbers but it’s been a long day and his guard is down. He just had to explain to a journalist — six times — that he didn’t sell Adam Sackler anything illegal or dubious. But people will spin stories out of anything, it seems, especially if it’ll rake in money.

He excuses himself to a corner, leaving Stensland to answer questions. He’s more than happy to be the center of attention. Now that they have customers daily, he’s even started ironing his clothes and wearing proper footwear, not the socks and flip-flop combination he often prefers.

“Is this Thomas?”

Thomas narrows his eyes at the wall. “Who is this?” he asks, instantly suspicious. Only a few people know his personal number;  two are dead. It’s not information he gives away freely.

“It’s Adam.” A pause. “Sackler.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, and then he leaves the statement hanging because he doesn’t know what else to say. Little things leave him tongue-tied: dogs in appropriate swimwear, very hot soup, his uncle patting him on the shoulder and calling him son after Thomas had come to him confessing all his failures. He doesn’t know how this became one of them. It’s just Adam, a man he met a while ago. Then again he also happens to be one of Hollywood’s hottest rising actors, at least according to People Magazine and GQ. How is Thomas to conduct himself as if the fact doesn’t impress him in some base bourgeois way?

“Is it as bad as I keep imagining it is?” Adam asks, going right to the heart of it. “I saw the pictures on The Sun,” he explains. “My assistant showed me. Sorry I dragged you into my shit. You must hate me. Fuck, I’d hate me too. I mean I already do, I have to live with myself everyday, but fuck. Thomas?” He waits for a response.

“Yesterday, a gaggle of fans came by and waited for you, as if I was somehow hiding you under the counter,” Thomas says. This is true: Thomas ignored them for the most part and then caved and made them tea, the only polite thing to do in whatever social situation requiring the least possible interaction.

“Shit.” Adam winces but then he laughs. Laughter is always strange on the phone, because it sounds longer than it should be. But Adam’s laughter is deep and sonorous, like good whiskey, or the vibrations of a string instrument. And it cuts through Thomas like a knife, catching him off guard. These are strange times indeed.  

“I sent them away, each with a copy of The Hobbit under one arm,” Thomas tells him. “Really, you’ve brought me nothing but business.”

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing, if you’re telling the truth,” Adam says after a moment, “And Tolkien always makes for good reading though I really hated the last movie.”

“I’m surprised you know who Tolkien is,” Thomas jokes.

“Hey, I’m not as much of a Philistine as you probably think I am. I have taste; I have class. My interests are many and varied. Listen,” Adam says, and Thomas leans forward as if Adam were actually there, standing next to him and not oceans away. “I’ll be in town next week for a reshoot and I was wondering if I could. Come see you. I wanna make it up to you. It’s only a matter of time before TMZ gets a hold of you.” His voice drops to a whisper; Thomas suspects he’s hiding in a broom closet.

“You’re always welcome in my bookshop, you know,” Thomas says, confused by Adam’s sudden shyness. “And I don’t know who TMZ is, is that supposed to be rap group? Am I going to be the subject of a very explicit mildly derogatory song?” Thomas doesn’t think he can handle it, if he were. He likes his peace and quiet; he doesn’t want to be dragged out of hiding, immortalized in song.

“No,” Adam says, “What? Listen, so I can’t be seen anywhere near Windermere or my publicist will kill me but I’ll be in London staying at the Four Seasons at Park Lane under the name Evelyn Waugh. And before you’re impressed, no, I don’t know who the fuck that is but my assistant is the intellectual type; she thinks it’s really clever. We could have drinks or whatever the hell you want. Tea, I don’t know. Go on a boat ride on the Thames. You could show me around; I don’t know anyone in London who isn’t working for me in some capacity.”

“Well,” Thomas says, afterwards, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. That seems like a big commitment and he finds himself saying, “We’ll see,” which sounds breezy, promising and dismissive all at once. Safe. “If I’ve got nothing planned then I suppose maybe I can have my assistant run the shop on my behalf, take a day off…”

“Great! Perfect!” Adam says, “I’ll see you then!” he adds, and the line disconnects abruptly. That’s apparently that.

Thomas stares at his phone as if it might grow teeth any second. Then he pockets it and checks on Stensland, making sure he doesn’t show a complete stranger the tattoo on his left arsecheek.

*

London, London. It’s been two years but Thomas has yet to work up the courage to see his old neighbourhood. He goes on day trips to visit friends (Bea, just Bea) but he leaves old haunts well alone. He avoids them like the plague, prefers not to run into anyone he used to know: his manager at Harrods, the employees that used to be in his purview, Mrs Dalloway, his old neighbour with the fat cat and giant glasses like periscopes.

He tells himself it’s because he resents all of them, including London for spitting him out. But the truth is he’s ashamed of what he’s become in such a short span of time, a country bumpkin who startles easily in the midst of heavy crowds. Two years and he’d become complacent, changing shape to fit his surroundings. He’s gone soft in the interim, in more ways than one. He hates traffic with a passion, and prefers comfortable shoes over leather.

Stensland tells him he’s being ridiculous. “You’re being ridiculous,” Stensland says, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and furtively glancing around the street. He’s lived in the country for years, after a decade of living like a Nomad: Dublin, Seattle, West Virginia. He’s more well-traveled than Thomas but a lot less savvy, free of any chips on the shoulder. It’s why Thomas brought him along despite initial misgivings; he needs an anchor. Also he doesn’t trust Stensland not to burn the shop to the ground in his absence, and he’s due a trip outside Windermere anyway. And a paid vacation.

“I can’t believe he’d asked to see you,” Stensland muses as they walk down Oxford Street.

“He didn’t ask to see me, Stensland,” Thomas reminds him, because really, Adam didn’t. He just bandied the suggestion about, leaving it hovering for Thomas to snatch up. Who knew Thomas was a greedy bastard. Frankly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all. This seems like a terrible idea whichever way you look at it, and Thomas hates that he’s having this epiphany days after he’s paid for a twin room at a modest hotel and made plans to see Bea for dinner. He’ll only be in London for a few days but it’s unlike him to visit without having planned the trip months in advance.

Then again maybe he needs spontaneity which he finds he’s been sorely lacking ever since he changed locales and settled in the country. He steels himself for certain disappointment, however. Better safe than sorry.

“You need to calm down,” Stensland admonishes him for the third time that day after Thomas complains about a phantom stomachache, an effect of self-induced stress and overthinking. “You’re looking a bit peaky.” When Stensland rubs the pad of his thumb along the tip of his tongue and starts dabbing it across Thomas’ cheek in careless swipes, Thomas jerks violently out of reach.

“Sorry,” Stensland mutters, looking embarrassed, “My mother used to do that to me whenever I was feeling restless. Got your attention though, didn’t it? Now come on, I’m hungry for some fish and chips…”

“But we just ate!” Thomas states, staring at him, completely mystified. “I’m not made of money, you know. That last meal is coming out of your paycheck, I can’t afford another seafood buffet. Stensland, what on earth, where are you going — wait for me!”

But Stensland pays his warnings no heed. He drags Thomas around all of London until they’re too tired to walk anymore and have eaten their weight in all the artisan shops selling anything fried and remotely Mediterranean. In the afternoon, they take the tube, and fall into step with crowds that flow and converge like a wave. Thomas feels vaguely ill, clutching at his belly afterwards.

He gets the call shortly before dinner when his poor feet have been comfortably elevated and he’s halfway into a doze. Stensland is in the shower, singing something off-key, the bathroom door left ajar because he’s a paranoid bastard. The telly is a pleasant fuzz in the background, a wash of ambient noise that tugs heavily at Thomas’ eyelids. He almost doesn’t hear his phone buzz on the nightstand until Stensland points it out to him, having ambled out of the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his skinny waist. He’s as pale as a washboard, and narrow as a pole. Good heavens.  

“Would you please put some clothes on?” Thomas begs, shielding his eyes as he cups his phone with a free hand while he presses the other over his eyes. He answers the call without thinking. “Thomas McGregor,” he bites out with perhaps more venom than necessary.

“It’s me,” says Adam. “Adam. Sackler.”

As if Thomas doesn’t know who it is just from the timbre of voice. He hasn’t been driving himself mad wondering if he’s simply making a colossal fool of himself by agreeing to have dinner with  none other than Adam Sackler, no, not at all. But it’s just dinner anyhow: a meal between two people, nothing more, nothing less. Maybe some alcohol. He’s probably getting worked up over nothing. As usual.

“My schedule cleared up for the rest of the night. Are you busy?” Adam asks, and it feels like a long time before Thomas finally gathers the courage to speak. He clears his throat, and his response is an eloquent, “Um.”

*

There are two truths Thomas knows about himself: one is that he hates surprises, another is that he hates being kept waiting. The lobby of the Four Seasons is sleek and modern, marble flooring and glass chandeliers. Thomas could afford a room here if he were a Russian oligarch, or if he were a famous actor that made a lot of money like, say, Adam Sackler.

Adam’s assistant meets Thomas behind a row of potted ferns. A short woman, on the side of stocky, in smart heels and a crisp shirt. In comparison, Thomas feels underdressed in a comfortable jumper and a pair of pleated slacks that make him look like a professor of philosophy more than anything else, or like old pictures of his dad. Thomas has seen a few of them growing up, in photo albums and his mother’s wallet, though he can’t remember him being present for most of his childhood.

“Mr McGregor?”

Adam’s assistant has a handshake that doesn’t bely her appearance; it’s firm and purposeful and she grips Thomas’ hand hard. Her name is Sang Hee. She stares Thomas up and down and then presses a keycard discreetly onto Thomas’ palm. Apparently, it’s all very hush hush.

“He’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes,” she says, nodding at him before striding off.

Ready for what? Thomas doesn’t know. And he doesn’t get to ask because Sang Hee leaves without explaining anything. He waits, then takes the lifts at the prescribed time, wandering down a carpeted hallway and counting the gilded numbers on all the doors until he reaches the right one. He hesitates a few times before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

The door opens with a click, and it’s Adam, barefoot and wearing only jeans. He’s painfully attractive and it makes Thomas ashamed to be standing in the same room as him, breathing the same air. But the ogling ends as soon as it begins because Adam frowns at him when he sees him standing in the hall.  

“Shit, shit, shit. It’s you.”

“Hi,” Thomas says, noting the lack of enthusiasm in Adam’s expression, his voice. He’s standing with his arms braced against the sides of the open door but Thomas can see the room behind him, in violent disarray. He seems to have company. Thomas can hear the heavy stomp of feet, someone’s voice shouting.

“Thomas,” Adam says, already sounding repentant, “I’m sorry but you came at a bad time.”

“What?”

“It’s my ex,” Adam says, minimizing the berth of the door as he steps outside. “She found out I was doing this movie, and she’s saying I lack artistic integrity, and I don’t know why she cares so fucking much when we’ve been broken up for months. And it’s… fuck, it’s complicated. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Well,” Thomas says, when the smile has all but frozen on his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It does sound a bit…much.”

Adam shrugs. Thomas tries not to stare at his collarbones. It’s different seeing them up close, in real life, nice, a little surreal, though the effect is marred by the bad timing. Thomas feels himself stumble, blinking stupidly at the sudden draining of energy.

Adam says, “It is what it is but I’ll call you, okay?” Then he starts walking backwards into the room behind him. With one hand on the door he promises one last time, “I’ll call.” And shuts the door in Thomas’ face though he probably doesn’t mean to be so rude. The number on the door is gold plated, distorting Thomas’ reflection.

Thomas stands there in the hall for a full minute before sliding the keycard under the door. Then he leaves and goes on his way.

*

Stensland is eating a bowl of Shepherd’s pie and getting crumbs all over the bed when Thomas returns an hour later. He perks up and flashes Thomas a crazed grin as soon Thomas barrels through the doorway, sitting up quickly and revealing the fact he’s only wearing a flimsy pair of boxers along with his pyjama top. “How’d it go? And why are you back so early?”

At the dour look Thomas throws him, Stensland’s smile abruptly fades. “He was busy,” Thomas proclaims, voice muffled against the pile of pillows he’s thrown himself on top of. His feet hang off the edges of the bed and he feels immediately silly, like a child, having a pout, not a full grown adult whose secret hopes were suddenly and irreversibly dashed. Then again what was he expecting? A private invitation to Adam’s hotel room should have been suspect, his first tip off that something was amiss. Thomas is not that kind of guy.

“What do you mean busy?”says Stensland, peering over Thomas’ shoulder and poking it.

Thomas spits out a wad of fabric. “He told me he’d call me, that I came at a bad time.”

“Uh-oh.” Stensland rubs Thomas’ arm in commiseration, or he would if Thomas let him and didn’t flinch away as soon as he reached out. It’s nothing personal; any unsolicited touching just made him feel uncomfortable, threw him out of his element. Something to do with how he was raised; his family didn’t do hugs.

Stensland continues tsking. “Bullshit! He made you go through all this trouble only to bail on you. He sounds like an utter dick.”

“He’s probably just really busy,” Thomas disagrees, and feels another hot flash of disappointment that quickly morphs into dark self-satisfaction of having successfully avoided a catastrophe before it could happen. He rolls onto his back, hands folded over his stomach, drumming his fingers listlessly. “What are you watching?” He cranes his neck at the telly.

Stensland hands him a spare fork before answering. “Top Gear.” He grins as he shimmies down next to Thomas, sitting with his legs folded on the bed. In another life, they would have been the best of friends, but probably not in school where they would have hated each other. He would have hated Adam then, too: too handsome for his own good, and obnoxiously athletic.

“Shepherd’s pie?” Stensland offers, cutting him off from his ruminations. “It’s all gooey and warm.” The pie smells heavenly, flaky on the outside, still fresh.

“Where on earth did you get that?” Thomas wonders aloud, but he knows he shouldn’t be asking; Stensland is always full of surprises, sometimes delightful, other times outrageous. This time, Thomas accepts his cryptic shrug as a veritable response and helps him decimate the rest of the pie until there’s nothing but crumbs and scrapes of filling left.

They call it a night just after ten pm. Stensland is already fast asleep by the time Thomas finishes brushing his teeth and changing into his pyjamas, snoring with his mouth open on the pillow. Thomas checks his phone before he goes to bed. No messages at all, not that he’s surprised, though a part of him can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment more self-directed than anything. He shuts off the desk lamp before he can truly feel sorry for himself and lets Stensland’s waxing and waning snores lull him to sleep.

*

If there’s one thing Thomas knows about Beatrice is that she loves a good pint. She can drink anyone under the table but still be clearheaded enough afterwards to find her way back to Covent Garden with one eye closed. She swears by The Curtains Up on Comeragh Road in Hammersmith, a little too close to Thomas’ old neighbourhood but the pub is notoriously difficult to book: comfortable, elegant, with a white and red awning, quiz nights on Tuesdays and Fridays. He can’t refuse.

Thomas drags Stensland along because this is what they both have in common: a self-destructive nature and tendency to drink their problems away. Their problems may not have disappeared in the morning, but alcohol is an excellent inducer of temporary amnesia and sometimes that’s as good as it gets.

All three of them squeeze into a booth, Thomas sandwiched between.

“Thomas,” Bea is saying, disbelief writ in the lines of her mouth, “I can’t believe you’ve actually met him, and that he invited you up to his—” her voice drops to a whisper as she ducks her head, “—hotel. I think the only famous person I’ve ever met was that bloke from Big Brother and even then I wasn’t sure if it was really him in the end.”

Stensland snorts. “He’s a dick. An utter dick! And it’s been a day and he hasn’t called Thomas at all even though he promised!” He slams his drink down on the table, sloshing Aspall Cyder everywhere.

“He said he was busy!” Thomas argues though he doesn’t know why he’s defending Adam the same time he’s complaining about him. A part of him is glad to have nipped whatever that had been in the bud well before it could begin; a week before he was followed around by paparazzi on his way to the grocer’s and the post office. Days later, there were more pictures of him on The Sun, as if his daily chores were somehow of interest to the reading public. He’s thankful his uncle doesn’t read the drivel, more inclined to The Economist and The Daily Telegraph. Otherwise he’d probably have a few questions. Thomas doesn’t need that kind of complication in his life. He’s happy, in some ways, with his new life, left alone to brood in peace.

“Forget about him, Thomas,” Bea tells him, raising her glass. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea!”

Thomas’ upper lip twitches, a valiant effort not to pout or frown or do something with his mouth that may bely his true sentiment on the matter. “What’s there to forget?” he says, “I barely even knew the man. Good riddance, I say! I’m better off!”

“I guess I’ll delete those pictures of him now from my computer,” Stensland muses, “You know, in fealty of my employer/friend. An entire hard drive’s worth.”

Bea raises her eyebrows. “What.”

“I’m joking. But he’s a really good actor. Until he made those movies.” Stensland sighs, his expression turning from disgusted to dreamy in a heartbeat. “The ones with his shirt off.”

“Can we please, please talk about something else?” Thomas begs, fighting the urge to grab at his hair, or throw himself in front of a passing car. “Are we not here to catch up?”

“You two are here to catch up, I never even met Bea before today, and I’m only here for free drinks,” Stensland points out unhelpfully.

Thomas ignores him, then glances up when Bea pats the back of his hand, his responses slowed down by alcohol that he fails to shrug off her grasp until too late. More quietly, she says, “Are you all right though? I mean barring that incident with He Who Shall Not Be Named—”

“You can call him by the name, you know. He’s not Voldemort.” Thomas rolls his eyes. He’s starting to hate how Stensland and Bea seem to be under the assumption that he’s just got his heart broken when nothing of the sort happened, and he didn’t even like Adam all that much anyway. What truly bothers him is the fact he’d made a trip out of seeing him: that’s money spent that could very well have been saved and all that effort gone to waste. But at least he got to see Bea again. They haven’t seen each other in six months.

“All right,” Bea nods, giving Thomas her best sad-eyed baby doe look. “How’s the shop, then? How’s your uncle? You know I’ve been meaning to visit but with right now I’m swamped with — work. But we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night, aren’t we? You can bring Stensland along.”

Sometimes, Thomas marvels over how lucky he is to have a friend like Bea in his life. Admittedly, he’s not the most pleasant person to deal with, with a list of neuroses longer than his arm, but for some reason or another she’d stuck around ever since that day they had bumped into each other at the Farmers’ Market in Marylborne and fought over the last of the gouda cheese.

If he liked women as much as he liked men, Thomas would have probably dated her, married her, began a life with her. But just like him, Bea has awful taste in men and is never in a relationship long enough to develop any true romantic feelings, another thing they have in common. She prized her art above all. Some of it, the ones of anthropomorphized rabbits, is actually good.

“You know I won’t miss it for the world,” Thomas says, giving Bea a genuine smile that she returns with a clink of their glasses.

They get drunk on vodka and horrible whiskey before the night is over, and stumble out in single file before Stensland has them thrown out of the pub with all the racket he’s making. Apparently he has a tendency to cry when he’s three sheets to the wind. Thomas, meanwhile, is a blank slate, completely silent. He feels like he’s watching everything from a distance, far removed from it all like an impartial observer. Which is why when his phone rings in his pocket, he lets Bea pick up the call for him, frowning and shaking her head when she see who it’s from.

“Hello?” she says, losing all volume control, finger plugged into one ear. “No, this isn’t Thomas. And no, you can’t speak to him right now. I know who you are, yes, yes, I’m not an idiot! He’s busy. He’s a busy man! I can’t tell you what he’s busy with, that’s an invasion of privacy. No, you’re being difficult. Sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number. You’re cutting in and out. What? I can’t hear you. Oops!” She hangs up the call.

Thomas blinks at her, looking up from where he’s watching Stensland hug a streetlamp.

“Who was that?” Thomas asks, a bland smile on his face as Bea slips his phone back into the pocket of his coat. She smiles and pats him good-naturedly on the cheek, and he allows the touch because he’s otherwise too tired and drunk to protest.

“Oh, just your plumber,” Bea says, laughing. She takes a taxi home. Thomas watches the taxi put onto the street before flagging one for himself and Stensland. It’s been quite the day. Miraculously, they make it back to the hotel with time to spare before midnight, kicking their shoes and clothes off before flopping down onto the covers, belly-first. Stensland is the first one out, but that’s hardly a surprise.

The next day finds Thomas groaning awake, telling himself he has to make better life choices. It takes him ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and realize that he’d fallen asleep last night with his pants tugged halfway down his knees, causing him to stumble and knock his chin on the floor. Perfect. On the bed next to his own, Stensland sleeps soundly, in a more chaotic state, with one hole-ridden sock still on and his arse cheek hanging out of boxers.

Thomas sighs and throws a blanket over him, then spends nearly half an hour in the shower until his skin is pink from the hot water and he feels halfway alive. He takes two aspirin for his hangover and is folding his laundry to pack in his carry-on when his phone slips out the pocket of his coat. He picks it up and checks his messages: twenty-two missed calls and at least a dozen texts — all from Adam, one from Adam’s assistant,  Sang Hee. He reads them in chronological order:

-HEY DID U LOSE YOUR PHONE? SOME1 ELSE PICKED UP

-THOMAS

-R U STILL IN LONDN? HOPING TO CATCH U

BEFORE I LEAVE FOR NY ON FRIDAY

-THOMAS

- SORRY ABOUT THE OTHER DAY, REALLY WANTED TO SEE U  

BUT MY CRAZY EX FOUND OUT WHERE I WAS STAYING & GAVE ME SHIT FOR

DOING A MOVIE FOR “MONEY” U SHOULDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THAT

-thomas

Thomas wonders if he should respond, but less than a second later the choice is taken out of his hands when the screen starts flashing. An incoming call from Adam, as if summoned by the static waves of Thomas’ uncertainty. In a fit of mild panic, he ends up answering the call.

“Thomas?” Adam sounds relieved. “I thought — never mind what I thought. Are you pissed at me?”

Always cutting straight to the chase, this one. Thomas presses the heel of his hand between his eyes. The aspirin has yet to kick in, and he needs caffeine badly. “I’m not angry at you,” he replies evenly.“Why would I be?”

“Well, for starters if it wasn’t for me your pictures wouldn’t be all over the British tabloids,” Adam says, “And I kicked you out the other day when I invited you to my hotel. I’d be pissed at me too; I’d be livid. So: sorry. I’m sorry.”

As far as apologies go it seems genuine though that could also mean he’s just one hell of a good actor. Still, it’s too early for Thomas to pick up apart the nuances in his tone, so he settles for a simple, “Apology accepted.”

Adam sputters. “What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“That’s it? ‘Apology accepted’?” Adam sounds incredulous, and maybe he has the right to be: Thomas’ acceptance of his apology may as well have sounded far too much like a dismissal.

“It’s really quite all right,” Thomas assures him, only half-lying, feeling awkward trying to quell Adam’s doubts. “You had… business to iron out. And I was just visiting. Bad timing can’t be helped. Perhaps another time, when we’re both less caught up in other commitments. We can make plans then.”

The way he says it sounds so abstract, like the opportunity is never going to materialize, which is just the effect he wants. He’ll leave things open; there’s less disappointment that way. Less involvement.

“At least let me make it up to you,” Adam says, and he sounds like he’s pacing the room, his voice warping with static as Thomas listens to him breathe, stomp, and move around vaguely over the phone while Thomas  himself remains seated and completely rooted to one spot. He’s never met someone so alive, someone with so much vim and verve it’s any wonder how Adam’s personality doesn’t burst through his skin.

“I’m not a complete asshole. Or at least, I’m not anymore,” Adam tries. “I’d like to think I’m not anymore. I’ve reformed. I’m a reformed asshole.”

“You really think you could charm everyone don’t you? With your — your words,” Thomas says haltingly.

“Is it working?” Thomas can almost hear the smirk distorting Adam’s voice. He’s a cocky bastard, a trait that would be a character flaw in anyone else except him. It should be infuriating and yet. Thomas sighs, giving up. It’s too early for this. He’s not awake or caffeinated enough.

“There’s this cafe on Shepherd’s Bush that makes the best fry-ups,” Thomas begins, in lieu of answering Adam’s question. “I’ll meet you there at half-past nine.”

“Bossy,” Adam notes with a short laugh, “I like that. Are you sure you don’t want me to send a car for you?”

Thomas refuses to be any more of a cliché than he currently is and says as much. “I can take the tube from my hotel, thank you,” he replies curtly.

“Where are you staying anyway?” Adam asks, trying his best to be subtle and failing like an elephant on roller skates. “I could put you up somewhere better, somewhere with an actual view instead of—”

“Good day, Mr Sackler,” Thomas says pleasantly and hangs up the phone.

The Liz Café doesn’t make the best fry-ups in all of West London, that is a complete and utter lie, but it’s home to Thomas in a way that the posh restaurants in Kensington have never been; nothing in Chelsea or Bloomsbury could ever compare. The menu at St. Luke’s Kitchen is a close second but only because Thomas can’t resist a good croissant.

The outdoor seating at the Liz Café is always overrun with smokers but inside it’s beautiful lit and cozy, with just enough room to elbow the next guest. Everything on the breakfast menu is below £7. The toast is plentiful, the coffee strong enough to knock out a horse, the grease flowing. The servers are friendly which is more than what Thomas can say for some of the more upscale establishments in Soho.

Thomas looks up from a copy of Horse & Hound that someone had left on a nearby table when a shadow looms over him. He lifts both eyebrows, though before he can say Adam’s name, Adam presses a finger to his own lips and shushes him. Then he plants himself on the squeaky chair across from Thomas, shrugging out of his coat.

Thomas stares at him. The intent is to probably look innocuous but it succeeds in doing the exact opposite. Adam’s in an all-black ensemble, a black coat and turtleneck, a black beanie, designer sunglasses, also black. Thomas resists the urge to check under the table though he has a nagging suspicion Adam’s footwear is not exempt from this rule. He looks like he’s about to rob a bank.

“I had my driver drop me off three blocks from here and then take two detours, in case anyone followed me,” Adam says by way of greeting. He picks up the menu card and starts perusing his options, flipping it back to front and then back again. Thomas can feel his knee bob under the table; he’ll make a note of this later but for now he’s still staring.

Adam looks ridiculous. He looks good, he’ll probably look good wearing nothing but a sack, but he looks ridiculous nonetheless. Thomas shakes his head.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Thomas says, after a moment. “On the bright side, you didn’t get lost which should count as a win.”

“I hope you didn’t have to wait very long,” Adam says, even though it’s half past ten already, an hour after they’d agreed to meet, and Thomas’ Earl Grey has gone very cold. “I’ll pay for breakfast. I’ll even pay for your Uber. God, you must be sick of me by now. I don’t think I ever run out of excuses. Anyway. Hi.” He leans back in his seat, making it creak on its hind legs, then glances around to check if anyone is watching them.

They’re in the furthest corner of the room; Thomas had picked the spot specifically so nobody would bother them. It’s not within direct eyeline of the door, hidden from view by an open-display fridge. Adam hunches forward, propping his arms on the table and lowering his head. He glances up at Thomas through a curtain of hair, unfairly emotive with his eyes.

Thomas has to look away before he does something embarrassing like wax poetic about the depth of his eyes shining like black moonless pools. He fiddles with the hem of his cardigan instead. He’s worn jeans today and looks a little less like a fussy librarian.

“I like it here,” he finds himself saying, beginning a story that spirals out of him without his permission, “I lived in the area years ago and I would come here every other day or when I was hungover and had a hankering for haggis. And the smell of bread takes me back.”

“You were a baker?”

“Don’t be daft,” Thomas cuts him with a look. “There are just smells I associate with my youth, bread being one of them.”

“You talk like you’re sixty or something,” Adam observes. “Like you’re this old fucking soul who’s lived a rich past life.”

“I like to think I’m just highly evolved,” Thomas says.

“Likely,” Adam agrees. “It’s what makes you so intimidating.”

Before Thomas can press him about that Adam barrels on, “Is it true what you said in that article in The Sun? That you had no fucking idea who I was when you met me? I thought it was pretty weird, you know, when you didn’t seem all that impressed when I told you who I was. Most people are.” He says that with such a straight face Thomas wonders if he’s joking.

“It’s nothing personal,” Thomas says. “I’m just, ah, rather difficult to impress.”

Adam’s smile is wide, but this time it creases his eyes, shows his teeth. “I’m starting to see that,” he says. He lifts the menu card. “Should we order?”

“Yes please,” Thomas says. “I’m starving.”

Adam laughs.

*

Brunch is not as terrible as Thomas had been anticipating. Adam doesn’t go easy on the charm, keeps trying to make him laugh by astute observations of their surroundings, keeps bumping his knee against Thomas’ under the table or at least keeps attempting to if not for Thomas’ smooth deflections. It all feels very strange and surreal all due to the fact it feels deceptively normal. Thomas isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Paparazzi maybe or being hounded by Adam’s fans. But no one bothers them all throughout their meal or takes their picture and when it’s time to pay the bill, Adam offers to cover it and leaves a hefty check that has Thomas’ eyes growing wide as saucers.

“Oh,” Thomas says, a little more than winded.

“I was a server once in a shitty Italian restaurant in Brooklyn,” Adam tells him, a glitter of amusement in his eye. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always rolling in money.” Then he winks and climbs to his feet. They fall into step with each other outside where the weather is clear and crisp for the first time in days, with a sky absent of the promise of rain. Pedestrians pass them by headed opposite directions; none give them a second glance. Maybe Adam’s little disguise is effective after all. Thomas should give him a little credit.

“Well,” Adam grins, hands folded behind his head. The action pulls his shirt up a little, revealing a patch of toned stomach. Thomas swallows.

“I had a great old time,” Adam begins.

“Lovely,” Thomas echoes and pivots his gaze back to Adam’s face. It seems like he’s caught Thomas staring because his grin doesn’t falter in the least.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?” Adam asks abruptly.

“What?”

“I’d like to have you for dinner if that’s okay,” Adam says. “I mean, with you. With you. Dinner with you.”

Thomas stares at him. And stares and stares. Brunch he can understand but now Adam wants to have dinner too? Will wonders never cease?

“Normally that constitutes a meal, some conversation. Maybe drinks afterwards except I’m banned from drinks now as I’m a recovering alcoholic…” Adam trails off.

“No, no, I know what you mean.” Thomas rolls his eyes. Then his train of thought is derailed once he’s hit with the sudden realization that Bea’s dinner is tonight. She makes the best Yorkshire pudding. “I can’t tonight. I promised my friend I’d come over for dinner.”

Adam nods though it’s clear from his expression that he’s trying to quell his disappointment. Thomas will have to examine why but that’s for a later time.

“Right, yeah, no problem,” Adam says. “Maybe some other time then.”

“Yes, well, some other time,” Thomas nods back.

Adam turns to go. He’s halfway down the street when Thomas jogs after him, propelled into action by some unseen impulse, the same impulse perhaps that once encouraged him to thrash a ten foot teddy bear and decimate an entire room’s worth of toys. “Adam,” he calls, “Adam!” He knows he’s going to regret this.

Adam turns, stares at Thomas in confusion, Thomas who is huffing and in the midst of what can very well be considered an asthma attack from what is simply light exercise. “You all right?” He looks concerned.

“Yes, just a little short of breath, I think. Do give me a moment.” Thomas straightens and smooths out his hair once his breath has settled. He’s worked up a sweat too but that’s to be expected of a sedentary lifestyle. The most exercise he gets these days is the short walk from the bookshop to the deli or the bakery, and then back. Sometimes he likes to spice it up and walks all the way to the pharmacy but that’s hardly here nor there. “You can come to dinner if you like. If you don’t mind burnt roast beef but the best Yorkshire pudding you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

Adam looks at him thoughtfully. “Burn roast beef? You drive a hard bargain Thomas McGregor,” he says. Then he  grins.

Thomas keeps an eye on the roast beef while Bea regales him with stories of her many aborted attempts to quit her copyediting job to focus on her art full time. She’s getting progressively tipsy on rosé, she’s started to gesticulate wildly, but the pies are looking lovely sitting on the counter cooling and Thomas knows how to hide the alcohol should she reach for it one more time. The doorbell cuts Bea off mid-rant, halting her from knocking Stensland in the face with a wayward arm.

The chime goes off three times before Stensland puts the potato peeler down and promises to get it, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Hold on! I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your trousers on,” he grumbles. “Are we expecting anyone?”

Bea shrugs, lobbing Thomas a worried look. “I don’t know. Are we?”

“Thomas it’s for you!” Stensland calls from the door.

It’s Sang Hee, Adam’s assistant.

“I hope you like cake,” she says, handing Thomas a box emblazoned with the famous Cutter & Squidge logo. “Mr Sackler can’t come tonight, I’m afraid. But he does sends his apologies. He’s a very busy man.”

“I’m sure,” Thomas says.

[lesbian-sora]

Mirror, Mirror Part 2

Here is the lovely art the ever wonderful @rupls​ did for the fic!!

Words: (This part) 26K

Summary: Things come to a head

Part One

The first thought Dan had after waking up was that they really needed a new bed. His second thought was how they had just bought a new bed the other month and that there hadn’t been any problem with the new mattress. His third thought was wondering why the bed was so spiky.

His fourth thought was realizing the bed was breathing.

Dan threw himself to his feet and whirled around to see a giant, black dragon curled up and blinking at him with scared, blue eyes. Naturally, Dan did what any sane person would do after coming face to face with a real, live dragon. He screamed as long and loud as his lungs could manage. The dragon shrank back at the sound, flattening its ears back and hissing like a cat. When Dan was done screaming, and realized that the dragon wasn’t going to eat him just yet, he took a deep breath and looked around, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. It looked like he was in a cave, alone other than the dragon laying on a pile of gold.

Phil. Where was Phil? He had to find Phil. Phil would know what to do. Well, he wouldn’t actually know what to do, but Dan would rather face a dragon with him than on his own. He cast a wary glance at the dragon and stuttered, “Did- did you eat my boyfriend?”

The dragon looked weirdly amused and frustrated at the question, but shook its head no.

“Oh, uh, do you know where he is?”

A nod.

“Can you, like, show me?”

The dragon made a face that looked like it would be biting its lower lip in thought is it had lips. Suddenly, it jerked its head down towards its chest and looked up at Dan expectantly.

“You said you didn’t eat him!” Dan said, feeling weirdly betrayed.

The dragon let out a very frustrated sigh, filling the entire cave with smoke, and surprising both of them. When Dan was done waving the smoke out of his face the dragon looked him right in the eye again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard something that sounded like Phil’s voice urgently saying Listen! Without breaking eye contact, the dragon lifted one front leg and pointed it at Dan. Then it pointed it at itself, thumping the foot against its chest twice. It looked at Dan again, but when he just looked confused it sighed and did it again. And again.

Halfway through the fourth time, a horrifying realization washed over Dan. “Phil?”

The dragon trilled its delight, raising up as far as it could on its back legs and flames danced in its mouth. It heavily fell back on its front feet and shoved its snout right into Dan’s gut, making him fold in half and lay heavily on its face.

From this position, Dan could look into its eyes more clearly. Yeah, those were Phil’s. “Oh my god,” he breathed, clutching tight to his boyfriend’s now scaly face. “What happened to you? Where are we? What the fuck?”

Phil huffed and jerked his snout a little bit to get Dan to stand back on his own free will. When he saw Dan was standing he fell back down on his belly with a loud thump and covered his face with his front feet.

Dan was suddenly struck with familiarity, thinking about how just two mornings ago Phil had done that exact same action when Dan had tried to force him out of bed for breakfast. He grinned weakly and, trying to lighten the mood, said, “Honestly, you’re a bit of a giant, fire-breathing, scaly beast when you wake up in the mornings, anyway. You’re basically the same.” However, at the baleful, slightly hurt look Phil shot him, he winced. “Okay, that may have been in poor taste.”

Yeah, it was, you dick.

Dan froze and looked at Phil curiously. That was not the normal voice in his head. “Did you just call me a dick?”

Phil snorted and rolled his eyes. I wish I could; you deserve it.

“You did it again!” Phil cocked his head as Dan started pacing back and forth, tapping his finger to his lip. Suddenly he stopped and whirled around, pointing at Phil. “Quick, right now. Think about saying something to me.”

The only thing I can think about is how you look like a massive prat.

“You just called me a prat! Also, stop calling me names.”

Phil’s eyes widened comically then narrowed. I’ve secretly been using your cereal to train the pigeons to do a dance routine on our balcony.

“I’ve secretly been using your cereal to train the pigeons to do a dance routine on our balcony,” Dan repeated in his best mimicry of Phil’s voice.

Phil reared his head back in shock. DAN, CAN YOU HEAR ME? he thought as loud as he could.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s necessary. It feels like you’ve just shouted directly in both of my ears,” Dan winced, rubbing his ears. He suddenly stopped rubbing them, and ran a shaking finger over the top ridge up and up and up. They were nearly 20 centimeters and ended in a soft tuft of fur. “Phil, I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s something wrong with my ears.”

Phil winced sympathetically. Yeah, I noticed that as soon as I woke up. I would have said something, but we were a little occupied. You look a bit like a bunny, as they’ve been waving around this whole time.

Now that he was aware of them, Dan felt his ears stick straight up in alarm. He immediately tried to grab them and pull them down, but stopped when he realized that hurt quite a bit and released them. “What the actual fuck is going on here.”

Maybe this isn’t the best time to tell you you’re grey with white hair, then?

Dan darted his eyes around the cave until they rested on a jewel-encrusted hand mirror which he picked up to examine himself. Sure enough, his skin was a smooth, light purple-grey and his long, white hair was pulled back into a braid. Even his eyes had changed, and instead of a brown iris the whole of his eye was a very pale lilac. And of course the fucking ears, which he now noticed were decorated with a line of mismatched earrings up both sides. He turned around to complain, but once again saw the giant lizard that had once been his boyfriend and decided he didn’t have much room. “Well, not as bad as it could be, I suppose. I really match my aesthetic now.”

Phil looked at him sadly for a moment before he very suddenly started changing shape until the Phil Dan knew and loved was sat on the pile of gold. Or well, a very reptilian version of the Phil he knew and loved. Regardless, he now had arms and legs and looked very hug-able, so that’s exactly what Dan did. “What the fuck just happened?” Dan asked, squeezing Phil even tighter, ignoring the spikes that were digging into every part of the front half of his body.

“I don’t know,” Phil answered, and Dan had to repress a shudder. Gone was Phil’s warm baritone, now replaced with a cold, high hissing voice. “I was just thinking about how I wished I was a little more human-shaped because you looked like you needed a hug.”

Dan barked out a laugh and pulled away. “I needed a hug? You were literally a story-book style dragon a half second ago. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who needed a hug.”

“Well, yeah, I definitely needed one, but you did, too.”

Dan just shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah, I kind of did. Come on, let’s maybe get out of this cave.”

Turning on his heel, Dan marched through the cave tunnel, only to find himself in another cave that was flooded with sunlight from the wide opening looking out over the sea. Immediately, he clutched his hands over his eyes and stumbled back into the dark, leaning on Phil for support. “My eyes, my eyes, my eyes,” he chanted over and over, ears folded back as far as they could go. When his eyes quit feeling like they were about to burn out of his skull, he blinked them open to see Phil giving him a rather intimidating smirk full of fangs.

“Well, I’d say the aversion to sunlight is new, but we both know that’s not the case.,” he joked, eyes still very sympathetic.

Dan opened his mouth to snark back, but was interrupted by a voice in his head. It was similar to Phil’s but more like his new form’s voice. Can you hear me? “Yeah, I can hear you, Phil. We went over this.”

Phil’s forehead wrinkled and shifted under the scales. “What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.”

“No, but you thought it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Dan frowned. “I guess maybe I was imagining it? I mean, I thought it was really clear, but a lot’s been happening, so I could have very easily invented it.”

“Yeah, that makes the most sense. Unless you think there’s some other telepath around here trying to talk to you.”

“Well, we can’t rule it out. I mean, you’re a giant, fire-breathing lizard. As far as I’m concerned, all bets are off.”

Daniel, is that you?

Dan narrowed his eyes in a glare at Phil. He definitely didn’t imagine that, and it was definitely Phil’s voice. “You rat, you just did it again!”

Phil hummed. “Have you tried talking back?”

“No, I can talk to you aloud.”

“Yeah, but that’s not me.”

Dan bit his lower lip for a second. “Yeah, alright, I’ll give it a shot next time they say something.” There was a tense silence for a moment before the voice came through again, clearer than ever. If you can hear me, give me a signal. Closing his eyes and thinking very hard, Dan did his best to transmit one word back.

Hello?

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Phil was immediately aware of five things upon waking up.

He was in a humanoid form when he knew he had gone to sleep in his beast form.

He wasn’t on his hoard.

He was rather warm, which meant he wasn’t in his cave at all.

Daniel was snoring. Daniel doesn’t snore.

Daniel was taller than him.

Philip shot straight up and searched his surroundings for any form of danger. It didn’t appear that they were in any imminent danger, but there were several things he didn’t understand. He didn’t have his tail, wings or tail, and no matter how hard he focused he couldn’t morph those or any other dragon features to himself. Daniel was lying in bed, still asleep, but instead of his usual lavender grey color, he was a pale pinkish color and his ears were short and round. His surroundings baffled him so much that he couldn’t even begin to describe what was happening. He quickly nudged Dan and hissed, “Wake up,” and cringed at the lower tenor that sounded so foreign on his tongue.

Daniel was instantly awake and surveying the scene much like Phil had done moments ago. He turned to Philip, brow furrowed and snapped, “What’s going on? Why can’t I see or hear anything?”

“Everything is blurry for you, too, then?” Philip asked, feeling slightly relieved.

Daniel frowned and shook his head. “No, I can still see plenty clear, I just can’t see as well as normal. Why, is everything blurry for you?”

Philip growled to himself, and knew that it he had his tail it would be lashing so much that he’d probably destroy the bed they were sat on. “Yes. I can see clearly to just past the end of my nose and everything gets progressively blurrier from there. I can’t even see your face clearly.”

Daniel was still for a moment before he snapped his fingers and dove for what Philip assumed was a bedside table and started digging around. “Yes! Found it.” He handed Philip something and urged him to put it on his face. “You see, these bits go over your ears and the glass sits across your nose in front of your eyes.”

Philip reared back, blinking rapidly to try and get accustomed to the fact that he could once again see. Like Daniel said, he couldn’t see as much as before, but he could at least function like this. Now that he could actually see, he looked around again and found himself just as, if not more, confused than before. They were definitely in some kind of room, but it was unlike anything he had seen before. Everything looked impossibly soft, while still having sharp, unforgiving lines. In addition, there were several things around that seemed to glow with their own source of light, but Philip couldn’t sense any magic coming from them. In fact, he couldn’t sense any magic anywhere.

Daniel watched Philip’s strangely human face as he observed the room and came to the same conclusions Daniel himself had already come to. They weren’t anywhere even resembling home anymore. There was no magical energy in the air whatsoever, and the place in the back of his mind where his connection to Philip usually lived was uncomfortably void. He slowly made his way to the window across from the bed, carelessly knocking aside some potted plants to look out below. Like he feared, the scene below was almost identical to the one he’d seen in his vision from the mirror.

He turned to Philip who was looking at him almost suspiciously. “I think I know what’s happening,” he said slowly, sitting back down on the end of the bed.

Philip raised an eyebrow, a skill Daniel knew was unique to this world as dragons didn’t have eyebrows. “Well? Go on then.”

“It’s that damn mirror’s fault,” Daniel started. “When I was looking at it before I got a series of visions that looked exactly like this. Everything, the road, the artifacts, even the two of us. Something happened with that mirror that got us in this situation, I just know it.”

Philip drummed his fingertips against his chin in thought. “Well, it stands to reason that if we’re here then whoever was here is where we were. Yes?”

Daniel frowned. “I mean, I suppose that makes sense. Do you think there’s any way we can contact them?” He suddenly snapped his fingers and grinned. “Telepathy. Do you think there’s still a chance we could be psychically linked to each other in our world?”

“We could be,” Philip said slowly. “We could try meditating with a focus on our pre-established link.” He let out a deep, calming breath, folded his legs beneath him, and closed his eyes to meditate. It was… hard. He didn’t normally spend his time in meditation at all, so he wasn’t in practice, but he knew more intimately what exactly it was he was looking for within his own mind. The bond he shared with Daniel was non-existent in this world which affected him more than he would have previously assumed. He found his thoughts once again wandering to the fact that he would surely outlive Daniel, should they ever get back to their own world. If just losing the link left his mind cold and bereft, what would losing Daniel himself do? Focus he hissed at his own thoughts.

That’s when he heard it. It was faint, and sounded more like his own voice than Daniel’s, but it was there, and talking about- He shook his head and focused again. Why was this new not-his voice talking about cereal and pigeons? He listened in more closely, the words becoming clearer and clearer, before they suddenly stopped. Philip could tell he was still connected as he still felt the same buzz he always got when he was speaking through a psychic link. Taking a deep, calming breath, he focused again and tried to send out a message.

Can you hear me?

There was a short spark of confusion from down the line, but it quickly fizzled out and the connection went dead. Philip growled in frustration and broke out of his meditation to see Daniel looking at him curiously. “Did that go any better for you than it did for me?”

“Depends on how well it went for you,” Philip huffed. “I managed to get one message through I think, but whoever is on the other end just closed off the link before I could get a response.”

“Well, you’re doing better,” Daniel said. “I don’t know what it was but I’m pretty sure I managed to find the link but it was like shouting at a wall.”

“Whoever it is is probably shielding, in that case,” Philip reasoned. “A dragon’s mind is usually shut down to people trying to get in and unless you know what you’re doing it can be hard to receive anything. We can send out messages and look into other people’s minds, but anyone, particularly a psy-null person, trying to send something to an untrained dragon? It’s practically impossible.”

Daniel gave him a sour look. “That would have been really great information to have before I spent twenty minutes trying to get into a dragon’s brain.”

“It could have been different with you,” Philip defended. “You know we already have a link so I was hoping that would give you a secondary entrance.”

Daniel sighed deeply. “Well, I guess it didn’t. You seemed to be doing okay, though, so have another go at it. There’s no other options, the way I see it.”

Philip nodded and closed his eyes again. Thankfully, this time he fell into the meditation easily and rooted around in his mind until he found the connection again. Daniel, is that you? More confusion, and maybe a little anger flared up this time, but the connection stayed strong. Philip waited for several minutes to see if whoever he was talking to would answer, but when he got nothing he sent out If you can hear me, give me a signal. Then it happened. It was soft and weak and unsure like whoever was sending it wasn’t quite sure what they were doing.

Hello?

Philip’s eyes snapped open, but he held tight to the link. At Daniel’s silent, but urgent motions he continued the conversation. Is this Daniel?

Yeah. Don’t get called Daniel all that often, though.

Then you are not my Daniel. Correct?

Well, I think that depends quite a bit on who you are.

Philip smiled softly. Some things, like Daniel’s attitude, were a constant across all worlds. My name is Philip.

But you’re not my Phil, are you?

I think that depends quite a bit on who you are.

Philip heard what was basically the mental equivalent of a heavy sigh. Okay, my name is Dan Howell. I’m a human YouTuber who lives with my boyfriend Phil Lester in London, England, year 2017. Now, who are you?

I am Philip. I’m a dragon who lives in a cave near Birnbeck, Umbria along with my charge a drow named Daniel.

I’m guessing that’s why I’m grey?

That would be a good assumption.

“Have you gotten through?” Daniel hissed quietly. “What’s happening? You just keep making faces.”

“I’ve gotten through to someone called Dan,” Philip reported. “He’s a human who lives with his Philip in a place called London.”

“Is he with this other Philip?” Daniel demanded. “If he is, teach him how to communicate with me. I’m sick of just sitting here.”

Philip rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Dan, is this Phil you speak of with you?

Yeah.

Then you need to tell him to let down his shields so that Daniel may speak with him.

I don’t even know what that means.

He will know instinctively. Just tell him to open his mind.

There was a moment’s pause, assumingly while the other two were speaking, and then the link flared to life again, this time with an extra participant. Apparently, once his shields were dropped, Phil’s mind linked automatically with Dan’s via the pre-established bond. A new voice, gratingly similar to his own, but different cautiously said, Hello?

Are you the one Dan calls Phil?

Yes.

Then I am Philip. Focus on keeping your mind open until Daniel can reach you and take control.

Philip opened his eyes and said, “His mind is open, if you’re going to do this, do it now.” Daniel nodded, and closed his eyes and once again the link flared, this time much weaker.

Can everyone hear me?

That was Daniel’s voice. His Daniel’s voice. You are weak, but I hear you.

I can hear you, Dan thought.

Me too. That one was Phil. Okay, so if you two are me and Dan, do either of you know what’s going on?

I think it’s got something to do with this mirror Philip and I found, Daniel explained. When I looked into it I saw visions of this world and fell ill.

This mirror, can you tell me more about it? Phil asked. Was it floor to ceiling, ornate, kind of gaudy, in a castle?

Philip cracked open one eye to see Daniel scowling in confusion. Yes, it was. How did you know?

Dan and I found a mirror just like it night before last. I didn’t get any visions, but it did make me super ill, and that seemed like a bit too much of a coincidence.

Well, that’s the answer then, isn’t it? Daniel reasoned. If this mirror got us into this mess, it can get us out.

Where was this castle you two found? Dan asked. Ours is in Hever castle, you can Google it to see what the tours cost.

Philip froze, and furrowed his brow in confusion. Google?

Shit. Phil, how do I explain Google to someone who doesn’t even know what a computer is?

Oh, um, it’s like a library, but for all the information in the entire world.

Yeah, but not all of it is true.

Yes, well, you describe it better.

How about neither of you describe it and you just tell us how to use it? Daniel intervened impatiently.

Okay, first you need to get one of our laptops, Dan started. Before either Daniel or Philip could point out that they had no idea what that was he continued, It’s the thin, silver thing with a picture of a white apple in the middle of it. It looks like a really flat book and it should be on my desk.

Philip did as he was told and found what he was at least hoping was this “laptop.” Okay, now what?

Open it and type in the password. It’s going to be “hello darkness” with no space. When that finishes getting started use the bottom half of the square on the lower half to click on the little yellow, green, and red circle at the bottom of the screen.

Philip looked almost helplessly at Daniel. “Do you have any idea what he’s saying?”

“Not really, but maybe it will make more sense as we go,” Daniel shrugged, taking the device. “Okay, so we can do the password thing.” He slowly and carefully hit each key, and startled a bit when the picture suddenly changed to something from the depths of the cosmos. He scanned the picture for the circle Dan spoke of, and finally found it on the bottom row with several other small pictures. After a bit of mental arguing with Dan he managed to get his “cursor” on the circle and click on it.

Okay, now you’re on a site called “Google.” You can just type words into the bar in the middle of screen and it will take you to other sites that will tell you about it.

Daniel glanced up at Philip and sighed. This was going to take a long time.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

A couple hours of wasting their lives and Googling everything they could think of, Daniel and Philip found themselves in a train station waiting for their ride. It was incredibly crowded and full of people paying hardly any attention to their wallets, and Daniel’s fingers were itching. It had been months since he’d done a good, old fashioned pick pocket. Sure, the big heists he and Philip pulled off on a regular basis were fun and lucrative, but there was something special about taking someone’s possessions right out from under their nose without them noticing.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Philip said casually, purveying the scene as well. Daniel knew from experience that he was looking for exits and anyone he couldn’t take in a fight. Unfortunately, in these incredibly weak bodies, that narrowed it down to pretty much everyone. “In this world we’re public figures, but not wanted criminals. I doubt it would look good if Dan Howell suddenly went to prison for taking someone’s bag.”

Ah, yes, Dan and Phil’s fame. Philip had had the bright idea to Google Dan and Phil, and they were slightly horrified at what they found. Aside from learning that in this world Dan and Phil were in a publicly known romantic relationship (Daniel had side eyed Philip and thought about wooing his centuries old, fire breathing lizard of a best friend. He’d shuddered and quickly stopped thinking about it.) they learned that Dan and Phil were role models. Daniel thought of the time Philip had left a man buried to the neck at low tide just because he didn’t laugh at the dragon’s pun. Or the time a knight had actually made it into their lair and Philip had practically cooed in delight before playing cat and mouse with the fighter for hours until she’d dropped to her knees and started sobbing and Daniel made Philip take pity on her and eat her. Yeah, Philip was not the innocent sunshine flower child the people of this world were expecting.

“We’re not telepathically linked anymore; you don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I don’t need to be psychic; it’s all over your face. You’ve got that same ‘I’m going to steal something I don’t really want or need’ face you always get when you’re about to land us in hot water.”

“Oh, my god! It’s them! It’s really Dan and Phil!”

Dan flicked his eyes up just in time to see two pubescent girls nervously walk up to them. Beside him, Philip grinned in what was probably supposed to be a warm, welcoming way, but just looked pained to Daniel. It apparently worked for the girls, however, seeing as they practically melted when Philip said, “Hi, how are you two?”

“We’re great!” the slightly taller one said. “We’re actually meeting for the first time in person here today! We met on Tumblr because of your videos!”

“That’s… great,” Daniel said lamely. He wracked his brain for some mention of it in their earlier search. He thought it might be that dark blue one Dan had open, but if what he saw was any indication of the rest of the site, no child that age should be on it. He decided to ask. “Tumblr is the one with all the porn. Right?”

The girl flushed slightly and her friend looked absolutely scandalized, and they both had a confused look in their eye. Daniel thought it was a reasonable query, but apparently Phil didn’t as he swooped in all smooth and charismatic as usual. “Ignore him; he’s had a bit of a rough morning. Is there anything we can help you with?”

“Well, we were hoping to get a selfie?” the shorter girl said, speaking for the first time. “Also, I have something I made for you. This will probably be my one chance to go to London or to meet you at all, so I figured I’d bring it in case we ran into you two.”

“Well, it’s your lucky day then, isn’t it?” Philip said slyly. He was starting to sound like he did right before he ate someone, so Daniel subtly nudged him to get him to knock it off while the girl dug in her bag.

“I, uh, here they are!” the shorter girl squeaked, handing over her gifts. Daniel took it in hand and appraised it. It was a hand-stitched, stuffed doll of what he assumed was supposed to be Dan. It wouldn’t be worth that much monetarily, but the stitches  were even and the handywork nice and there was a remarkable attention to detail.

“How long did you spend on this?” Philip demanded, looking over his doll with an even keener eye.

The girl turned bright red. “Well, it takes about forty working hours each, but I’m really new at sewing so I had to start over a lot. I spent about a month working on each of them.”

“This is wonderful,” Philip grinned, and if he’d been a dragon all his pointy teeth would be on display and the girls would be running for the hills. As it was they just giggled behind their hands and looked adoringly at them. “You said something about a “selfie?’”

“Oh, right! The taller girl said, digging around in her bag. She emerged with a small, thin, pink brick with the same type of light up picture that the laptop had had; and a collapsable metal pole. “Don’t worry about having to do your noodle arms, Dan. I’ve got a selfie stick.” She quickly organized everyone so that she and her friend were in the middle with Daniel and Philip flanking her. Daniel was stood next to the girl taking the photo and glanced down at her still-open bag. “Okay, everyone, say ‘Phan!’” Daniel inwardly cringed, but did as he was told with a smile.

“It was wonderful meeting you both,” Daniel lied grudgingly, “but it looks like Philip and I have to go.”

They looked disappointed, but nodded understandingly and waved goodbye as they went on their way. When they were out of earshot, Philip turned to Daniel with a positively giddy expression. “Did you hear? She spent a month on these. I have a token in my likeness that a follower spent a month hand-crafting. Daniel, we’re practically gods here.”

“Yeah, I really enjoyed our chat with them, too,” Daniel grinned wolfishly, tossing a wallet up and catching it with one over and over.

“I told you not to,” Philip growled. “We have to lay low while we’re here.”

“Cool it,” Daniel dismissed, rummaging through the wallet. “I wasn’t going to keep it or anything. Besides, it doesn’t have anything worth keeping. An ID and whatever loyalty cards are and a-” He snapped his head up and stared at Phil wide-eyed. “There are factories where you can build bears in this world.”

Philip looked downright horrified at the very thought. “Yes, well, just leave the wallet somewhere. Someone else can deal with it.”

Daniel shrugged and carelessly dropped it where he stood before walking towards where their train was boarding. With any luck the girls would notice the wallet was missing and come back looking for it, and just assume she dropped it. No one ever needed to know what actually happened. “Come on, I think we’re boarding.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Phil had to admit that there were some pretty great parts about being a dragon, and if he’d gotten to become a dragon under different circumstances, he’d probably have enjoyed it. For one, he was finally taller than Dan again, even in his oddly reptilian human form, and that was always something to be celebrated. Plus, he knew instinctively that he was inhumanly strong, and fire breathing was cool under pretty much any circumstances.

And there was also the flying. That was cool.

It had taken Phil several tries to get to the point where he was comfortable flying with Dan on his back. He’d been very shaky at first making slow circles over the sea while Dan watched from the cave, perfectly fine to be outside now that the sun was down. Phil was rather slow and knew that he wouldn’t have nearly enough stamina to get to where they were headed in one night, but he was steady and he probably wasn’t going to accidentally pop back into human form again.

Fortunately, Daniel and Philip kept several maps in their cave, and Phil was currently flying through the night sky with Dan on his back trying to navigate without Siri’s help for the first time in years. Phil thanked the British school system for forcing secondary students to take geography A-levels and hoped that stuck and translated well enough for Dan to read the map well enough for them to not get horrifically lost. They had been flying for several hours now, the sky was lightening with just the barest hint of dawn on the horizon, and Phil was hoping they’d manage to make it to the halfway point Daniel and Philip had recommended for them to stay the night at. Phil wasn’t exactly looking forward to the miniature camping trip, but maybe it would finally get Dan off his back about taking him.

Hey, so we just passed that gorge and the river, so we should be coming up on the forest soon. Philip says there’s a really big clearing there where you can land easily.

Phil nodded, which was a bad idea when you’re flying as it can and will knock you off course for a few seconds. A few minutes later he started as gentle a decent as possible towards a meadow surrounded by tall trees. He hadn’t ever really gotten the hang of landing, but they made it to the ground with no injuries, so he counted it as a win.

“No offense, Phil, but if it turns out we’re stuck here forever, I’m going to need you to work on your flying,” Dan said, stretching every muscle in his body and arching his back luxuriously. He was sure there was some specific posture that was better for dragon riding, otherwise Daniel had a very rough life, but he didn’t know what it was and sitting in a near split on a wide, hard, spiky surface was a lot more strenuous on his lower back and thighs than he was used to.

Dan watched as Phil transformed back to two legs shook out his own probably aching muscles and joints. “Yeah, well next time you can fly and I’ll ride, how does that sound?”

“You know what? I think I’ll just keep riding.”

“Yeah, you really prefer riding me, don’t you?” Phil said with a mischievous grin.

Dan rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “You know what they say about low-hanging fruit. Right?”

“That it tastes best. Hey, what do you think the other us-es are doing tonight? Like, we obviously won’t be getting there at the same time if they left earlier in the day. Where do you think they’re sleeping?”

Dan shrugged. “I dunno, they’ll probably camp out somewhere or maybe they were smart enough to wait a day before leaving. I doubt they managed to figure out how to rent a room anywhere, so they won’t be staying in a five star hotel for sure.” *_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“So, what, we can just use this weird voice thing and someone will bring us these pancake things?”

“Yeah, that’s what I read. We can just order them to bring us anything on this list while we lounge about on this bed. Isn’t that amazing?”

“I love this world.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“Yeah, I mean, if anyone needs someone to be concerned about them, it’s us, I guess,” Phil joked. “I mean, I haven’t been camping outside The Sims since I was a teenager.”

“I’ve never been camping at all because my boyfriend hates me and doesn’t let me do anything fun,” Dan countered.

“That’s because I hate it and I know you’re going to hate it,” Phil said, raising a brow. “But now you’re finally getting your chance. Isn’t that great?”

“You’re the worst person in the world.”

“This one or ours?”

“Both.”

Phil laughed and started rolling out what little bedding they had available to them. Apparently, Daniel and Philip had lost their good bedrolls on their last trip, leaving Dan and Phil with a few blankets and some thin mats. This wasn’t going to be fun. “Come on, help me set up camp.”

“Do we even have any food?” Dan wondered idly, arranging some stones in a circle and piling in some sticks and logs. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but this was probably helpful.

“Yeah, I, uh, I packed some dried meat I found while I was looking for supplies. You hungry?”

Dan assessed himself quickly before nodding. “Yeah, I think so. You want to start a fire?”

Phil beamed, took a deep breath a unleashed a column of flame at the pile of sticks. Unfortunately, he was a little overzealous and Dan just so happened to be on the wrong side of the fire pit.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!” Dan swore, furiously patting himself down to extinguish the little flames licking at his clothes. Phil yelped and leapt to action, and with his big, flameproof hands they put Dan out before any damage could occur.

Out of danger, Dan narrowed his eyes at Phil who had the decency to at least look sheepish. “Uh, sorry?”

Dan scoffed, but now that he wasn’t at risk of becoming a crisp, the whole thing was kind of funny. “Let’s… let’s just eat.”

Phil handed over the satchel of dried meat and Dan took a whiff of it before tossing it right back in his face and doubled over with his hands on his stomach. Phil quickly leapt to action and started running a soothing hand up and down Dan’s back while he tried not to retch. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” Dan groaned. “It just smelled like death except a million times worse and the thought of eating it makes my stomach churn. D’you think it’s gone off or something?”

Phil frowned and thought. It hadn’t smelled odd to him, especially not in the capacity Dan was describing, and with his newly enhanced senses he could still smell it and it smelled great. “I don’t think it’s the meat, so it must be you.”

Dan wrinkled his nose. “If I got stuck in some vegetarian’s body, I’m going to die.”

“You won’t die,” Phil said fondly, standing up. “Come on, let’s go try to scrounge up some berries or something for you to eat.”

Fortunately, there just so happened to be a blueberry patch, just past the tree line, and they both stuffed their pockets and bags. Dan wasn’t a particular fan of blueberries, by any stretch of the imagination, but the prospects of starving and hunting for different foods were even more unattractive, so he ate his berries. There just so happened to be enough for Dan to eat his fill and still have a meal left, so he packed away the leftovers to eat the next day. With that he flopped down on their bedding nest, curled up, slid his eyes closed, and waited for sleep.

It didn’t come.

Dan groaned and shoved the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He glanced over at Phil to see if maybe he had any advice, but he was already snoring away. Besides, he was going through enough that he probably didn’t want to deal with what was probably just Dan’s insomnia acting up. Then again, this wasn’t like Dan’s normal restless sleepless nights, so maybe it was something unique to Daniel.

He was just about to give up when an absolutely amazing thought occurred to him. Philip would know. He closed his eyes and struggled to find the link the connected him to Philip, but after stumbling into Phil’s head a couple times he managed to find it. Philip? Can you hear me?

Yes, Dan. What is it?

Dan winced at the clear impatience in Philip’s voice? thoughts? but carried on. Do you know why I can’t sleep?

Well, I’d imagine it’s because Daniel is an elf and elves don’t sleep Philip thought dryly. But then again, you never know. You’d better just keep at it and not talk to me.

Ha ha, very funny Dan snapped. Well, if he doesn’t sleep, what does he do?

He meditates.

Dan deflated. He and Phil had both been pretty crap at meditation earlier. Oh. Is there a reason I can’t eat meat?

Mother of the mountains, you dullards didn’t feed Daniel’s body meat, did you?

No, I got sick from the smell and didn’t eat any Dan said defensively. We’re not idiots, you know.

There was no answer from Philip and Dan felt the link grow cold. Well, he’d gotten what he needed, so he supposed it didn’t matter. He pulled himself out of the link and opened his eyes. If he was going to meditate for hours he would have to get ready.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Okay, so the two of you need to be extremely careful in here. When Philip and I were here the place was crawling with all sorts of things that want to kill you. You brought the chime like I told you to, right?

Phil stared up at the castle looming before him as Daniel prattled away in his head. Apparently, Daniel and Philip had already made it to their side of the mirror and waiting for them - Phil didn’t even want to think about how they managed to do it when he knew for a fact that the exhibit halls would be closed at that time of night. All that was left was for Dan and Phil to get on their side.

Phil looked over at Dan whose ears were folded back to his head and twitching gently as he warily looked up at the castle before them. Phil would readily admit that it was odd seeing his boyfriend a strange purple grey with silver hair, but it was rather adorable watching his new bunny-like ears flick around with every slight emotion. “Daniel, what do your elf ears hear?” he said jokingly to lighten the mood.

Dan playfully narrowed his eyes, but his ears shot straight up and started swiveling back and forth like they were trying to find something. “Nothing,” he frowned. “I hear literally nothing in there. I can hear like some tiny animal running around, but nothing big what so ever.”

That- That can’t be. Why would everything have just suddenly left? There were so many monsters in there I almost died last time.

Maybe they found somewhere new to live? Phil suggested weakly. He could practically feel Daniel roll his eyes through the link. Phil just shook his head and ignored him. “Come on, Dan. Let’s get out of here, I want to go home,” he said, starting the hike up the stairs. He pushed open the big, heavy doors with a loud creak, and peered into the gloom. He was once again surprised that he could see perfectly well without light. Being a dragon had its perks. “So, where is this thing?”

“Hidden away in a closet in the room on the second floor,” Dan answered. He still had his ears up swiveling and twitching in every direction, on the lookout for anything that might try to sneak up on them. But there was nothing. Even Phil had begun to notice the tense silence that blanketed the castle. It felt like the world was holding its breath, and Phil wasn’t sure he wanted to know why.

With no effort, they found themselves standing before the very same ornate mirror that got them into this mess. It was just as big and tacky on this side as it had been in Heaver, and looked like it had taken some hard core wear and tear from being abandoned.

So, do we need to do anything? Phil thought, looking it over with a critical eye.

Well, what did you two do on your side? Daniel thought.

Nothing, really. We just looked at it and then Phil felt queasy so we left.

Well, on our side, I accidentally bumped into it, so maybe give that a shot.

Dan and Phil immediately set to investigating the mirror thoroughly. However, no matter how much they tapped on it and prodded it - Dan even whipped out a wand he had snagged from Daniel and Philip’s stash - nothing happened. Eventually, Dan let out a groan of defeat and stepped back so he could fall into a seated position with his face in his hands. “Give it up,” he said to Phil, who was still poking the mirror. “That thing isn’t even magical. It’s just an ugly mirror.”

Phil turned and looked at him, surprise clear on his face. “How do you know that?”

Dan shrugged. “Since we’ve been here, we’ve been around a lot of magical things, and I noticed they give off a weird magic feeling. This mirror doesn’t have a hint of that.”

I’m afraid that’s true over here as well Philip said. As far as Daniel and I can tell, it’s just a normal mirror.

Fuck, Dan thought to himself, and without wasting a second, he slammed the connection he had with Philip closed and curled up in a ball, sniffling softly. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said on a shuddery breath.

In an instant, Phil was on his knees at his side, and Dan felt awful that the big, scaly, clawed hands of his boyfriend were doing nothing but unnerving him. “It’s going to be alright,” Phil soothed, but his voice was wrong and Dan hated it.

“It’s not alright,” Dan snapped, curling in on himself further. “In case it somehow slipped your notice, you’re now a fucking dragon. Even when you’re close to my size you’re still so spiky the back half of my brain is worried I’m going to be impaled when I give you a hug. Plus, I’m grey, my eyes look like something out of a Stephen King novel, my ears are a foot long, and I can hear and see everything so well I’m constantly overwhelmed. And to top it off, I feel shitty about being upset, because I may be a weird color swapped human, but my boyfriend is a reptile and he seems to be taking everything in stride. So, tell me, Phil, what exactly is okay about this?”

“Not much,” Phil shrugged, and Dan was so startled at his answer that he looked up from his knees. Phil was still knelt right next to him and his eyes may have been weird, reptilian, and slitted but they were the exact same shade of blue Dan had fallen in love with years ago. When he noticed he had Dan’s full attention, he gave him the softest smile he could. “Right now, nothing is alright. Like you said, we’re scared and confused and overwhelmed, but it’s going to be okay. We’re either going to fix this and get home, or we’re going to figure out how to live here, and we’re going to do it the same way we solve every problem: together. I mean, we made a book and a world-wide tour; we moved to London with nothing more than our first month’s rent and an idea; we make a living making videos for literally millions of strangers every day. This world can’t be any harder, right?”

Dan let out a watery chuckle. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

Phil grinned, and it was sharper and more toothy than it should be, but maybe that was okay. He gently pulled Dan into a hug, and it may have been his imagination, but, to Dan, it felt a little less pointy than before. “You’ve got to promise me one thing, though, or this will never work,” Phil rumbed. “No more keeping secrets any more, okay? If something’s bothering you, I want to help, okay?”

Dan nodded. “You, too, then. I’ve said it probably a dozen times, but you’re a lizard, and that’s probably not good for your mental health.”

Phil chuckled. “You have a deal.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Back on their side of the mirror, Daniel and Philip were having a rather frustrating time themselves. Daniel was pacing back and forth across the rather small bedroom while Philip was peering down the hall, squinting behind his new glasses. When Dan had ended the connection Phil had, too, so they were on their own in this strange world with a useless, non-magical mirror. “Well, we can’t just stay here and wait for those two to get their shit together,” Daniel hissed. “We’re going to get caught if we wait around much longer. There should be a guard coming in the next,” he glanced down at the watch on his wrist, “ten minutes, and I doubt she’ll be too pleased to find us in here.”

Philip hissed in frustration, and Daniel had to admit that it wasn’t as intimidating coming from a pale, lanky human rather than a dragon. In fact, it looked downright ridiculous. “Then let’s get out of here. Once we’re out we’ll try to get back in contact, and if we need to get back in here, we know we obviously can.”

Daniel nodded and carefully crept out of the room first, keeping to the shadows and looking for the guard. He found her a few rooms over looking at some wax sculpture with an odd smile. Holding his breath, Daniel pulled out the slingshot  he had fashioned from a few things sitting around Dan and Phil’s lair, loaded it with a small marble and aimed it at the stone wall at the other end of the hall away from where Philip was lying in wait. It bounced off with a bright PING! and Daniel held his breath as he watched the guard furrow her brow and wander away to go investigate. Daniel grinned, and darted back to Philip and silently motioned for him to follow behind.

Unfortunately, Philip’s new form had many disadvantages he wasn’t used to, including a rather awful center of gravity. Daniel watched in abject horror as Philip tripped over his own feet and crashed right into a suit of armor on display.

“Who’s there?!” Daniel gritted his teeth when he heard the guard shout and saw her light flash at the end of the hall.

“Come on!” he hissed, yanking Philip to his feet and booking it down the hall. However, Dan didn’t take very good care of himself, apparently, because he was panting and out of breath by the end of the hall. Fortunately, Philip, who appeared to be hyped up on so much adrenalin that he was fine, bodily lifted him onto his shoulder and carried him out. While being bounced around, he dug into his bag as best he could and pulled out the bag of marbles he’d bought before coming in. They weren’t ball bearings, but they could slow someone down if he dumped them on the floor, and that’s exactly what he did.

There was a shout of surprise and a loud thump of someone hitting the floor just as Philip rounded the corner where the window they had jimmied open was. He quickly climbed through, leaving Daniel to follow after and replace the window to make it look like they’d never been there. Then they ran as fast as they could into the forest until they were a fairly safe distance away and they collapsed against a tree.

“We’ve got to get back to our world,” Philip gasped around the stitch in his chest. “I can’t see a goddamn thing outside of these weird spectacles and this body is clearly defective considering it can’t even stand up straight on its own volition half the time.”

“At least you seem to be able to walk up a flight of stairs without finding yourself at Death’s door,” Daniel wheezed. “Has this man never done anything with his body at all? I get winded when I go above a medium tempo stroll.”

Philip laughed, which then turned into a rough cough. “Don’t make me laugh,” he warned. “I promise this body isn’t much better off.”

Daniel shot him a wry grin, and they fell into mostly silence as they both focused on leveling their breathing. When they felt like their lungs would stay in place in their chests, they set off for the station. Luckily, it was only about a mile and a half or so - Philip wasn’t sure if they’d be able to make it much farther than that - and they found a nice secluded clearing in the woods to sleep until they needed to catch their train. About five hours later, they were awoken by the sun beaming at them through the trees and they snuck into the station bathroom to make it look a little less like they had spent the night breaking into a castle and sleeping in the woods.

Fortunately, things were just as quiet as usual that early morning as they usually were in the sleepy town of Hever. Before long, Daniel and Philip were on the train to London with a couple of professional-looking men in suits chatting with one another. “Yeah, did you hear that Hever got broken into last night?” one of them said.

The other rolled his eyes and took a long sip from whatever was in the mug he was holding. “Kids these days are getting out of hand,” he grouched. “This is the third break in of the month. They didn’t steal or ruin anything did they?”

“Not according to the news this morning,” the first one shrugged. “Worst thing they did was trip up the guard with some marbles. Apparently the police can’t even find a point of entry.”

“Marbles? Really? You don’t think it could be actual thieves, do you?”

The first man scoffed. “They didn’t steal anything; what use would actual crooks break in for if not to steal?”

“They could have been casing the joint.”

“They apparently already cased it pretty well, considering whoever it was didn’t get caught.”  

The second man shrugged and took another long sip. “You’re right. Probably just some kids.”

Philip glanced at Daniel who looked so genuinely proud of himself, that Philip felt the need to lay a hand on his knee so he wouldn’t go bragging. Their conversation soon shifted and Daniel and Philip settled down for the hour long ride to London.

“So, do you want to try using the Google machine when we get back?” Daniel asked, chewing on the side of his nail - a habit he picked up since crossing over.

“Yes, I suppose that makes the most sense.”

Daniel hummed and leaned back, letting his eyes slip closed. Philip narrowed his eyes. He had told him to sleep this morning and the night before, but he had a feeling Daniel hadn’t taken his advice. As he watched, the former elf’s breathing evened and deepened until he was very clearly sound asleep. Philip settled himself in for the short ride, left blissfully alone.

Philip! Can you hear me?

Or so he had hoped. With an unimpressed glare at someone who wasn’t there, Philip coolly snapped back I hope for Daniel’s sake that’s not how you get your Phil’s attention. If you keep shouting, he’ll eat you and Daniel will be stuck in this body forever. A smirk curled at his mouth when he almost physically felt Dan wither in on himself at the rebuke.

Sorry, the whole telepathy thing is still new to us. Anyway, Phil and I left the castle; we’re heading to Lundy whenever the sun goes back down.

Philip frowned. Lundy? Why there?

Well, it’s the capitol, isn’t it? If not the capitol, a busy city, yeah?

Well, yes.

Then that’s our best bet to find information. No offense, but neither of you seemed to be very prolific book collectors, and I doubt sitting around and staring at your gold will get us anywhere.

You can’t just wander around Lundy. Daniel and I are wanted criminals, and you’ll be arrested by nightfall.

Philip could practically see Dan roll his eyes. Well, first off, you’re a fucking dragon. No one should be able to arrest you. Second, if it’s as busy as you say then it will be easy for us to blend in, and apparently Phil looks more like a dragonborn than an actual morphed dragon, so that will make things even easier.

How do you know that?

Well, I had to sit around in a cave all day while Phil was out pulling aerial stunts and while you don’t have a lot of books, you have one on dragons. Why is that, anyway? Are you worried you’re going to forget what a dragon is?

Philip narrowed his eyes and tried to ignore both the heat rising in his cheeks and the men who were now looking at him oddly out of the corner of their eyes.  Daniel got that when we first teamed up because he felt foolish asking questions he lied. He had honestly just really liked the illustrations and anything that talked about how great he - and his entire species - was.

You know I’m literally reading your mind, right?

This time Philip couldn’t deny his blush and he quickly cut off communication. He was just glad that Daniel was still asleep, otherwise he’d never live this down. The trip back to London was short and uneventful, and before long he was roughly shaking Daniel awake so they could leave.

However, London was bigger and much more confusing than either of them remembered Lundy being.

“Do you, er, do you remember the way back?” Daniel asked nervously, glancing around the crowded street they had found themselves on.

Philip was about to scoff and say of course he knew how to get back, he was a dragon for Tiamat’s sake, but a car drove by and he remembered that he was not, in fact, a dragon. Back home he had preternaturally good recall, particularly with directions, but here he was just as lost as the next person. “Er, well, no, actually.”

Daniel chewed his bottom lip for a second before he snapped his fingers. “Okay, well, I remember the name of the street and it can’t be too far from here. Let’s see if we can find a map.”

Philip grinned and followed Daniel to a public map on display back inside the station. There was a rather large crowd of rather dumb-looking tourists gathered around it and Philip saw Daniel’s eyes sparkle. He thought to tell Daniel to keep his hands to himself, but decided, instead, to save his breath.

Daniel squeezed past until he was  close enough to make out words on the map. He scanned it quickly but carefully until he saw the street they were after. Heygate. Easy enough to remember. He squirmed his way back to Philip, making sure to press against as many people as possible. When they were a safe distance away, he grinned at Philip and showed off the four wallets he managed to snatch. Philip rolled his eyes, but Daniel knew he was at least mildly impressed.

“Come on, lead the way back,” Philip said, gesturing to  the busy London street outside.

Daniel took the challenge with a grin, stuffed the wallets in his bag, and stepped outside. It was louder and more crowded than anywhere Daniel had been before, but he kept chanting the directions in his head until they stepped onto a rather familiar looking street. “Ta-da!” he said with a grand wave of his hand. “Heygate Street. Now, all we have to do is walk down it until we find where we need to be.”

The corner of Philip’s mouth curled up, and Daniel felt a rather nice warm bloom of pride in his chest. It wasn’t everyone who managed to impress a centuries old dragon, so when Daniel got that particular look, he couldn’t quite quash down all his feelings. “Well, what are we waiting for, then?” Philip grinned. “We’ve got the whole of Google to explore.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“Okay, so we just have to be quiet,” Dan whispered. The air was cool on his skin and his heart thrummed somewhere around in his gut (thanks, elf physiology) and his breath was tight in his chest. He had never broken in anywhere before, but they needed to get into the library and after seeing multiple walls plastered with their faces, Dan had to admit that walking in the front door wouldn’t exactly be easy. So, they had waited until night had fallen and found a loose window.

“I think there’s a little more to it than just volume control,” Phil grunted, hoisting Dan up so he could get through.

Once he had squirmed his waist through the narrow window, Dan tumbled headfirst towards the floor. He winced to brace for impact, but instead of crashing, he pulled into a tight, silent roll. He blinked in shock for a second and grinned. Muscle memory was so cool. He glanced around quickly, and when he noticed the coast was clear he gave a silent signal to Phil who followed him is with more grace than he’d done anything ever.

Dan blinked a few times to get used to the lack of light before slinking towards the bookshelves. He was about to step out into an open area when Phil put a clawed hand on his chest. Dan looked up at him to see him standing perfectly still with his nose in the air, taking deep, even breaths. He locked eyes with Dan for a half second and tackled him to the ground and curled up around him under a dark table.

Dan didn’t dare to breathe a pair of thick, heavy boots stepped right in front of them. “Jaime, we’re never going to catch them if you keep stomping around like that,” a sharp voice said as another lighter pair of boots appeared.

“Viv, don’t worry about it,” another woman, probably Jaime, scoffed. “That librarian was just nervous because a drow and a dragonborn were skulking around earlier. Even she admits that he doesn’t know if it was actually Daniel and Philip. Besides, why would the two most wanted thieves in Umbria waste their time breaking into a library?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know, do I?” Viv hissed. “Just try to be a little quieter, okay?”

Dan couldn’t see her, but he was sure Jaime rolled her eyes before saying, “Sure, babe. I’ll try to keep it down.” They walked away, this time distinctly more careful and quiet.

Dan, do you think we can talk like this even when I’m not actually a dragon?

Hell yeah, we can Dan thought, grinning at him. Phil Lester, have I ever told you you’re a genius?

Once or twice.

Come on, follow me.

Phil followed along behind Dan as they climbed up on top of the bookshelves. He gestured to Phil to wait, and crept along the shelves until he saw the two women on the hunt for them. One was a blonde woman with a sturdy build and some heavy armor that clinked every time she moved and the other was a thin lady with dark skin wearing just a set of wizard’s robes that shimmered in the low light. Upon second glance, Dan noticed that there was a young boy strapped to the blonde woman’s back, sound asleep, and that’s what gave Dan pause. Hey, do you think we can send pictures across this thing?

I mean, that would make sense. Try it.

Dan closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of the two women and the young boy. Do they look familiar to you?

You don’t think they’re the-

Lady and her son from the train station? Yeah, I do.

There was radio silence for a moment then a picture formed in Dan’s mind of the lady from the station wearing a set of robes. Yeah, that was her. What was her name? Victoria? Verona? Valerie?

Viviana?

Yes! That’s it. That makes sense to shorten to Viv, right?

Definitely. And didn’t she have a wife who looked like the blonde?

I don’t know, I didn’t really get a good look at her. But, that is definitely Todd.

Dan, this is going to sound odd, but I think we’re going to need to look for books on a multiverse theory.

Dan’s eyes widened in realization. You think there’s a version of everyone here?

Yeah, I do. I mean, obviously there’s me and you and the mirror, and even London as a whole. Now, we know that Viviana and her family are here. I mean, it could be a coincidence, but at this point I’m desperate for any kind of explanation.

Dan nodded. He knew Phil couldn’t see him, but he was confident the other understood the feeling. You look around over there to see if you can find anything. Keep your nose peeled to see if they come by again. In our world they may like us fine, but the blonde has a really big axe, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

What are you going to do?

I’m going to look around over here where they are and keep a tail on them. I don’t have giant wings to keep track of, so I think I can stay hidden a bit better than you.

Fair. Okay, if I find anything, I’ll give you a buzz.

Got it.

When the two women were just out of eyesight, but not out of hearing, Dan crept down from the top of the shelves and followed along behind them. As he did, he scanned the books he passed, looking for something that would give even the slightest hint of an answer. It wasn’t long before a thick, purple book with gold script caught his eye. The Planar System and You: A Beginner’s Guide to the Planes of Existence and Travel Between Them. Without a second thought, Dan shoved the book into his bag. Then, as if realizing what he had just done, he guiltily looked around and placed a few handfuls of gold coins on the shelf where the book was. He was probably leaving more than the book was worth, but Daniel and Philip were swimming in gold, and probably wouldn’t miss it. Phil, I think I’ve got what we’re looking for. Meet me back outside.

Gladly. I have a couple books that may be helpful, too.

Without a sound, Dan and Phil met outside the window on the empty side street. “Let’s get out of here,” Dan hissed, pulling Phil along.

“So, the librarian didn’t recognize us,” Phil pointed out as they took another turn.

“Yeah. So?”

“So, I bet an innkeeper wouldn’t actually recognize us. At least for a night.”

Dan narrowed his eyes. “You just don’t want to go camping again.”

“I really don’t.”

Dan chuckled and stuffed his hand in their money pouch. They definitely had enough not only for a room, but also buy the confidence of anyone who doubted them. “Alright then.” He glanced around and saw a lit up dining hall down the street. “Come on, if that isn’t an inn, they probably know where one is.”

Inside the tavern was warm and sticky and crowded and noisy. Or, it was noisy before Dan and Phil stepped through the door. A tense hush fell over the room as they made their way to the counter where a lizard man was keeping them under suspicious watch. “What do you want?” he snapped, his voice high and raspy like Phil’s. “I don’t want your kind in here. You just turn back and I won’t call the night guard.”

“What do you mean by ‘your kind?’” Dan said, laying on every ounce of charm he had. He could feel his ears start to twitch to betray his nerves, but he stilled them with a firm thought. “We’re just looking for a place to stay.”

The innkeeper looked confused for a moment like he was doubting if he knew who they were. However, he held firm in his decision and said, “I don’t have any double rooms left. Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Dan said easily. “I don’t sleep, so the one bed is fine.”

“Well, I don’t normally accept such late tenants.”

Dan’s smile began to wane. “Well, it’s just for the night, and we can pay double, if you like.”

The lizard man looked even more uncomfortable for a moment before finally snapping, “Look, you two may not be those thieves everyone is looking for, but you look an awful lot like them, so how do I know it’s not you?”

“Okay, Dadellus, that’s more than enough.” Dan and Phil turned at the smooth voice that cut in on their conversation. They were both surprised to see another dark elf like Dan making their way towards them. They were incredibly tall and lankier than should be physically possible; their long, soft, silver hair was pulled up into an intricate braid; and their skin was dark, almost approaching obsidian instead of the purplish hue that Dan was. They turned to Dan and Phil and smiled. “Hi there, my name is Twill,” they said, and Dan felt like a schoolboy with a crush. He cast a quick glance at Phil, and all of his guilt was absolved when he saw the other man looked like he would be scarlet if not for the black scales on his face.

Dan stammered, trying to gain control of his tongue. “I, uh, I’m-”

Fake names!

“James! My name is James.”

“Yeah, and, uh, I’m Michael.”

Twill raised an eyebrow, but they were apparently used to people tripping all over themselves in their presence. “Pleasure to meet you both. If you’d like, there’s a room available at the inn I work at that I know would be available to you.”

“That would be great,” Phil gushed. “Thanks so much, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Come on, you two.” They obediently fell into line and let them lead the way out. They walked in silence for a moment before Twill looked back at them with a sly smirk. “So, I’m right when I say you two are actually the Daniel and Philip. Right?” They tossed their head back and laughed at Dan and Phil’s shocked faces. “Oh, please. That racist lizard may think all drow look alike, but I’d know that face anywhere. It’s like you didn’t even try. Philip, you’ve actually disguised yourself pretty well as a dragonborn, though. Keep up the good work.”

Dan choked on his own spit, and it sounded like Phil wasn’t much better off. “You- You’re not taking us to the police, are you?” Dan asked, looking around nervously.

Twill rolled their eyes. “Oh, please. Calm down, you two. If I wanted you turned in, I would have let Dadellus keep you. I just think there’s something going on, and I’m interested in seeing where it goes.”

Dan and Phil traded glances and Dan said, “How do we know we can trust you?”

Twill froze and looked at Dan in delight. “You’re not actually Daniel, are you?”

“What makes you say that?”

Twill grinned and it looked a lot less warm than it did before, and Dan suddenly noticed the ornately curved dagger on their hip. “Because Daniel would know that you can’t trust anyone in this town.”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Phil sighed in frustration and rubbed his eyes while Dan read the chapter on the Plane of Thought for about the fourth time. They had taken a quick nap when Twill had to their room, and spent the rest of the day researching. The books Phil had managed to find that night had been absolutely rubbish - one was even a work of fiction- but Dan’s had been incredibly informative.

So far, they had learned that there were apparently a total of 25 planes of existence, and that they were on what was called the Prime Material Plane. Their home was the Plane of thought that was basically right on top of the Prime Material Plane, but for whatever reason didn’t have magic. They were sandwiched between the Feywilds and Shadowfell where unfettered good and evil magic ran rampant. There were also the Ethereal plane four other planes based on the elements surrounding those where different creatures and monsters resided. Then there were 16 other planes housing spirits and gods and Phil honestly couldn’t wrap his head around it all. There were spells and portals that allowed people to travel between most planes, but because there was no magic in the Plane of Thought, there had never been a way to get there or back. There also weren’t any mentions of spells that allowed you to swap minds with your alternate self, and, in fact, no mentions what so ever about alternate selves at all.

Phil was brought out of his musings by Dan growling and throwing the book against the wall of their room. “This is pointless,” he snapped, crossing his arms in a huff. Phil sighed and stood to retrieve the book. Maybe, if he looked one more time, he’d find the answers they were looking for.

That’s when he saw it. Right there at the bottom center of the front cover in delicate gold script was an almost familiar name. “Estellaria Butterfly,” he read, the sounds heavy on his tongue.

Dan sat straight up on the bed and looked at Phil with wide eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Estellaria Butterfly? She’s the author of this book. Why do you-”

Dan lept from the bed and grabbed Phil’s biceps in a tight grip. “Phil! This may be our answer! This is another double! This is that same lady we met at Heaver!”

Phil furrowed his brow. “I thought her name was Stella F-something.”

Dan waved him off. “I think names may not translate well. I mean, we go by Daniel and Philip here, and we don’t have last names.”

“To be fair, you go by Daniel all the time, and I’m a dragon here, and I don’t think dragons have last names like Lester.”

“Semantics. I’m telling you, it’s her. I mean, what’s the likelihood that this same lady is associated with both planar research and some previously unknown inter-planar swapping magic mirror on both sides? If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s her. Come on, this is the closest we’ve been, and I doubt Daniel and Philip managed to get anything.”

“Well, is there an ‘About the Author’ section?” Phil asked, sitting on the bed and flipping to the back.

Dan shook his head. “I don’t think so, but maybe Twill knows where we can find her. They seem to know everything about this town. Even if they don’t know exactly where she is maybe they’ll know someone who does.”

“Should we send Daniel and Philip to talk to Stella on our side?” Phil asked. “I mean, they don’t have to go back to Hever, they could just Skype her or something. She really liked that room, so maybe she knows some stories or something about the mirror.”

Dan nodded and they both closed their eyes in meditation so they could contact their doubles. Phil managed to tap through, and before long he heard Daniel snap Yes? What is it? We’re busy.

We’ve been busy, too Phil assured him. We think we may have a lead on how to get everyone back home.

Great, because this hellscape has every bit of information we could possibly want save for literally anything that would be remotely helpful.

I did find out about an online community that believe themselves to be dragons Philip piped in. I’ve been talking to them, and they don’t know exactly what’s going on in our situation, but most of them seem have the spirits of metallic dragons. Not bloodthirsty enough for my taste, but dragons, still.

Holy shit, are you telling me you’re talking to dragonkin? Dan demanded, and Phil didn’t even need to open his eyes to know he had a shit-eating grin on his face.

You knew about them? Why didn’t you say anything?

Honestly? Because I didn’t think you’d find them.

Please just tell me you weren’t using my AmazingPhil Tumblr Phil begged.

Of course I was Philip responded, sounding insulted.

Dan was cackling out loud, which Phil graciously ignored in favor of telling Daniel and Philip of what they had discovered. Okay, so on your side you’re looking for a lady named Estella Far-

Ugh, you’re not telling me you two went to that phoney psychic, too, are you? Daniel groaned.

Psychic? What are you talking about?

Right before Philip and I went on our mission, we met with this lady named Estellaria who claimed to be a psychic.

She- She didn’t happen to use astrology to predict the future, did she?

Ugh. I knew it. It was probably your idea, wasn’t it?

No. We didn’t go visit her. We were visiting the castle and she works there. She said she was psychic and predicted the weather.

That settles it Dan decided. She’s definitely our best bet for finding out what’s going on. You two need to call up Hever and see if you can ask her some questions. If you have to, call Martyn

Philip interrupted him with what could only be described as a very angry mental hiss. I’ll not contact that worm for any reason. I’d rather die in this world than be at his mercy.

I’m guessing you know Martyn.

He’s my broodmate, and a blight on our entire clan. He is a weak, sniveling, cowardly traitor whom I would sooner devour than speak with.

Well, alright then. Uh, in our world, Phil and Martyn have a pretty good relationship, so maybe don’t say anything like that. Also, have the two of you been Tweeting at all?

Tweeting?

I’ll explain later. In the meantime, just find Estella.

We’re on it.

Phil opened his eyes and grinned at Dan who looked like all of his prayers had been answered at once. “Phil, we might be getting home soon!”

“I know,” Phil beamed. “We just have to find this Estellaria lady. Hopefully, Twill can help us out.” *_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

“Of course I know who Estellaria Butterfly is,” Twill scoffed. “What, do I look like an idiot or something?”

Phil released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Do you think you could tell us where we could find her?”

Twill scratched their chin in thought, then went back to cleaning the glass they were holding. “Yeah. Uh, if I remember correctly, she’s got a research tower on the outskirts of town.”

“You’re amazing,” Dan gushed. “I don’t know how we can repay you.”

Twill raised a brow at them and smirked, “Well, generally, it’d be three gold pieces, but you two are cute, so I’ll make it two.”

Dan flushed darkly, and Phil secretly hoped his boyfriend never got any better at being on the receiving end of flirtation. This version of Dan was always adorable. “Thanks a lot, Twill,” Phil grinned, taking out three pieces of gold and leaving a couple extra as a tip. “Do you think you could give us directions?”

Twill nodded and said, “She’s on the east side of town, about a mile past the tree line. It should be no problem to find, since there’s a path. Make sure you go prepared, though, because there’s some pretty aggressive critters running around in there.”

They said their goodbyes, and went up to their room to gather their things. “Do you, uh, do you think we should buy some weapons?” Dan asked. “I mean, I know it’s not that far back to the cave, but I really don’t want to waste any time.”

Phil nodded. “Yeah, and I think I saw a stall selling some pretty basic-looking stuff outside. You know the ‘swing and hopefully hit’ kind and not the ‘I’ve been training for years to use this’ kind.”

“That sounds right up our alley.”

Soon their pockets were significantly lighter, but they were far more prepared for adventuring with Dan in a set of studded leather armor with a mace and crossbow, and Phil with a club that came up almost to his waist. “First adventure?” the shopkeeper asked disinterestedly, counting the gold Dan had handed over.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Phil smiled.

“Yes, well, good luck and all that. Come back in one piece and buy more of my stuff.”

Phil laughed, but the shopkeeper didn’t, so he coughed awkwardly and dragged Dan away towards the forest. Just as Twill had said, the path was marked and easily found, and they made their way down the path. Phil paused when he heard his foot make an odd squelching noise when he lifted it. He glanced down and saw that he was standing in a good inch worth of wet, sticky spider web. He went to point his revelation out to Dan, but Dan was busy noticing the webs covering the trees surrounding them. When a sharp clicking noise filled the air, Phil just closed his eyes and groaned at their luck.

With one swift movement, one of the spiders scurried right at Phil, and he winced to brace for the bite that never came. Apparently, the spider had gotten a bad angle on his scaly arm and it quickly backed away, clicking angrily as another replaced it. This one failed as well, and Phil was feeling near invincible. The third spider apparently learned from its companions and attacked the far squishier Dan, but he managed to dodge and bash it over the head with his mace. The final one shot a string of webbing at him, but it aimed wide and shot over his head.

Dan whirled on Phil and hissed, “Can you breathe fire or not?” while once again, hitting the spider closest to him over the head.

“What? Oh! Right!” He took in a deep breath and let out a blistering line of fire that engulfed the three spiders that weren’t right next to Dan, then swung his club down on the one closest to him. Said spider didn’t particularly appreciate this, and bit down, this time getting a good grip on him. He howled in pain as venom ran its short course through his veins, and while he blinked away his blurry vision another spider took its chance and bit him as well.

“Phil!” Dan cried, and he scrambled to help him, ducking under the bite the spider he had been engaged with aimed at him. He swung his mace wildly, managing to hit the first spider sprawling. Still alive, but looking much worse for wear. He managed to yank Phil down just in time to dodge another shot of web, and Phil straightened with a mighty roar, and Dan had never seen him so angry. He let off two fireballs that left two of the spiders incinerated, and the other two looking a lot worse for wear. They still fought though, keeping their distance with a web attack, both of which failed. Dan narrowed his eyes and whipped out his new crossbow and planted a bolt in both of their heads with a swift, surprisingly easy movement.

Dan smirked to himself as he went to retrieve his bolts, thinking over the fight. This was actually pretty easy, maybe they weren’t as hopeless as they thought they were. He turned to tell Phil, but froze when he saw his boyfriend. He was breathing heavily while smoke furled up from the bright flames that filled his mouth. The wings on his back were twitching in time with his heaving shoulders, and the thick, heavy tail swished back and forth angrily. “Phil? Are you-” He cut himself off when Phil turned to him, blue eyes turned ice cold as he snarled and opened his mouth wider to deliver a flame attack.

Dan shrieked and dropped to the ground as a column of flame roared right over where his head had been a mere second before. When the heat died down he lifted a shaking hand from where it was covering his face to look at Phil. He was trembling like a leaf, his eyes were wide and horrified, his hands were clasped over his mouth and he looked like he was going to be sick. “Dan,” he croaked, and flinched at the puff of smoke that left his mouth. When he reached out, Dan recoiled, and he crouched down into a tight ball, clutching the horns on top of his head. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Dan. Fuck. Dan, I’m so sorry. Fuck.”

Dan stood and hesitantly walked towards Phil. He placed a hand on Phil’s, and steadfastly refused to flinch when Phil whipped his head up and blinked at him. His eyes were clear and scared and more human than Dan had seen them since they showed up here. His Phil was definitely back. “Phil? Are you… okay? What happened?”

“I- I don’t know?” Phil hiccupped. “We were fighting and those spiders bit me and I just kind of zoned out and I guess then we weren’t fighting but you were there and in my head you were an enemy and- oh my god, I almost killed you. Dan, god, I’m so sorry.”

Dan bit his lip, then fell to his knees and wrapped his boyfriend in a hug. Phil stiffened for a moment before melting into Dan’s embrace and hiding his face in Dan’s neck. Dan gently scratched his nails over the thin scales around the base of the horns and spikes on Phil’s head, and marveled at the almost purr it produced. “It’s okay,” he cooed, making sure to keep his petting up. “There, it’s alright. We’re both okay.”

“You almost died, and I would have been here all alone and it would have been all my fault,” Phil whispered.

“You would never hurt me, and we both know that,” Dan said sternly.

“Dan, I just-”

“You missed,” Dan interrupted. Dan could almost taste Phil’s question, so he elaborated. “You shot high. Even if I hadn’t ducked, I’d have been fine. We were at point blank range, and you missed. There was something in you that recognized me, I know it. I don’t know what came over you, but you fought it and won. You’re still the same Phil who made it his own personal mission to look after me eight years ago, and you’re still the man I’ve loved and trusted for just as long. It’s alright, Phil.”

Phil sat frozen for a moment, then pulled Dan into a tight hug. “God, what would I do without you?”

“I think the typical answer is crash and burn, but you’d probably do them backwards,” Dan joked. Phil let out a watery, weak laugh and allowed Dan to hoist him back onto his feet. “Alright, then. We’ve got a witch to find.”

“The sooner we get out of here, the better,” Phil agreed emphatically. Dan smiled at him for a moment before he realized something: he hadn’t held Phil’s hand since they found themselves here. Sure, they didn’t casually hold hands all that often in their own world and Phil probably hadn’t even noticed, but, damnit, Dan wanted to hold his boyfriend’s hand. So, he did, and if the look of shocked wonder Phil shot their intertwined fingers was any indication, he had taken note of the lack of affection.

Dan gave him a warm smile, and tugged him along down the path. Dan breathed a sigh of relief as what he presumed to be Estellaria’s keep. The first level looked like any cottage out of any children’s story book, but there was a tall tower popping out of the middle of it, topped with a bright purple onion cap roof. “Think this is the right place?” Dan joked, stepping into the clearing that surrounded it.

As soon as they cleared the tree line, everything stopped. Dan and Phil watched with bated breath as a hush fell over the clearing, and time stood still. Everything hung motionless for what could have been a second or a year, then there was a quiet pop and a hiss and they watched in horror as a giant snake, easily over twelve feet long, coiled into existence before their very eyes Against the desaturated world, the snake’s galactic purple pattern stood out beautifully, but Dan was a little too preoccupied to notice its beauty as it leveled uncomfortably intelligent eyes on them.

It flickered its tongue out at them a few times then smiled in a way that reminded Dan a bit too much of Jafar from Aladdin. “You weren’t invited here,” it said in a hissing voice that managed to sound both like warm honey and like something that shouldn’t be able to make noise at all. “You don’t even belong to this world, much lesssss my missssstressssss’ssssss home. I don’t take well to intrudersssss, yet I avoid fighting when I can. If you two will turn back and never return, I’d be more than happy to let you leave unharmed.”

Dan caught Phil’s eye and he nodded. Dan stiffened his upper lip in determination and said clearly,” “We’re not going anywhere. We need to see Estellaria and we’re not about to let some overgrown worm stop us now.”

The snake seemed like it would have shrugged if it had the shoulders to do so and said, “Fair enough.” It darted forward to bite Dan, but he managed to shriek and leap out of the way, falling on his ass while Phil leapt forward on its head, biting and slashing anything he could reach with his claws. It hissed in pain and reared back, trying to throw Phil off, and leaving it’s belly vulnerable. Dan quickly fumbled with his crossbow and fired, sinking two bolts in its flesh.

It let out a shriek, and deciding that it wasn’t going to shake Phil off any time soon, it aimed at Dan again and spat venom at him. However, with Phil going to town on it’s face, it missed, dissolving a nearby tree. Dan cheered him on and shot again,darting around behind it to see if he could find any other weaknesses.

This was apparently a mistake, however, because as he leapt over its tail, it smacked him backwards and dove down with a vicious bite. Dan howled in pain as fire licked his blood, making him writhe in pain on the ground. Phil yelped, delivered two cones of fire right between the snake’s eyes and was leaping down to join Dan before the snake even hit the ground. “Dan! Oh, my god, are you okay?”

Dan shuddered and gave a tiny little smile. “Well, I’ve been bitten by a giant snake so I suppose I could be better.”

Phil let out a near hysterical chuckle, and scooped Dan up in his arms. He couldn’t imagine how Philip managed to live like this; Dan was so much more fragile than he was in this form. “Don’t you worry about it. Estellaria will get you fixed right up. I’ll make her.”

“You’ll make me do what, exactly?”

Phil whirled around at the familiar voice and watched as Estellaria came floating down from a tower window, surrounded by a sparkling purple light. When she landed and the light faded, Phil noticed that her hair, still purple, seemed to sparkle and shimmer with its own light source and the glowing marks on her cheeks definitely weren’t paint.

“Your pet snake bit my boyfriend, and I think he’s going to die if you don’t do something quick,” Phil said in a rush. He gestured towards where the snake’s body should have been, but saw that the space was completely empty and there was no trace of a fight.

Estellaria crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. “Well, I know Vedette, and it wouldn’t have attacked without warning, so I think this falls squarely on your shoulders.

Phil gritted his teeth, but something primal within him reacted to the raw power Estellaria was emanating and he knew fighting her was a bad idea. He clutched Dan tighter and looked at her with pleading eyes. “Please help him. I’ll do anything.”

She pursed her lips for a moment before sighing and snapping her fingers. Dan sat up ramrod straight in Phil’s arms and Phil tried his best to refrain from pulling Dan into the tightest hug of his life. He barely succeeded. “Your friend will be fine. You can put him down now.” Phil ignored this bit of advice, and she raised a brow, but said nothing. “I was actually expecting you two to show up. I’m honestly surprised that you all made it to this point so quickly, but the watch never lies.” She pulled out the watch in question, a large silver pocket watch with a rounded hourglass etched on it. “As a matter of fact, your little friends should be calling you with some interesting information riiiight... abooooout… now.”

Phil, bad news.

Phil narrowed his eyes at Estellaria, but she just curled her lips up into a self-satisfied smirk. I’m guessing it has something to do with Stella.

Damn right. Apparently, she doesn’t exist here.

What? Dan cut in quickly. She has to exist. We talked to her! She gave me some of her crumpet!

Look, that was Philip, we called the castle and they say they’ve never even heard of anyone named Stella working there. I even called Martyn and he just said that he worked with a man named Markus and that’s who gave you the rooms. Something’s going on here, and I don’t like it.

We may have someone who knows exactly what’s going on Phil thought, finally putting Dan down so he could turn to Estellaria with his chest puffed out to its most intimidating. “Alright, spill. Where is she? Where’s Stella? We know there’s a version of you in our world, where is she?”

“Oh, there definitely is and Estella Farfalla in your world. However, she’s a mousy, private woman who lives in the Italian countryside and has never traveled more than a four hours from her front door, much less obtained a job in England.”

“Then who was that we talked to?”

“Oh, you’re not the brightest candle on the shelf, are you?” she said with what sounded like genuine sympathy. “Come on, now. Think! Those lizard brains are mainly wired to eat people, but they’re a multi-purpose tool.”

“Look, we get it,” Dan snapped. “Somehow or another, we were talking to you. What I want to know is how.”

Estellaria looked absolutely delighted at Dan’s question. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Call up your friends and tell them to take two steps back and watch.”

Daniel, I need you and Philip to take a couple steps back.

What? Why?

Would you please just fucking do it?

Alright, fine, but only because Philip is having this same conversation.

Estellaria smiled a cunning smile, and with a flourish, she pulled out a pair of scissors. Phil was about to question her, but she opened the blades and flicked them forwards and up like she was trying to cut the air.

And she did.

Phil watched, mouth agape, as she snipped through the air, a swirling blue rip in reality formed behind her scissors. When it was a few metres tall - definitely big enough to easily crawl through - she put her scissors away, and just stuck her head straight through the portal. Dan and Phil both made noises of shocked protest, but she just held up a hand telling them to stop. She immerged moments later with Daniel and Philip’s hands grasped tightly in her own.

They blinked away the spots in their eyes as they looked around the clearing. In one quick synchronized movement, they both recoiled in shock and horror when they saw Dan and Phil standing in front of them. Daniel was the first to react and he snarled, “What the fuck is going on? Who are you? What did you do? Put us back.”

Estellaria hummed and looked at Daniel and Philip, who looked like they were about to fight everyone in the clearing with their bare hands. “Let’s go inside, shall we?

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Daniel fidgeted with the teacup in his hands as he glared around the room. The fortune teller had teleported them all into her study up in her tower, which Daniel hated because teleportation spells always made him sick to his stomach, and now she was just flitting around avoiding all their questions. Dan and Phil seemed to be fine with this whole situation and just drank their tea while sitting disgustingly close to one another. He considered saying something to them (it was bad enough being stuck in a the body of the person dating his best friend, but he didn’t deserve to have to watch his own body do it) but Philip caught his eye and subtly shook his head. At least in all of this Philip was acting normal. He was casing the room with his sharp eyes and his fingers drummed on the cup of his now cold tea.

Daniel’s blood caught fire when Philip finished looking Estellaria over and gave him a look. Daniel raised a brow to confirm what he thought he had read, and Phil just smirked and shot a pointed look at Estellaria’s turned back. Daniel ran his fingers over the handle of the clearly magical dagger he had palmed on the way up. He held his breath and carefully, silently made his way across the room, right up behind Estellaria.

Then he stabbed her in the back.

There was a sudden flurry of movement when Philip tackled Dan to take his crossbow and Daniel stole the magic scissors that had brought him here. He darted back to Philip’s side and brandished a whip he grabbed from a display. It had been a very long time since he’d used a whip, and he was rusty, but he was still more than capable of doing some kind of damage with it. He snapped it once to show he meant business and glared at the fortune teller while Philip had the crossbow pointed at their doubles to be sure that there wasn’t any funny business. He held up the scissors with his free hand and demanded, “All right. Answers, now. What are these things? Who are you? Why did you do this to us?”

Estellaria clucked her tongue in an almost bored way and pulled out her pocket watch. She gave it a quick look and raised her eyes in mild shock. “You’re actually a bit ahead of schedule. I guess even the Fates are sure of how short that temper of yours is,” she said pleasantly. “Regardless, we’re not throwing off the stream if we get this ball rolling a little sooner than planned. What you have in your hand is a pair of interdimensional scissors.” Daniel took a moment to give her a shocked look, and she laughed. “Yes, anywhere in the planar system is available to me with just a couple snips. I’m going to combine your last two questions as they’re very interwoven.

“My name is Estellaria Butterfly, I’m a wizard who studies Divination, a scientist doing research on the idea of a multiverse, and an acolyte of the god Cyndor. I’ve followed him for years and it’s been mostly silence, but a few weeks ago he came to me with a quest. Obviously, I could hardly say no, so I orchestrated for you two to be on either side of that mirror so that I could make the swap. I genuinely don’t know what he has planned, but according to this-” she pulled her watch back out, “you’re meant to go see him when you’re done here. I suppose you’ll find out before me.”

“Wait a second,” Phil said, keeping his hands up in surrender. “We don’t have to go see this guy at all. We have the answer here, let’s just switch back and go home.”

“Oh, ah, yes, no can do,” Estellaria answered. “See the thing about the Plane of Thought is that it’s super not good with magic, that’s why we haven’t been able to get there with magic other than my scissors, and Cyndor gave those to me. The both of you are in magical bodies now, and magical bodies last for about an hour over there before having to return back here. Besides, dear, you’re a dragon. I doubt you could live a normal life bearing scales, wings and a tail.”

“Plus, I doubt it would be very culturally appropriate for me, a white guy, to just show up on camera suddenly grey with no explanation,” Dan pointed out.

“Most importantly, any solution to this that doesn’t wind up with me back as a dragon is no solution for me,” Philip cut in.

Estellaria clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, good, good. You’ve gotten to the part of the discussion where you’ve decided that going to see Cyndor is the only way. Go on then! I’ve packed you all lunches, but you really must get out of my home now. Here’s your food and a map to Cyndor. Have fun!” She shoved some paper bags in their hands and ushered them out the door. “All right! Never come back!” Then she slammed the door in their face.

Philip growled and reared back and punched the door with all his strength. There was a loud, unpleasant crunching sound and turned back to them, cradling his hand to his chest. “I am in serious pain, and I’m pretty sure I broke my hand just now.”

Daniel rolled his eyes and grabbed Philip’s hand and looked it over. Sure enough, the fingers were twisted and curled at unnatural and uncomfortable angles. “Well, it’s definitely broken. I hope you know some way to fight things without using your hands.”

“Can’t we use a potion or something?” Philip asked. “You get mangled all the time and a sip later you’re fit as a fiddle.”

“Potions don’t fix bone,” Daniel corrected. “Don’t you remember when I broke my ankle and was laid up for like a month?”

“It would have been a week, but you kept trying to do things before you were healed.”

“Still. All the potions in the world won’t help you now.”

Philip grumbled under his breath and looked over at Dan and Phil. “Well? Do either of you have any medical kits?”

“Er, no,” Dan said awkwardly. “But we’re not too far outside of Lundy and we met someone there who might be able to help.”

Daniel pursed his lips and nodded. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Dan nodded, grabbed Phil’s hand and turned to walk into the trees. Daniel fell into step at Philip’s side, and when Dan and Phil were out of earshot he muttered, “Are you all right?”

Philip shot him a wry grin. “Well, this body is incredibly fragile, and I hate it, but I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re after.”

Daniel snorted. “Well, so long as you don’t keel over any time soon. I hate to say it, but I kind of like having you around.”

Philip fidgeted with his hands and stared down at the ground. “Yeah, about that.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. “What about it?”

Philip sighed and leaned his head back. “Okay, assuming we do manage to make it out of this alive, I’m going to be going into hibernation.”

“How- How long does that last?”

“It can last up to 500 years or more.”

Daniel froze and looked at him with wide eyes. “500 years? Philip, I could die before you even wake up.”

Philip nodded tersely. “I know. It may not happen, but this whole ordeal has really drained me. It takes a lot of magic to keep me going, and being in that world without magic was exhausting.”

Daniel scowled and kicked a rock down the path. “This is shitty,” he said, definitely not pouting at all. “I’m going to kick this Cyndor’s ass so hard.”

Philip smirked at him. “You’re going to kick a god’s ass because I’m going to hibernate? I’m touched. I didn’t know you cared that much.”

Daniel rolled his eyes and said nothing, following along behind Dan and Phil. They walked in silence (well, he and Philip did; Dan and Phil chatted together the whole time) all the way into town. Everyone they met shot Dan and Phil suspicious looks, but they just responded with charming smiles. Between that and the fact that the duo was now a quartet, everyone kept off their backs. Daniel was almost jealous. Within a few minutes, they were knocking on the front door of a homely inn. A round faced woman with a tall white oak staff opened the door and gave them a friendly smile and a blank stare. “Can I help you?”

“Hello, Miss Averdene,” Phil said pleasantly. “We’re looking for a place to stay tonight, and were wondering if you had any rooms. We’re friends of Twill; could you tell them that Da- er, James and Michael are here? And that we brought our, um, brothers.”

“Absolutely!” she beamed. “Any friend of Twill’s is welcome here at any time. I’ll show you up to your rooms. How many do you need?”

“Two, if you have them.”

“We do. They’re both single beds, though.”

Daniel was about to open his mouth and ask for a third room, but Phil cut him off. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly fine. Also, um, if you have it, we’d really like a roll of bandages. My brother broke his hand.”

Miss Averdene smiled and went led the way to the front desk, tapping her staff to feel for any obstacles. She ducked behind the counter and within moments emerged clutching two keys and a roll of strong, thin cloth that she handed over to Philip. “This way, boys!” she chirped, headed for the stairs. Once they were away from the more crowded tavern that made up the entrance, she quit using her staff and they had a hard time keeping up with her quick, spry pace. She flung open two doors right next to each other, with a “Here you go! I’ll be sure to send Twill right up,” and with a swish of her long apron, she was gone.

“Come on,” Dan ordered, stepping into one of the rooms. “We need to go over what we’re doing.” He and Phil sat on the bed, perfectly in sync, and pulled out the map, flattening it over the blanket. “Okay, so it’s actually not that far to Cyndor’s fortress. Phil, you can make that in a night, right?”

“If we could leave a little before sunset, I can probably get that far with a couple hours to spend with this guy. Daniel and Philip will probably be stuck there for the day, or they’ll have to fly by day, but it’s better than us being stuck like this for an extra day, I think.”

“Yeah. What do you two think?”

“This will be fine, but Daniel and I will need supplies,” Philip said, looking over the map.

“No problem. Twill knows everyone and everything in this town. There’s some place here they would trust enough. You two get some sleep now and we’ll do some research on Cyndor. Phil, don’t you have a book that talks about him?”

Phil looked up from the books he was already flipping through. “Two, at least. With any luck we’ll know as much as possible for tomorrow.”

There was a sharp rap on the door and Dan grinned. “Perfect timing.” He opened the door and on the other side was a tall, gangly Drow leaning on the doorframe. “Twill!”

“Hello, pumpkin,” they cooed flirtatiously, pinching Dan’s cheek. “I heard my two favorite boys were back already. Miss me?” Their eyes slid over to where Daniel and Philip were standing with their arms crossed, and they looked delighted. “Dan, you’ve got to tell me what is going on.”

“Meet Daniel and Philip,” Dan introduced. “The real Daniel and Philip, that is. Somehow, Phil and I swapped places with them and now we’re like this.”

“So, this is what you two actually look like?” they asked, waltzing up to Daniel and Philip. “I must say, you’re both rather nice to look at. If I had any interest in humans, you’d be just my type.”

Dan flushed darkly and laughed off their comment, but Daniel just scowled. “Look, can you help us or not?” he snapped.

Twill’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I think I’m already helping you by not turning you into the police, and making sure you have a place to lay low in this city from here on. But, if you think that I’m not doing that well enough, I can always send a runner for the captain.”

Daniel growled under his breath. “That won’t be necessary. Look, we just need a place where we can gear up. We’re going to kick a god’s ass, and we need more than a club and a dinky crossbow. Can you tell us where to buy that stuff?”

Twill tapped their lower lip in thought for a moment before they snapped and said, “I think I can do you one better. Let me talk to one of my guys and I’ll get back with you in the morning.” They turned to Phil with a sly grin. “Also, did I hear something about fighting a god? What are you two up to?”

Phil laughed. “Hopefully getting home. With any luck, you won’t be seeing us again. Which is a bit of a shame honestly.”

They waved him off. “No, no. I understand. Besides, I’ll have these two to play with.”

“I’ll admit that connections in Lundy would be helpful,” Philip said. He shot Daniel a look and he didn’t need telepathy to know it was more for his sake than Philip’s.

“All right then.” They nodded, clapping their hands together. “I’ll leave you be, and see if I can get a hold of my friend. If not, I’ll figure out what weapon stall would best suit you. Either way, I’ll see you four in the morning. Good niiiiight!” With that, they were gone.

“You two should probably get some sleep,” Phil advised. “Dan and I will stay in here and see what we can find.”

“We’ll meet downstairs just before sundown?” Philip confirmed.

“They actually serve dinner right around then, so let’s just meet for that,” Dan suggested. “We’ll eat and then go kick some ass.”

Daniel just grunted and without saying another word, shuffled his way to the next room. He meant to stay awake to talk everything over with Philip, but as soon as his head hit the pillow he was dead to the world.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Dan smiled as he watched the people in the tavern laugh and sing together. Twill had been kind enough to make him a special dinner that catered specifically to his new Drow sensitivities, and he was really enjoying it. He and Phil had laughed at the plate full of black food, but it had all been incredibly tasty and reminded Dan of that time he’d tried going vegan. Maybe he’d try again when he got back.

There was a loud cheer and the band started up a bright, upbeat tune and everyone started partnering off. Dan looked around in confusion, and, as if summoned, Twill appeared at his side. “Go ask Phil to dance,” they ordered, plucking a mushroom off his plate.

“What? Why?”

“Because this is a traditional dance for married and betrothed people,” they answered plainly.

Dan chuckled and tried not to blush. “Phil and I aren’t engaged.”

Twill raised a brow. “Neither are half the people out there. Besides, maybe you should change that.”

Dan bit his lower lip. “But we don’t know the dance.”

“Easy. Just get in the back of the line and watch. Now, quit stalling or you’ll miss it.”

Dan beamed and scurried off to the bar where Phil was looking at the map one more time. “Dance with me.”

Phil blinked, clearly startled. “What?”

Dan grinned, weirdly breathless. “Dance with me.”

Phil gave the room a quick, reflexive sweep before looking at Dan with pure delight. He hopped down off the bar stool and Dan grabbed his hand to take him to the dancefloor. Twill was right, the dance was incredibly easy. Along with the rest of the room, they grabbed hands and stepped right up to one another’s side and then swapped off circling the other then joined in the line to duck under everyone else’s arm arch, split up, and ran back to the end to do it all again. As the song repeated its declarations of loving and protecting each other forever, it got faster and faster until Dan and Phil were laughing and stumbling all over one another as they tried to keep up with the more experienced dancers. As they danced, Dan looked up into Phil’s eyes that were shining down at him with more love and affection that should be possible, and he thought about the last thing Twill had said to him. Maybe I should do something about that.

All too soon, the song ended, and they both made their way back to where they had left Twill, only to find them chatting with Daniel. As they approached, the conversation was abruptly cut off, leaving Twill looking very satisfied with something and Daniel almost embarrassed. “So, did you two manage to buy some good weapons?” Phil asked, sitting across from the pair.

“Better,” Daniel answered. “Twill got one of their wizard friends to teleport us to the cave so we could grab all of our old stuff. I asked if he’d be willing to just teleport us to Cyndor, but he got mad and said that he only burned that high of a spell slot on us as a personal favor to Twill and that he had better things to do than that. Then he turned into a cat and scampered off.”

“Adonin Silverkin,” said Twill proudly. “He managed to accidentally get himself turned into a cat, but he’s got in under control now.”

Daniel looked at him weirdly but shook his head and went on. “Anyway. Philip went out to get some first aid supplies and a spellbook.”

“What does he need a spellbook for?”

“Well, he can’t very well fight with his hand like that, can he? He says he’s going to try to tap into any magic that he can and see if he can just make it work. It’s our best shot at any rate.”

“Hopefully he gets here soon, the sun’s almost down and we need to get out of here,” Phil said.

The front door swung open and Daniel grinned. “Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Come on. It’s go time.”

“Don’t forget to tell me all about it when you get back,” Twill said with a sly grin. “Have fun!”

Daniel rolled his eyes and stomped off, but Dan and Phil hung back for a moment to say proper goodbyes. “You know, I only met you yesterday, but I’m gonna miss you, Twill,” Dan said with a bittersweet smile.

“Well, with any luck you’ll find the Twill of your world. I doubt they’ll be as wonderful as the original, but you can try.”

Dan laughed and pulled Phil outside where Daniel and Philip were waiting. Philip led the way to a good take off spot he had found earlier, and before they knew it, they were in the air on their way to fight a god. The flight was long but easy, so Daniel and Philip took this chance to catch a few extra winks. Naturally, Dan got a bit bored and did what he always did when he was bored. He talked to Phil.

Is it just me, or does this remind you of one of those self care memes? Self care is getting body switched with your magical creature selves from another plane and fist fighting god to get back home.

Oh my god, you’re right, it totally does.

Right?!

You should Tweet that when we get home.

Dan smiled happily, thinking of finally getting to sleep in his bed with Phil again. Speaking of Phil, Hey, how are you doing with all this flying?

Honestly?

Do I ever want anything but?

Well, my shoulders hurt like a bitch and I’m exhausted, but we’re so close to getting home that I’m not about to stop.

You sure?

Sure. This can’t be any harder than filing taxes.

The first time you filed our taxes you were up for two days straight, and you drank so much coffee you were practically colorblind for three days.

Phil laughed at that, which shook his whole body, waking Philip up. “Are we there yet?” he demanded sleepily.

Dan shook his head. “Not yet. We’re probably about a half hour out, though.”

Philip nodded his head solemnly. “Good. We’re staying on time. What did you two learn about Cyndor?”

Dan shrugged. “Not much. He’s really old and wasn’t well known back then since he’s such a minor god. He’s from the Suel religion and he’s a servant of Lendor.”

“Yes, but what does he do?”

“That’s the thing,” Dan frowned. “His main thing is just to watch and record everything that happens and keep the time stream from being disrupted by some greater power. He’s very non-interference, and even if he wasn’t why would he do this? It’s not like any of us are time travelers or something who wants to fuck shit up.”

Philip groaned and ran his fingers through his hair in a way that was so reminiscent of Phil that Dan had to bite his lip to keep himself from kissing the worried crease off of his forehead. “I’ve been alive for centuries, and I’ve never dealt with gods,” he admitted. “I don’t even follow a god really. I have no idea what to expect from this, and, to be perfectly frank, I’m terrified.”

Dan jerked, looking at him in shock. “What? But Daniel seems fine.”

“Daniel is the main reason I’m worried,” Philip said tersely. “The way I see it, Phil is the most likely person to survive this. The rest of us? We’re all in fragile, flesh sacks that break over nothing.” He gestured with his broken hand for emphasis. “Against a god we’re useless. Worse than useless.”

Dan frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.” At Philip’s confused look, he explained, “Daniel’s been keeping up with you for all these years, hasn’t he? Well, this is definitely going to make things harder for him, but I doubt he’s about to roll over and give up. I know I’m not giving up anything until I’m back home, so either you can get on this positivity train, or you can stay at the landing site, because I’m not about to let a quitter get my boyfriend’s body killed. I’ll admit I’m not super fond of dating a dragon.” This caused another full body chuckle from Phil and Dan grinned.

Philip raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Well, I guess I’m out numbered. Let’s go fight a god.”

The rest of the flight passed with Dan, Philip, and Daniel - who had woken up about ten minutes before landing - talking about their plan of attack. Dan was going to come in on the back of Phil in dragon to cause a diversion form while Daniel and Philip snuck around the edges and tried to get the drop on him from behind. It wasn’t exactly the most elegant plan, but it’s all they had. They had landed and Dan and Phil were about to kick down the door when Daniel snapped his fingers.

“Dan, I have something for you, I almost forgot!” He reached into his bag and started pulling something comically long out. One end was sharp and pointed, but the other was a protected leather handle and this was the side Daniel gave him. “This is a magical lance. It doesn’t take too much training, just ride on Phil and point it at whoever you want to stab.”

Dan nodded and took the weapon, marveling at how light it felt in his hand. “I’ll give it a shot. Come on, Phil.”

As he climbed back on, careful not to stab himself or Phil with his new toy, he felt Phil’s mind enter his own. You ready for this?

He snorted and smiled. Of course not. But you’re here, so I can give it a shot. He felt Phil chuckle, then rear back up on his hind legs and knock in the door.

Inside was chaos. As soon as the doors flew open bats of all sizes swarmed the air around them. Dan swung wildly with his mace, trying to hit anything, but they just flew around him. They didn’t attack, they just flew in a very close formation, making it impossible to see anything. This gave a previously unnoticed giant ice man to swing his greataxe at Phil. Fortunately, its attack bounced harmlessly off Phil’s thick scales, but its partner got in a good hit, knocking him back.

Phil snarled, and opened his mouth, but instead of fire, a cone of white gas unfurled and surrounded the two giants. Dan shot Phil a questioning look, but the giants seemed to have become exhausted and Dan wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity. Grabbing Daniel’s lance in his left hand, he scrambled up Phil’s neck and stabbed the closest giant in the arm. When he removed it, the wound glowed a bright gold before dimming back down. The giant looked startled for a moment before taking its axe and swinging. The first his slashed Dan right across the stomach, but the second was with the flat of the blade which sent him flying back in a moaning heap.

Dan! Are you okay?

Honestly, I’ve been better, Philly.

Phil was about to respond, but the second giant sluggishly lifted its axe to attack. Before it could do so, Phil narrowed his eyes and shot a cone of flames in its face. Dan managed to sit back up as it screamed in pain and fired off three bolts in a line across its forehead. The first giant reared back to attack, but Phil grabbed the axe in his jaw and knocked the giant off balance. With a weak roar, the second giant attacked again, sinking its axe in Phil’s side.

Phil went to take it out, but Dan sent a quick, I’ve got this one so he leveled his gaze on the dazed giant and pounces with slashing teeth and claws while Dan shot another round of arrows into the other, finishing it off. The giant, not appreciating Phil’s bodily attack, weakly lifted a rock to try and smash over Phil’s head, but Phil headbutted it out of its hands. Phil was about to attack, but he heard Dan shout, “Phil! Watch it!” and jerked with a start. He looked up just in time to see what he had thought was a giant, featureless statue in the middle of the cave come striding towards him with a giant sword drawn. Before he could do anything, the statue swung its sword twice, slashing him with both swings. Phil yelped in pain, but let out another cone of fire.

With a war cry, Dan jumped off Phil’s back and onto the downed frost giant, lance at the ready. He stabbed it down right in a chink of its armor. “Daniel! Philip! We could really use some help!”

“At your service,” Philip smirked, stepping out of the shadows. Dan looked over to see Philip raise a hand with his finger pointed towards him and the giant. Without a second though, he jumped to the ground just as the giant was engulfed in flames. The force from the blast knocked Dan through the air and he tumbled to a stop right at Philip’s feet. Philip quickly helped him up to his feet and they turned towards where Phil was still doing battle with the statue.

“What-” Dan panted. “What is that thing?”

“Well, I think it’s Cyndor,” Philip said frankly. They both ducked out of the way from a blast of fire and Philip grinned. “Phil seems to be doing well, too.”

“We have to help them!” Dan insisted, leaping forwards. But, Philip grabbed him around the waist and hauled him back. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing you,” Philip snapped. “You look close to death. We’ll help in just a moment; Daniel’s got backup covered for now.”

As Dan watched, Daniel suddenly appeared up on the ceiling and dropped right down onto Cyndor’s neck, hacking away with a pair of daggers. Cyndor reached back to swat Daniel away, but he flipped out of reach, leaving Cyndor open for Phil to attack with his tail.

We’re pretty good at this! Phil broadcasted as Daniel stabbed with his trusty daggers again.

Sure, we are, bud Daniel responded. Just make sure you let me know before you light this asshole up.

Cyndor moved suddenly and stabbed Phil causing the dragon to let out a shriek of pain. I’m lighting him on fire! He warned with just enough time for Daniel to leap out of the way. By the time the smoke had cleared, Dan had charged in with his lance leveled and Philip was shouting arcane words that filled Phil’s chest with vigor. About time you two got here, he joked.

I’ll have you know we kicked that giant’s ass Dan bragged. And we’re about to kick this guy’s ass.

Daniel leapt forward to do his stabbing again, but Cyndor slashed him straight out of the air with his sword. Phil yelped in shock and tried once again set the god ablaze, but he nimbly ducked out of the way, but was still badly scorched. Dan was about to charge forward again, but he held up his massive hands and shouted “ENOUGH!” The whole world seemed to tremble with his word and the three standing party members froze against their wishes. “YOU FOUR HAVE BROUGHT YOURSELVES BEFORE ME. WHAT IS IT YOU SEEK?”

Phil glanced around the room and melted into his humanoid shape, vaguely pleased to know that it looked more human now. “All we want is to go home.”

This seemed to snap the spell, and Philip darted to where Daniel was leaned up against a wall, clutching his side. Cyndor looked them over, his completely featureless face predictably difficult to read. “NO. I CANNOT ALLOW IT. YOU FOUR DISRUPT THE STREAM.”

Phil blinked in shock. “I’m sorry, we do what now?”

Cyndor growled and turned away from them and waved his hand through the air. As he did so, 25 colorful discs of light materialized in thin air and began dancing around each other in what Phil recognized to be the planar system he and Dan had spent so long studying the night before. “BEHOLD. THE PLANES OF EXISTENCE. MY DOMINION.”

“We’ve all seen the planar system,” Daniel snapped. “You haven’t told us jack shit about what’s happening now, though. I want to know why we’re stuck like this and what you’re going to do to fix this mess.”

Cyndor looked directly at him, and though he didn’t have them, Phil was pretty sure he narrowed his eyes. “I DO NOT DOUBT THAT YOU HAVE SEEN YOUR PLANAR SYSTEM. WHAT YOU FAIL TO COMPREHEND IS WHAT LIES BEYOND.”  He waved his hands again in a grand parting gesture and the image of the planar system zoomed out in a dramatic light show. Now, the entire cave was filled with the same image of the planar system. Or, well, they weren’t exactly the same. At first glance they appeared identical, but upon closer investigation, Phil noticed that they all moved in slightly different ways. One here had the outer planes spiralling up and around it before falling to the side only to do it all again, and this one here had the plane of magic cutting straight through the prime material and thought planes. “THIS IS BUT A FRACTION OF THE WORLDS THAT EXIST. ALL DIFFERENT, BUT THEY ALL SHARE A LIKENESS. HOWEVER, WHAT I AM INTERESTED IN IS THE FOUR OF YOU.”

“What about us?” Phil asked cautiously.

Cyndor waved his hand again, and this time a larger disc appeared right in front of him so they could all see. On this disc flashed pictures of Dan and Phil and Daniel and Philip living lives they never lived. “THE MULTIVERSE IS HELD TOGETHER BY THREADS THAT CONNECT THEM CALLED CONSTANTS. YOU ARE CONSTANTS. IN EVERY WORLD THERE IS A DANIEL AND A PHILIP WHO FIND EACH OTHER. THEY DIFFER FROM SYSTEM TO SYSTEM, BUT IN ALL CASES, THE DANIEL AND PHILIP OF THE THOUGHT PLANE MIRROR THE DANIEL AND PHILIP OF THE PRIME MATERIAL PLANE.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?” Philip cut in. “Correct me if I’m misunderstanding, but from what I gather, there are countless versions of us? Not just the two here?”

“IN ALL WORLDS THERE IS A DANIEL AND PHILIP WHO CONNECT THE PRIME MATERIAL PLANE TO THE PLANE OF THOUGHT. THEY ARE ALL FOUR ONE AND THE SAME. HERE YOU DIFFERENT. YOUR DIFFERENCE IS WHAT DISRUPTS THE STREAM, AND THAT IS WHY I CANNOT ALLOW YOU TO GO BACK AS YOU WERE. THE ONLY WAY TO FIX THIS IS TO TRAIN YOU TO BE THE SAME.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” All eyes turned on Dan who had been surprisingly quiet the whole conversation. “I don’t care if we have this magical destiny that we didn’t know of. You can’t expect us to be the same; our lives are too different. I don’t know if you noticed, but Philip is a dragon.”

“THAT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE. YOU MUST -- ”

“Also, Daniel is an orphan who was basically kidnapped and also discriminated against at every turn. Phil and I are a couple of rich white dudes who’ve basically had whatever we wanted handed to us our whole lives. Obviously, we’re going to be different. We’re different people.”

“There’s no way Philip and I could do what Dan and Phil do,” Daniel added. “We were only there for a few days, but the pressure of millions of eyes watching your every move was far too much for us to handle.”

“YOU KNOW NOT -- ”

“In addition, have you ever considered our similarities?” Philip asked slyly. “You emphasized that in all worlds Daniel and Philips belong together? Well, here we are.”

“Our relationships may be different, but that doesn’t make them any less valid than the other,” Phil added. “Aside from the romance stuff, Dan is my best friend and the most important person in my life. These two like to act differently, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same case there. We may not be the same, but we found each other despite all the odds. I’m pretty sure that counts for something.”

Cyndor looked like he was about to argue, but Dan stepped forward, an angry glint in his eye. “All right, we’ve tried doing this the nice way. You want to see me angry? Well, here we go. I know that elves live for a very long time and I know you know that this elf is still very young. You also know that dragons live even longer and that this dragon is also young. If you don’t get us back where we belong then I can assure you that you’ll never forget about this elf and dragon. We’ll work day in and day out trying to get home, and there’s nothing you can do to stop us. In fact, I’d like to see you try.”

There was a sputtering cough and they turned to see Daniel gaping at Dan. “To be perfectly honest, there’s not much we can do on our side,” he shrugged. Then he grinned that Phil had seen on Dan’s face many times before something terrible happened. “However, I can still steal stuff. You send us back and we’re going to get farther away from this order that you seem to want so bad. You’ll have wanted criminals Daniel and Philip studying in the library and smiling at old ladies and you’ll have role models Dan and Phil robbing everyone around them blind. Your choice.”

Cyndor growled and clapped his hands and Phil reached out one hand towards Dan before he fell into a deep sleep.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Being an elf, Daniel didn’t sleep much, and only the most powerful of spells could magically cause him to sleep, so he didn’t wake up very often. He did, however, have enough experience to know that there were some ways to wake up that were nice - after a good 12 hours of sleep, safe and comfortable in your own bed - and some ways that weren’t - having the cave you were magically drugged in shake with the thunderous shouts of an angry god being yelled at by an angrier god.

“HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE DONE?”

“YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. WHAT I HAVE DONE WAS NECESSARY.”

“THERE ARE MORTALS FROM THE PLANE OF THOUGHT ON THIS PLANE. THE CONSTANTS ARE ALL ON ONE PLANE. NOTHING NECESSITATES THIS.”

“THEY WERE NEVER MEANT TO JOIN TOGETHER. I HAD NO WAY OF KNOWING THE WITCH WOULD BETRAY ME.”

Daniel glances around at his companions who were still sleeping. Well, he didn’t have time or patience to lay about. As he did most things, he quickly and silently slipped his bonds and dashed to the shadows to have a look at what was going on. Cyndor was standing at attention in the middle of the room, and in front of him a man even larger than Cyndor was pacing back and forth, and against his long, wild white beard a medallion bounced with every gesture. Daniel immediately recognized the symbol of the moon and stars from several artifacts he had stolen from a temple dedicated to Lendor. Having gathered all the information he needed, Daniel started creeping back to the group to try and gather everyone to get out of there. They may have been holding their own against Cyndor, but he didn’t even want to think about trying to fight anyone more powerful. In fact, he was still slashed up and aching from the previous fight. No, the best thing to do would be for them to leave and regroup. Maybe they could go see the witch again, as she apparently wasn’t as aligned with Cyndor as she led them to believe.

And then he sneezed.

Before he could even realize what he had done, a flaming greatsword with a blade as wide as Daniel was tall slammed to the ground a hair’s breadth away from his nose. Gritting his teeth to keep from shaking like a leaf, Daniel turned to see Lendor glaring down at him with eyes that swirled like the cosmos. “Uh, hi?”

Lendor kept staring at him for several beats before booming out, “YOU ARE THE ONE WHO BELONGS HERE.”

“Bingo,” Daniel said, snapping and pointing at the god. He had never done that before in his life, and was so looking forward to getting rid of all of the different nervous ticks of this body. “So, yeah, if you could get us back where we belong, that’d actually be pretty amazing. Gonna be honest, I hate being human. You get us home and we’ll gladly go back to stabilizing the universe and all that jazz.”

Lendor’s face didn’t lighten from his gruff, stormy complexion, but he did stash his sword, so Daniel took that as a win. They both just stood in silence staring at one another until Lendor nodded. “I SHALL CONSIDER SENDING YOU HOME. WAKE THE OTHERS.”

Cyndor stepped in to protest. “LENDOR, YOU CANNOT DO THIS. YOU TOLD ME TO GUARD THE PLANES AND THE STREAM, ALLOW ME THE FREEDOM TO DO IT AS I SEE FIT.”

“AS YOU SEE FIT?” Lendor roared, rounding on his son. “YOU DO NOT SEEM TO KNOW THE MEANING OF THE WORD. NO, I SHALL RESOLVE THAT WHICH YOU HAVE UPSET AND YOU SHALL DO NOTHING TO INTERFERE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“FATHER, I SIMPLY--”

“ENOUGH! ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU AND YOU SHALL JOIN YOUR SISTER IN BANISHMENT.” This seemed to sufficiently cow Cyndor as he quieted and stepped back. Lendor turned back to Daniel and said, “YOUR PRESENCE IN THAT OTHER WORLD CAUSED MORE TROUBLE THAN YOU KNOW.”

“All I know is that it caused me more trouble than I want to deal with ever again.” Daniel grinned and darted over to Philip’s side and violently shook him. “Wake up, you python,” he hissed. “We’re in a meeting with a god and I need someone who actually knows how to speak to back me up.”

Philip was on his feet in an instant, his eyes bulging out of his head as he stared at the two gods before them. “I- I-”

“Great, you’re broken,” Daniel scoffed, moving to wake up Dan and Phil. “Hopefully one of these chuckle fucks will do a little better than that.”

“What’s happening?” Dan mumbled, rubbing his eyes, ears twitching every which a way.

Daniel rolled his eyes at the lack of emoting control and said, “Cyndor knocked us out. Now his boss is here and we’re talking.”

“Lendor?” Dan clarified, ears going straight up in the air. “Is he going to send us home?”

“I think so?” Daniel shrugged. “Honestly, I was a little distracted by his giant flame sword and didn’t pay attention.”

Dan groaned and rolled over to quickly wake Phil up and they were both on their feet. Daniel watched in almost awe as they muttered a few quick words to each other and then turned to face Lendor with matching smiles on their faces. Gone were the awkward, self-conscious nerds he had assumed them to be and in their place was a pair of determined performers. “Hi, there! Dan and Phil here,” Phil said brightly.

“I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.”

“Great!” Dan cut in. “Then you know what we want and why.”

“YOU WISH TO RETURN TO YOUR HOME REALM.”

“Yes, that exactly.”

“I KNOW NOT IF THAT IS THE BEST COURSE OF ACTION. YOU MAY NOT STAY HERE, BUT IT MAY BE BETTER TO DESTROY YOU AND RID THIS SYSTEM OF YOU.”

Dan sputtered for a moment then composed himself. “I thought that we were constants. Don’t you need us to keep alive to keep the universe in balance?”

“THERE ARE MILLIONS OF CONSTANTS. DO NOT VALUE YOURSELF SO HIGHLY. WHY SHOULD I RETURN YOU?”

“Because we didn’t do anything wrong,” Phil said simply. Lendor looked down at him curiously, so he continued. “You don’t want to waste any more time than necessary on us. Right? Well, just send us back. Sure, you could kill us, but what exactly would that do for you? If you let us go home then everything will be back the way it was, but you’ll have four new followers. If I know anything about gods, it’s that you love people loving you.”

Lendor thought this offer over for a moment before a wide, craggly grin split open his beard. He shrunk down to their size and held out a hand. “Phil Lester, you have a deal.”

Phil reached out and as soon as he took Lendor’s hand a blinding white light filled the cave.

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Philip blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his eyes. He took in a deep breath through his nose and sighed at the comforting smell of the salty water outside his lair.

His lair.

He quickly flexed, feeling stronger than he had in days and before the thought could fully process, he was filling the room with his giant reptilian form. He let out a trill of glee and stretched out his wings and beat his tail through the air, just because he could. He was in the middle of shooting little fireballs into the air when he heard a familiar laugh from down by the door. He whipped his head around to see Daniel standing there in all his elfish glory, long bunny ears stuck straight up with delight. Philip dropped his chin right on the ground in front of Daniel who laughed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on Phil’s snout. “How you feeling, big guy?”

Much better.

Daniel grinned. Good. You’ve been out since we got here and I was worried you were going into hibernation in your human form, which probably wouldn’t have been great. Philip visibly cringed at the mention of his upcoming hibernation. As he had predicted, he could already feel the dark lull of sleep creeping up on the edges of his mind. Hey, Philip, don’t worry about it. Take a nap like the big scaly baby you are. I’ve got myself covered.

Philip grinned, wide and toothy at Daniel who took a step back and gave him a suspicious stare. Well, I’m not ready to lie down just yet, and I’m not going to until I get at least one more flight in.

Daniel’s eyes widened and he looked like he was about to start clapping his hands in excitement. You mean-

Get on.

Without another word, Daniel scurried up Phil’s side like he had done so many times before and sat himself down in his spot. Philip dashed for the exit and dived off the cliff straight down. He distantly heard Daniel’s cries and whoops of joy, but he was far more concerned with the way the air felt sluicing through his tightly woven scales once again. When he was moments away from catastrophe, he unfurled his wings, feeling them stretch and pull as the wind lifted him up and away from the water. He flapped, and went soaring straight up, passing through some clouds before he froze and fell backwards, letting gravity pull him towards the ground in a tail spin. He only allowed it for a moment though, then he banked hard to the left, leveling out his flight.

They flew like that for hours, neither one of them bringing up the fact that they were only postponing the inevitable. Philip was going to sleep, and in all likelihood, Daniel was either going to be an old man or dead by the time he woke up. As Philip flew he thought about this almost obsessively with each flap. There were basically no scenarios where he woke up and Daniel was waiting for him and absolutely no way they’d be able to adventure like they do now. Either Daniel would run off and settle down or die, or if neither of those happened he’d be too old to want to do anything more than sit around and read. Philip would gladly sit and read with him, but he’d still be in the prime of his life and after more treasure to add to his hoard.

Philip, I swear to Lolth everything is going to be okay. You only stay out this long when you’re avoiding something and I’m not letting you avoid this. It’s just a really long nap.

Philip sighed, but gave in. Even he had to admit that he was growing weary. Now that he had acknowledged it, his body was so tired that he nearly crashed landed in their cave, but he pulled it off just in time. He stumbled into his hoard chamber and collapsed on the pile of treasure. His blinks slowed until they fell shut and didn’t open again. The last thing he saw was Daniel smiling and waving at him, wishing him a good sleep.

And then he woke up.

At first, he was confused. Not only had none of his treasure gone missing, but there actually seemed to be significantly more now than before. In addition, the cave was warmly lit with softly glowing orbs of light that bobbed happily in place. As if appearing just to answer Philip’s questions, Daniel strolled in, a set of fancy robes in his hands, looking like he hadn’t aged a day.

Feeling this conversation would go better verbally, Philip shrunk and croaked out, “Daniel?”

Daniel jerked his head around and when he saw Philip his eyes lit up and he dropped the robes. “You’re awake!”

“Yeah, uh, I--”

He was cut off by Daniel throwing his arms around his chest, ears flicking madly each and every way. “You’re here! I hate to say it, but I actually kind of missed you.”

“How- How long was I asleep?” Philip fretted. There was only one thing worse than a dragon refusing to hibernate, and that was a dragon who woke up early.

Daniel sensed his worry and laughed. “Apparently, you were very tired because you’ve been asleep for nearly 500 years.”

“But I - But you-” Philip sputtered.

Daniel laughed. “Yeah, about that. I have something to show you.” He grabbed his shirt sleeve and yanked it up to the elbow, revealing an intricate tattoo of three connected spirals. A triskelion. The mark of the Druids.

“You, you’re a druid now?” Philip gawked.

Daniel grinned. “Yeah. Twill, I don’t know if you remember them from the inn?”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“Good. Well, they had this boyfriend and he was a druid, and they introduced me to him and we hit it off from there.”

“And so now you-”

“Age super slowly and plan on living for another six thousand or so years? Yeah, basically.”

Philip blinked at him in shock for a moment before laughing in delight and scooping him into his arms and spinning around. “This is literally the best way this could have gone down. You’re probably going to outlive me now.”

Daniel grinned and took a step back. “Well, Philip, there’s a question I’ve literally waited centuries to ask you.”

“What?”

“Want to go steal some shit?”

*_*_*_*_*_*_*_*

Phil woke up like some people say they fall in love: shrieking, panicking, clutching his chest, and gasping for breath. Next to him on their bed Dan wasn’t looking so hot, either. He was curled up in a ball, clutching his head and rocking back and forth. “Um, Dan are-”

“I forgot to tell him to take my anti-depressants,” Dan moaned. “My body hasn’t had the right chemicals in it for days. It’s a wonder that asshole was standing up straight.”

“Oh, shit,” Phil breathed. He quickly fished around in Dan’s bedside table for the medication, figuring his boyfriend wasn’t up to moving at all. He shoved the pills into Dan’s hands and ran to the kitchen in search of a glass of water, then returned as quickly as he left. Dan gratefully downed the pill and water and when he was done, he just flopped back on the bed and covered his eyes with a pillow.

Phil smiled softly at the frankly adorable sight, and silently crawled into bed to wrap his arms around Dan’s middle. They laid like that, in silence, for a few hours until Dan’s head quit spinning and flashing random colors at him. “I missed this,” Dan whispered into the darkness.

Phil snorted and pressed his face to the back of Dan’s neck. “What, missing your medication and suffering from withdrawal symptoms?”

Dan sputtered out a laugh, and swatted backwards with his hand. “Shut up.”

Phil giggled and squeezed tighter, happily accepting the light smacks. They settled back down into quiet serenity when Phil softly says, “You could have died.”

“What? Phil, it was just a few days. And anyway my body would have adapted to the lack of medication eventually.”

“I’m not talking about the pills. I’m talking about the magic snake and the giant ice people and the literal god we got into a brawl with.”

“You could have died, too.”

“Yeah, but I had way more protection than you. I’m gonna say this again, but we fought a god and you were wearing the stuff shoes are made out of.”

Dan smiled and rolled over in Phil’s arms so he could press their foreheads together and look into those blue eyes that were looking at him like this was their last chance. “I wasn’t scared. I mean, up until the mirror incident I was terrified, but after that I was okay.”

Phil furrowed his brow. “How? That was the scariest, most dangerous thing we’ve ever done.”

“Cuz you were there.” Phil groaned and tried to cover his blushing cheeks, but Dan laughed and captured his hands in his own. “I mean it. You said it yourself, so long as we’re together, there’s not much we can’t do. And now we have proof.”

Phil smiled at him and Dan popped out his dimple and Phil had never been more in love. “Hold that thought,” he said, crawling out of the bed.

“Phil? What are you doing?” Dan asked, sitting up to better watch Phil dig around in his sock drawer. Phil came back with something hidden in his hands and dropped to both knees at Dan’s side. Dan’s eyes widened. “Oh my god.”

Phil smiled bashfully up at him and scratched his chin with the hand not behind his back. “Okay, so I was going to have this all planned out and I was going to do this on the 19th of October, because you’re a sap and that’s what you deserve, but this whole thing has showed me that some things are just too important to wait around for. Anyway, bare with me, this may get a little choppy.

“Daniel James Howell, I’ve known you for over eight years now, and we’ve been together almost that whole time. I don’t know what it is about you, but you’re my favorite person in the world. You’re the first person I want to tell when something goes right and the only person I feel like I can tell when everything goes wrong. I love your smart mouth and almost superhuman ability to have a comeback for any situation, even when the only thing you can say is ‘Shut up, rat.’ I love your smile and your dimple and I love that you feel comfortable enough around me to laugh like an angry goose. I love you, Dan Howell, and I guess there’s just one question I have for you.

“Will you marry me?”

Part One

Prompt me!

[misscrawfords]

Sparkling like granite?

So ITV is making a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice which is going bring out its “darker tones”.

Here are my thoughts at considerable length (which nobody asked for) about this adaptation (which nobody asked for).

My initial response was mixed. On the one hand, I’m actually not averse to a new adaptation of P&P. Sure, it’s over-adapted and there are lots of novels which deserve a multi-part adaptation more than P&P. (Mansfield Park? The novels of Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Walter Scott?)  However, P&P is one of the world’s most popular novels and there hasn’t been a straight TV adaptation of it in over 20 years. Adaptations of P&P often say as much about the time in which they are made as they do about the source material and a good adaptation, even if one doesn’t necessarily agree with the choices made, can make you see the book in a new light and provoke discussion. I’m not averse to that.

So there’s that response of muted interest. That warred with deep misgivings about the “darker tones” of Austen’s “adult” novel which is “much less bonnet-y” in an adaptation by someone who has apparently never watched an adaptation of the book, despite loving it. Really? Has she been living under a rock? P&P is so much part of popular culture that it seems impossible to adapt it in a way that does not pay homage consciously or subconsciously to previous adaptations. Can one avoid a “post-modern moment” as Lost in Austen so delightfully made explicit? I’m deeply sceptical. (Does one even want to? Intertextuality can add so much... but that’s a discussion for another day.) Anyway, back to the “darker tones”. My instinct is to say that this seems terribly wrong. Of all Austen novels, P&P is the most light-hearted, the most sparkling, the most comforting. Why oh why, would you want to mess with that? For goodness sake, let us have our romantic comedies and laugh out loud satire and implausible happy endings! Why must everything be marred with the brush of making things grim and dark and equating that grimness with gritty reality? Reality may be sometimes grim and dark but it is also sometimes hilarious and warm and full of love. Why must the former be prioritised? I have a massive problem with reinterpreting texts to “make them dark” as if that is a naturally good thing. But that’s probably also a discussion for another day.

So, mixed feelings. But naturally the purists are up in arms about this idea (and a part of me certainly wants to join them) and that makes me desperately inclined to take a second look and examine the possibilities of this adaptation and some of the potentially intriguing things the writer has said. 

“Darker tones”

Okay, so firstly what does this mean? Does P&P even have darker tones? Surely you have to squint? Weeeeeell, yes and no. It’s a mistake to assume Austen never wrote about the nastier aspects of human nature and experience. The more obvious examples (leaving out Mansfield Park’s troubled potential references to the slave trade) are the fate of Colonel Brandon’s ward, Eliza; the decline of Mrs. Smith; the condition of the Prices in Portsmouth; the fate of Maria Rushworth; General Tilney’s treatment of his wife - and of course Wickham’s role in P&P. Just because Austen doesn’t write rape, seduction, abuse, death etc. explicitly on the page and just because her novels end (mostly) happily doesn’t mean she lives in a fantasy world untouched by these things.

Let’s look at Wickham. He attempted to seduce a vulnerable 15 year old girl who knew him and trusted him and used a woman in a position of authority to her to gain access to her. To use modern terminology, how long, one wonders, had he been grooming Georgiana? The elopement was prevented but only just. And while Darcy clearly thinks his sister’s reputation is intact (and her virtue), is it? Could Wickham have persuaded Georgiana to sleep with him before the elopement? I don’t personally think so - I think she would have somehow told Darcy if that had happened - but it is a possible and interesting idea, even if I don’t know where you would go with that except to show what an awful person Wickham is... which we know.

Wickham then successfully elopes with another 15 year old girl in a vulnerable position away from her family a year later - this is looking like a pattern of a rather unhealthy interest in underage girls (again to use modern theory, which is dangerous as an interpretation but sometimes useful). He’s the same age as Darcy after all - 28. Not an unheard of age gap in those days but still creepy considering the vulnerable positions of the girls in question. Lydia is ruined and by proxy, so are her sister’s chances. Wickham causes a LOT of problems by this one act. And all to get revenge on Darcy for refusing to give him money after he spent all his.

There is, moreover, the Meryton gossip: “He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family.”

Is this true? Has he been seducing (raping?) respectable girls in Meryton? Who knows! This is the wisdom of Mrs. Phillips after all. But they are talking about it openly in the text, there is rarely smoke without fire and it would hardly be out of character.

Is this sufficiently dark? It’s certainly not exactly a riotous comedy. Pride and Prejudice from the point of view of a Meryton tradesman’s daughter who loses her virtue and her father his money would be a very different novel. Georgiana’s history bears close examination. As with Eleanor Tilney’s story in Northanger Abbey, a real Gothic tale right under Catherine’s nose which she doesn’t even notice, there’s something pretty horrible going on in P&P if you care to look. 

Perhaps this is what the writer Raine means by “actually a very adult book”.

What else could that refer to? (Because I give her sufficient credit to assume she’s not going to add in random pornographic scenes for the sake of it. Honestly.)

Jane Bennet. Jane is basically depressed for the duration of the novel. Elizabeth constantly worries over her low-spirits and concern for her affects her own happiness. In fact, Elizabeth herself is miserable for a lot of the novel. She goes on a journey of self-discovery but that comes at a cost. She is affected by Charlotte’s marriage, Jane’s disappointment, her own disappointment in Wickham, the effect of reading Darcy’s letter, Lydia’s elopement and finally realising she loves Darcy and will never have him. That’s a lot to throw at even the most resilient, good-humoured and optimistic person. Just because Lizzy loves to laugh doesn’t mean she is not unhappy in some way or other for a lot of the novel. For example:

After disappointment re Bingley and Wickham: 

“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

(I am always struck by the great bitterness in Elizabeth’s humour in that scene. It’s often overlooked IMO.)

After reading Darcy’s letter: 

...it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

The only other use of the word “depressed” in the novel also applies to Elizabeth.

When Lydia has returned with Wickham:

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour.

You’ve got to be pretty much at the end of your tether to run out of the room at the age of 20 because you cannot bear to hear your sister talking any more.

Elizabeth is not happy. Jane is not happy. Mrs. Bennet is certainly not happy. Sure, it’s a comedy and Elizabeth has the delightful ability to laugh at herself and others and Jane tries very hard to overcome low spirits and always sees the best and Mrs. Bennet absolutely must be a caricature or else the humour is lost and everything becomes terribly heavy and not like the novel at all, but we feel triumphant with Elizabeth at the end precisely because she has actually suffered so much along the way in very human ways - romantic disappointment, losing a friend to a lifestyle choice she can’t understand, family troubles... These are not the things of epic but that doesn’t make them unimportant. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries conveys this aspect of the characters so well without losing the comedy. It is possible. Certainly I don’t think any other period adaptation has succeeded so well and I would love to see an adaptation that does. It’s not graphic sex, but I would describe this as in the realm of adult themes.

“Much less bonnet-y”

Okay, I don’t really know what this means. I suspect it’s a dig at the period dramas of the 1980s and 90s with beautiful aesthetics and no dirt and everyone speaking very properly. I thought we got the reaction to that overwith in the 00s and I really don’t want more sackcloths and pigs in the corridors, please. Ladies in that period wore bonnets. Get over it. This strikes me as the most provocative statement in all the things that were said, but it is also largely meaningless without more context. Productions like Poldark and Victoria have made an effort with costumes and sets so I don’t see why this would skimp on them. Will it be set in the 1790s this time with more of a rompish Georgian feel than a neo-classical Regency tone? Time only will tell!

"I hope I do justice to Austen’s dark intelligence – sparkling, yes, but sparkling like granite.”

Now this intrigues me! This is what makes me curious and also hopeful. Because Austen pulled no punches and had a very good understanding of dark impulses and the awful ridiculousness of human behaviour - and she absolutely skewered it.

In Paragon we met Mrs. Foley and Mrs. Dowdeswell with her yellow shawl airing out, and at the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a gentleman in a buggy, who, on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall — and Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his mother, his wife, or himself must be dead.

Or

Mrs. B. and two young women were of the same party, except when Mrs. B. thought herself obliged to leave them to run round the room after her drunken husband. His avoidance, and her pursuit, with the probable intoxication of both, was an amusing scene.

Or

I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it.

Or

How horrible it is to have so many people killed! And what a blessing that one cares for none of them!

You get the point. All expressed in very nicely balanced phrases and a genteel tone and they are very amusing - but what sentiments! In short, I think Raine’s description of Austen’s wit and intelligence actually very apt. Similar things are found in P&P as in her letters. Consider Mr. Collins.

You ought certainly to forgive them, as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.

Ouch.

“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she meant well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”

A nice thing to say about your friends and neighbours...

Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”

Such kind parental support!

Mr. Bennet’s sarcasm, Mr. Collins’ pomposity which is eventually revealed as truly cold-hearted, Elizabeth’s biting and often undeserved satire, Mrs. Bennet’s foolishness - all of these are funny and the adaptation must make them funny. The dialogue must glitter and shine or you lose the absolute light-hearted sparkling joy of the novel and everything becomes heavy. But there’s an edge to the humour, there really is. And you treat like the stereotype of Sunday night bonnets and swoonable men jumping in lakes to romantic soundtracks at your peril.

You know what, I’m willing to give someone who describes Austen as “sparkling like granite” a shot. Love and Friendship for the first time presented an Austen adaptation that took absurdity, satire and caricature as its starting point in adapting Austen and I would love to see an adaptation of P&P that did the same, with all the greater subtlety that this novel requires over several hours, considering that it is a beautiful love story as well.

Will this adaptation deliver? Who knows? And there are a lot of things to be concerned about in this endeavor. But it might be really quite interesting.

tl;dr Austen is uncomfortable funny, she has a dark side, but they can’t make the adaptation dark and grim because that misses the point.

[theghostlymuse]

Skeletons in the Closet

A summary of my bone boy’s shenanigans over the past two sessions of D&D, so it’s a long one! More below the cut!

So after our last misadventures in The Cultist Cave in which the party (minus Bagga) went on a murder spree and killed a bunch of Troglodytes for their trash pile, the party is ready to ask Bagga what is UP with you. Bagga is, of course, incredibly averse to revealing his secret and manages to stall for time, telling them that he’ll reveal everything when they get back to the base because he needs some time to figure out HOW he’s going to explain this. They get to the entrance of the cave where they had the Asshole Brother Cultist ™ tied up the night before. However he is unresponsive and the party realizes ‘oh shit, he’s dead’. They have no idea what happened to him, because surely a single afternoon without dinner while sheltered inside their cave shouldn’t have been enough to kill a guy. But Bagga feels responsible for this and decides to bring the body back to their base so they can at least let Lurtfen know what happened. 

As they make their way to the mouth of the cave, however, a mass of roiling shadows rose up from the ground and formed into a massive armored figure with only a single glowing red light in it’s visor. This figure, The Pursuer raised his hand and pointed at Bagga.

 “ATWELL...”

And Bagga has some pretty strong feelings about people knowing who he is and what his real name is and this sets him on edge because this scary big shadow guy just rose up from the dirt and whatever circle of hell to call him the fuck out. He is put even more on edge when The Pursuer then immediately focuses on him and attacks him with his bigass greatsword. He continues to just focus every single attack on Bagga until he’s brought down and as he dissolves back into shadow a flask falls to the ground and The Pursuer is gone. 

They mess around with the flask a bit but can’t figure out what it does. Two members drink the contents but it tastes like something close to gasoline. However, the bottle is faintly glowing/shimmering on one side and they can’t seem to figure out why. Alabaster Shale, Legendary Bard Extraordinaire decides to Identify it and pockets it for later. 

Eventually, the party returns to the base and Bagga just really awkwardly speedwalks his way to his friend Ember, a dwarf lady who is a Homebrew class called a Weaver with spider-based abilities and spells played by @shwiffy. She’s the closest thing that Bagga has to a best friend and arguably knows the most about Bagga’s past and who he is as a person. She noticed his hat of disguise pretty early on in their friendship and had asked why he uses it all the time. Bagga told her a half truth and let her know that he preferred to keep certain details to himself. He told her that he’d been horribly disfigured by a fire and didn’t want to attract any attention based on how he looked. 

But now dwarf lady can’t ignore her very tall friend speedwalking his way over who is VERY BAD at trying to hide how concerned he is. He asks her if he could speak to her privately and she follows him to his room which he IMMEDIATELY SECURES before sitting down on his bed in defeat. He begins to tell her how the team now knows that he’s disguised and that it’s a problem. She obviously realizes that she’s missing something here because figuring out he’s a burn victim shouldn’t be this big of a deal. Bagga starts stumbling over his words, trying to explain but finding it difficult to admit it outright. But Ember is actually pretty keen. She looks young, but as a dwarf she’s at least 60 and she’s been around the block a few times and at this point really starts piecing together the puzzle, all of Bagga’s strange habits and mannerisms, his past that she only has a few major details of, him being estranged from his family, not to mention that one time when he healed her and she realized his hands were a lot... thinner than she’d expected. 

“That fire... you didn’t survive, did you?”

Bagga lost his words and couldn’t meet her eyes. So he simply took off his gloves and rested his hand in hers which was answer enough. But Ember is a good friend and she’s less frightened and more astonished. She asks him if he’ll take off his disguise so she can actually see him, but he doesn’t want to frighten her. 

“Frighten me? Hah, no, it’s fine. I’ll be fine, I’m ready.”

And so, Ember accompanies him as he dons his disguise again and they go out to meet with the rest of the team. On their way, Alabaster runs up to them and stage whispers to Bagga that “I know your secret! Here, drink this!” and shows him the flask from before. 

Bagga is obviously taken aback because whAT DO YOU MEAN YOU KNOW MY SECRET WHAT IS THIS NO I’M NOT DRINKING THAT! And it devolves into an argument of ‘No seriously! Look it only glows in YOUR direction!’ and sure enough, whatever side Bagga is on near the bottle glows and when he shoves it into his hands it glows a brilliant sparkly white/gold. Bagga is like ‘what does it do????’ ‘No, it’s fine just drink it!’ ‘I’M NOT DRINKING IT UNTIL I KNOW WHAT IT IS.’ ‘TRUST ME JUST DRINK IT’ 

At that moment, the Team’s leader, Jeff, a silver dragonborn paladin, gets bored and takes a BEEN out of his bag and starts to plant it. Bagga looks over, as does Ember and Alabaster and that’s when everyone goes AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

The BEENZ are rather infamous now. Picked up on Bagga’s first session with this team, they’re Magic Beans that when planted and watered, sprout into anything from tiny purple mushrooms that SHRIEK in daylight to AN ENTIRE FUCKING PYRAMID WITH AN EVIL MUMMY LORD INSIDE. The most notable thing to sprout from it being the Frog Incident ™ in which eleven tiny hot pink frogs sprouted from the ground and, when touched, appear to turn into anything from a Hunter Shark that can only flop around uselessly on the ground to AN EFREETI. 

And sure enough, enter THE FROG INCIDENT 2: RETURN OF THE FROGS ™

And while they are dealing with ALL OF THESE FROGS/MONSTERS  a set of FIVE HILL GIANTS emerges from the treeline and begins to attack. Bagga gets helped by a unicorn that spawned from one of the frogs, they have a gold dragon wyrmling now because she also came from a frog, the silver Dragonborn Monk, Steve, is punching a doppleganger in the face because it turned into him and we don’t know which one is the real Steve so we leave him to his suplexing, and Bagga is PERSONALLY OFFENDED by the Flameskull that spawned alongside some other creatures. 

EVENTUALLY the creatures are dealt with and we manage to rest a little while. Before Bagga is able to continue to try to come clean with the group though, a patron of our Inn/Base asks us to accompany him to The Forge- an area where you can toss a shit ton of gems into a fire along with an item and it’ll enchant the item with random abilities/curses. Bagga hasn’t seen The Forge yet, so he accompanies the team there but this guy is super weird. He has a TON of money but wears these flowing and extravagant robes. When he gets to the forge, he tosses in more money than most have ever seen and his circlet and gets a REALLY FUCKING GOOD ITEM. (It basically lets you make an attack an automatic crit, gives you an extra turn when you crit, and if you kill anything with a 19 or 20 roll, the body of your victim EXPLODES). He allows them to identify it and check it out, while chatting with them, but is acting really suspicious. When he introduces himself Bagga and Ember IMMEDIATELY recognize his name associated with a group of Necromancers and Bagga is NOT HAPPY. He subtly casts Detect Thoughts while they chat this guy up and figure out that he’s in league with the Cultists and Dragons and he plans to HAND THE BODY EXPLODING CIRCLET OVER TO THEM.

Bagga tells the team this privately and they start trying to figure out how to get this thing away from this guy but they’re already pretty weak from the Frog Incident 2 ™ and are wary of rushing into combat again. But they get into combat anyway and manage to drive him off and they take the circlet. 

As they go to leave the Forge and in the wake of their victory, Ember gives Bagga a bit of a nudge and prompts him to tell the rest of the group his secret. He talks to Alabaster alone first because WHAT DID YOU MEAN EARLIER BY YOU KNOW MY SECRET???? And Alabaster is right on the money but he’s cool with Bagga so now Bagga is feeling a little more confident about telling the rest of the party and he gets them all to wait a moment while he tries to explain himself. The Paladin, Jeff, approaches him after all is said and done and places his hand on Bagga’s chest and IS REALLY DOING THE SKELLY MAN A FRIGHTEN because this guy is made for destroying undead. But he casts Heart Sight and determines that Bagga’s alignment is Chaotic Good and approves of his place in the party. 

Bagga is beyond relieved that for the first time since his brother and best friend died, he has people that he can trust with knowing what he is. But other problems are brewing on the horizon. One of the team’s friends, after being grievously injured was being cared for at the base, left without a word after their recovery to hunt down those that had nearly felled them. Not to mention that, after the Dragon/Cultist attack on the town of Phandalin that our team calls home, the townspeople have grown suspicious of us. Despite our efforts driving back the attacking forces (who included dragonborn among their ranks), we left immediately afterwards (in wake of the destruction) to track the cultists down and rescue a friend from them (See ‘In Which Bagga Accidentally Ruined a Man’s Life), but returned with none of the money or belongings they’d stolen from the town. With our lack of help in restoring the town and disappearing along with the Cultists, and two Dragonborn on the team, they seem to think that we’re secretly aligned with them. 

Bagga suggests that, in order to improve morale, our team should organize a Festival for the town of Phandalin. After all, despite the destruction, this was a victory on the part of the town to survive this attack and they need to be reminded of the strength and determination of their community that is now pulling itself together from the wreckage. And if there’s one thing that Bagga knows from being raised as a noble, managing your Public Relations through Events and Parties are always something that tends to make the townspeople love you. Not only this, they brought back two Black Dragon eggs from the Cultist Caves that they plan to smash as part of the opening ceremonies. Nothing like smashing some evil babies to convince people you’re on their side. 

And so, Party Planner Bagga is getting ready to throw a fucking rager for a destroyed town. Let’s do this. 

[pathogenic]

Haydes' relationship to the other Anarchs of LA

Nines

It's one of respect for him as a leader and them as someone who is giving the Anarchs a hand, but not much beyond that. Haydes doesn't think much of Nines as she usually has other things to worry about than him. Nines doesn't wholly trust Haydes on account of her being ex-Sabbat (and then later for the Sarcophagus ordeal).

Damsel

It's a weird kind of vitriolic friendship. Damsel and Haydes largely get along, but they enjoy pushing buttons on each other to see the other one get fired up. Voted most likely to start a massive rant together. Somedays though, they really are best summarized as the image below

Skelter

Being one of the few other Anarch Gangrels, they can at least commiserate on the constant social gatherings and a lot of the bullshit that gathers having an Anarch Movement that is split between a Brujah and a Toreador movement. Haydes also has an easier time getting him than most given her Military Brat type background. Skelter later became distrustful of her after the events of Bloodlines, but isn't outright hostile to her. Just watches her a lot more closely now alongside Jack. He's not bad with them - who didn't want to see LaCroix get the axe? - but it did leave them with one hell of a mess to clean up.

Isaac Abrams

Haydes gets under Isaac's skin, to put it bluntly. Isaac does not appear to approve of the more anarchist approach to the movement that Haydes aligns themself with, and in return, Haydes simply thinks his approach to Anarch ideas is just Camarilla lite. Plus they aren't overly impressed by the state of the Hollywood Anarchs. So, they usually stay out of Hollywood and Isaac prefers to keep it that way.

Velvet Velour

Haydes, comically enough, does not enjoy being manipulated and often feels like Velvet is attempting to do just that. She also tends to think that Velvet is too soft. Given their own background, Haydes is a lot more blase about death, so they tend to find Velvet's aversion to it irksome. However, they can remain civil around Velvet if need be. The moment they can leave, though, they're out.

Ash Rivers

Simply put, I don't really see these two ever really meeting, and if they didn't, they wouldn't hate each other, but they really wouldn't like each other either. They'd give Ash a hand if he needed it, but only because he is another Anarch and nothing else.

Smiling Jack

I mean if you've been following me long enough, you know what goes here. Absolutely adores the man, adores what he does, adores seeing him in action, all of that. They don't see each other too often as their own goals often pull them in different directions, but they always keep in touch. When they do meet, it's either absolutely nothing but them catching up on what the other has been up to, or some city is about to experience true hell. Rarely is there any in between.

[the-end-of-art]

Rapid fire

Two small excerpts from two Comment pieces on attention, distraction and technology:

From Habits of Mind in an Age of Distraction by Alan Jacobs:

This passage reminds me of something the comedian Louis C.K. said a few years ago, in an appearance on Conan O'Brien's show. Louie, as his friends call him, was explaining that he doesn't want his kids to have cell phones because he wants them to be sad. And sadness comes when you are forced to be alone with your thoughts: "That's what the phones are taking away, the ability to just sit there. That's being a person."

He described a day when he was driving along as an emotionally intense Bruce Springsteen song came on the radio, and he started to feel a certain melancholy welling up in him, and his instant response to that melancholy was to want to grab his phone and text someone. "People are willing to risk taking a life and ruining their own, because they don't want to be alone for a second," he said.

But on that day when, in his car, Louie felt the melancholy welling up, he resisted the temptation to grab his phone. As the sadness grew, he had to pull over to the side of the road to weep. And after the weeping came an equally strong joy and gratitude for his life. But when we heed that impulse to grab the phone and connect with someone, we don't allow the melancholy to develop, and therefore can't receive the compensatory joy. Which leaves us, Louie says, in this situation: "You don't ever feel really sad or really happy, you just feel . . . kinda satisfied with your products. And then you die. And that's why I don't want to get phones for my kids."

FREEBASING HUMAN CONNECTION

By our immersion in that ecosystem we are radically impeded from achieving a "right understanding of ourselves" and of God's disposition toward us.

If you ask a random selection of people why we're all so distracted these days—so constantly in a state of what a researcher for Microsoft, Linda Stone, has called "continuous partial attention"—you'll get a somewhat different answer than you would have gotten thirty years ago. Then it would have been "Because we are addicted to television." Fifteen years ago it would have been, "Because we are addicted to the Internet." But now it's "Because we are addicted to our smartphones."

All of these answers are both right and wrong. They're right in one really important way: they link distraction with addiction. But they're wrong in an even more important way: we are not addicted to any of our machines. Those are just contraptions made up of silicon chips, plastic, metal, glass. None of those, even when combined into complex and sometimes beautiful devices, are things that human beings can become addicted to.

Then what are we addicted to?

In February 2016, Ben Rosen, a twenty-nine year-old writer for the massively popular website Buzzfeed, wrote a post about what he had learned about the social media service Snapchat by talking to his thirteen-year-old sister Brooke.

He got interested in this topic when he watched Brooke reply to forty snaps—that's the basic unit of Snapchat, like a tweet on Twitter—in less than a minute. So he asked her questions about how she uses, and thinks about, Snapchat. Three things emerged from that discussion.

First, for Brooke and her friends Snapchat is almost never text, it's all images, usually selfies in which they respond to one another with various facial expressions, as though they're using their faces to imitate emoticons. Second, Brooke is not unusual in being able to do forty of these in a minute. Third: When Rosen asked Brooke how often she's on Snapchat she replied, "On a day without school? There's not a time when I'm not on it. I do it while I watch Netflix, I do it at dinner, and I do it when people around me are being awkward. That app is my life."

Brooke also noted that "parents don't understand. It's about being there in the moment. Capturing that with your friends." And when her brother asked her how she could even mentally process forty snaps in less than a minute, much less respond to them, she said, "I don't really see what they send. I tap through so fast. It's rapid fire." Snapchat is a form of communication drained almost completely of content. It is pure undiluted human connection.

So there is a relationship between distraction and addiction, but we are not addicted to devices. As Brooke's Snapchat story demonstrates, we are addicted to one another, to the affirmation of our value—our very being—that comes from other human beings. We are addicted to being validated by our peers.

OUR ECOSYSTEM OF INTERRUPTION TECHNOLOGIES

If you don't believe in God, you might not think this craving for validation is a problem. But if you do believe in the God of Jesus Christ, it doesn't look good at all. As Paul the apostle asks the Galatians, "Am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ" (1:10).

Now, to be sure, there is one sense in which we should care what people think of us. Paul tells the Romans, "give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all" (12:17). But that is in order to commend Christ to the world in all that we do and say, to avoid being a stumbling block to those who might otherwise come in through the door of faith. That's a very different thing than seeking to "please man" because you so desperately crave their validation. If you measure your personal value in the currency of your Snapchat score, then you will be profoundly averse to doing or saying anything that might lower that score or even limit its growth.

A few years ago the science-fiction writer Cory Doctorow published an essay in which he referred to "your computer's ecosystem of interruption technologies." Keep in mind that Doctorow wrote that phrase before smartphones. My iPhone's "ecosystem of interruption technologies" makes the one on my computer seem like pretty weak sauce, because the latter is on my desk or in my bag while the former is ever-present. And it's ever-present because I like it that way. I choose the device that interrupts my thinking and, as Louis C.K. observed, gives me an ever-present opportunity to escape unwanted emotions.

I am a living illustration of Technological Stockholm Syndrome: I have embraced my kidnapper. Or, to change the metaphor yet again, I have welcomed this disruptive ecosystem into my mental domicile and invited it to make a home for itself here—like those poor kids who let the Cat in the Hat in.

The church who would draw such novices has a historically new task as well.

But an awareness of the potential gravity of this situation has gradually dawned on me. I have been significantly affected by this pocket-sized disruptor, even though I had decades of formation in a different attentional environment to serve as a kind of counterweight. People like Ben Rosen's sister Brooke, the Snapchat queen, clearly don't have any of that. I wonder what her future—her future as a self, as a person—will hold.

Our "ecosystem of interruption technologies" affects our spiritual and moral lives in every aspect. By our immersion in that ecosystem we are radically impeded from achieving a "right understanding of ourselves" and of God's disposition toward us. We will not understand ourselves as sinners, or as people made in God's image, or as people spiritually endangered by wandering far from God, or as people made to live in communion with God, or as people whom God has come to a far country in order to seek and to save, if we cannot cease for a few moments from an endless procession of stimuli that shock us out of thought.

It has of course always been hard for people to come to God, to have a right knowledge of ourselves and of God's threats and promises. I don't believe it's harder to be a Christian today than it has been at any other time in history. But I think in different periods and places the common impediments are different. The threat of persecution is one kind of impediment; constant technological distraction is another. Who's to say which is worse?—even if it's obvious which is more painful. But I really do think we are in new and uniquely challenging territory in our culture today, and I don't believe that, in general, churches have been fully aware of the challenges—indeed, in many cases churches have made things worse.

In his 1996 essay "Philosophy . . . Artifacts . . . Friendship," the Catholic priest and theorist of technology Ivan Illich provides numerous insights into these challenges for the church in our age of distractions. He writes:

The novice to the sacred liturgy and to mental prayer has a historically new task. He is largely removed from those things—water, sunlight, soil, and weather—that were made to speak of God's presence. In comparison with the saints whom he tries to emulate, his search for God's presence is of a new kind.

. . Today's convert must recognize how his senses are continuously shaped by the artifacts he uses. They are charged by design with intentional symbolic loads, something previously unknown.

And remember, Illich wrote all this before the Internet. What he wrote then is even more true now: the age of television and print ads for Persil now seem a very primitive endeavour indeed. If then it could be said that "our perceptions are to a large extent technogenic," they are now almost wholly technogenic, for most of us. If Illich is right to say that "the novice to the sacred liturgy and to mental prayer has a historically new task," then that means that the church who would draw such novices has a historically new task as well.

SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF—SQUIRREL!!

And what Illich says about how we "search for God's presence" is related to how we understand and talk about and preach sin.

When George Whitefield and John Wesley were preaching sermons that created the First Great Awakening, they almost always started by trying to arouse in their hearers a conviction of sin. The typical sequence of their sermons looked like this:

1. You are a sinner, though no more, or less, of a sinner than anyone else. 2. We sinners cannot rescue ourselves. 3. But God in his grace and love has come to rescue us. 4. So we need only to accept that grace and love, in penitence, to be reconciled to God.

But I don't believe we can readily reach people today with the same sequence. The very idea that I am a sinner sends me groping for my smartphone to avoid unpleasant emotions. I think this will be especially true for the majority of North Americans whose basic default theology is what the sociologist of religion Christian Smith and his colleagues call Moralistic Therapeutic Deism. For such people an awareness of sin is going to be hard to achieve—certainly at the earlier stages of their Christian lives.

But what if we tried to tell people that by disconnecting, however temporarily, they might be able to hear God? Consider these thoughts by Rowan Williams:

The true disciple is an expectant person, always taking it for granted that there is something about to break through from the master, something about to burst through the ordinary and uncover a new light on the landscape.

And I think that living in expectancy—living in awareness, your eyes sufficiently open and your mind sufficiently both slack and attentive to see that when it happens— has a great deal to do with discipleship, indeed with discipleship as the gospels present it to us. Interesting (isn't it?) that in the gospels the disciples don't just listen, they're expected to look as well. They're people who are picking up clues all the way through.

We need to put people—those who don't yet believe, those whose belief is young, those whose lives with Christ have become attenuated in a "technogenic" environment where our thoughts are largely directed by engineers— in a position to "pick up clues."

From Learning with Your Hands by Matthew Crawford with Brian Dijkema:

BD: What you mean by a political economy of attention?

MC: A few years ago I was in a supermarket and swiped my bank card to pay for groceries. I then watched the little screen intently, waiting for its prompts. During those intervals between swiping my card, confirming the amount, and entering my PIN, I was shown advertisements. Clearly some genius realized that a person in this situation is a captive audience. The intervals themselves, which I had previously assumed were a mere artifact of the communication technology, now seemed to be something more deliberately calibrated. These haltings now served somebody's interest.

Over the last ten years a new frontier of capitalism has been opened up by our self-appointed disrupters, one where it is okay to dig up and monetize every bit of private mindshare. And very often this proceeds by the auctioning off of public space; it is made available to private interests who then install means for appropriating our attention. When you go through airport security, there are advertisements on the bottoms of the bins that you place your belongings in. Who decided to pimp them out like that? If my attention is a resource, and it is, then the only sensible way to understand this is as a transfer of wealth. It is an invisible one, but the cumulative effects are very real, and a proper topic for political reflection. Maybe for political action too.

BD: And people who want to guard their inner life are forced into themselves. It forces you to put a book in front of your face.

MC: Right, that's one of the hidden costs. What's lost is the space for sociability in our public spaces. Like you say, we're driven into ourselves with sort of an arms race between private attention technologies versus the public ones.

Of course there's another solution. If you have the means you can go to the business class lounge which in some countries like France is silent, there's just nothing. That's what makes it so incredibly luxurious. When you think about the fact that it's the marketing executives in the business lounge who are using that silence to think — to come up with their brilliant schemes which will then determine the character of the peon lounge — you begin to see this in a political light. When some people treat the minds of other people as a resource, to be harvested by mechanized means, this is not "creating wealth," as its apologists like to say. It is a transfer of wealth.

[laurellgem-blog]

When StubHub loses your Kendrick Lamar tickets... it's for the best

I love going to concerts, but I have strong feelings about paying hundreds of dollars only to watch a favorite artist on a jumbo screen, and to give you a hint, they aren’t positive ones. Frankly, I figure I’d have better sound and visual quality watching that type of thing from home, so my general rule has been that if the actual size of the performer will amount to a single pixel in my field of vision (or a conglomeration of pixels on a screen), it’s a no-go. 

I could proselytize on the incredible talent, soul, and artistry that is Kendrick Lamar, but I won’t. Suffice it to say I bought a single ticket in the nosebleeds to see the Tacoma/Seattle show of Kendrick’s DAMN. tour on August 1st, featuring Travis Scott and D.R.A.M. If that doesn’t tell you who I’m Loyal too, then I don’t know what does. 

 As I shuffle through the metal detector line outside of the Tacoma Dome, the crowd complains that traffic and accidents made us miss D.R.A.M. and most of Travis, to which someone beside me (who apparently does not share my mega-concert aversion) adds that Travis Scott is a better performer than Kendrick anyway. Having just spent my rent money to see Kendrick (at a mega-arena, no less) I strongly protest, to which he nonchalantly says “No he is. Travis is on a bird right now”. 

 Um, ok? 

Fifteen minutes later an animatronic bird of prey charioting a harnessed, blinged-out Travis Scott is hovering just feet away from my slack-jawed face. Oh wow, that dude was serious. As the music blasting through the speakers competes with the feverish screams of an entire arena, sending visceral pulses of energy through my body, my single thought is, “How did I get here?” That’s a great question, actually, because didn’t I just say I bought nosebleed seats? Let’s back up. After weeks of entering sweepstakes and radio concerts in a vain attempt to win prime Kendrick tix, I spent $220 just to be in the same arena as K-Dot. The night before the concert date, however, StubHub emailed me saying that my tickets were no longer available (cue heart sinking to floor), but not to worry, they think they found tickets I’ll like even more. 

 Understatement. Of. The. Year. 

When I enter from the balcony, I immediately scope out the floor of the stadium. I am still disbelieving that the hazy, undulating press of bodies next to the stage will be where I sit—or rather, stand. There would be no sitting. Approaching the usher guarding the entry into my section, I am reluctant to even let the ticket out of my white-knuckled clutches; its existence contains redemption for an entire life of never-winning-anything disappointment. She looks at me dubiously before scanning the ticket, then escorts me all the way to my seat. Each step is an exhalation of awe that we haven’t stopped yet, that we keep getting closer and closer until suddenly she is pushing back a gaggle of rapt high school kids who had unknowingly migrated into the realm of my aisle seat. Yes. Aisle seat. That aisle is the only thing between me and the projecting stage diagonal to me, which also serves to guarantee that not a soul can get in front me.

Meanwhile, Travis Scott is on a bird and the crowd is LIT. To my left is the likely singer of a screamo band. She is so belligerent that I conclude she is definitely “on one”. Or two. Best guess: MDMA with a side of bath salts. And, while I am vaguely afraid this aggressive short chick will eat my face, I silently applaud the absence of Effs she gives and am inspired. Bitch don’t kill my vibe and I won’t kill yours. 

The concert-enthusiast wasn’t wrong about Travis. He clearly understands performance and the power of spectacle, as any mega-show must, and he commands all of our attention. Travis signals for us to put two arms in the air from his lofty stage and then he motions that we should bounce them to the beat. Full disclosure, this is my first rap concert, and apparently they posses their own unspoken etiquette. I have a background in choreographed hip-hop, so I don’t do half-assed dance moves. I’m starting to really get into it… until I realize that no one else is on my level—not even the bath-salts-girl. Apparently this motion is universally understood in the rap community to be a casual up-and-down; it looks nothing like the jagged crumping I was doing. My bad. 

 No worries, I don’t flatter myself that anyone is focused on anything but the stage—that is until intermission. 

The lights turn on and a broad swath of fabric titled “DAMN.”cloaks the stage. Amidst a surplus of anticipation and a vacuum of stimuli, my neighbors and I transform into a crowd of possessed Furbies. We swivel our necks at odd angles to assess our surroundings; I am fascinated by what I observe. 

On the center left (my section) stand a crowd of young people who look like they saved up two paychecks working at Jamba Juice and Forever 21 in order to afford tonight. A mélange of older people, beautiful people, and their beautiful children occupy the center front section. They look like they have one thing in common: connections. My row eyeballs me like they’re wondering why my single-aisle-seat, mid-to-late twenties, industry-girl ass isn’t sitting with all the other schmucks in the center who only know “HUMBLE.” and can’t possibly tolerate the $800+ noise someone paid for them to hear without earplugs. I glance right and a girl already wearing earplugs is passing out the brightly colored status symbols like cocaine at a Hampton’s party. Great, now I’m self-conscious that I look like them…I had hurriedly exchanged my scrubs for something rap-concert-appropriate in a gas station on the way down to Tacoma, but I think I erred on the Boujee end of the “Bad and Boujee” spectrum. 

I, however, am not about to be caught dead with earplugs, and my evil side secretly hopes Kendrick calls out their half-hearted participation like he did to this VIP section in Montreal. 

Suddenly, the room goes dark and a short-film begins to play on the jumbotron. Punctuating the night’s performance, these mock-serious flicks gradually establish Kung-Fu Kenny’s (Kendrick’s alt. persona) directive to find the Glow “where the black is darkest”. The first short blinks out and the suspense becomes palpable in the dim arena. I am basking in the surreal knowledge that Kendrick is about to be five feet in front of me when a massive bang and several jets of fire burst from the stage. After returning to the skin I had momentarily jumped out of, my eyes alight on a crouched Kendrick ascending through a cloud of smoke. Needless to say, the crowd goes wild and I forget how to breathe. 

 Now THAT is how you go digital to physical on all ya’ll, ay? We were warned.

As the first refrains of the track play I lose it. It’s “DNA.”, my favorite song off the entire DAMN. Album (2017). Kendrick makes his way out to the projecting stage where he performs most of the righteously angry single. Is my face melting? I don’t care. Kendrick then migrates upstage for the rapid-fire verse of “DNA,” where he gets busy spitting bars while simultaneously dodging katas from an actual ninja. Kendrick keeps the energy high by seamlessly transitioning to “ELEMENT,” another popular track from DAMN. 

In keeping with the tour’s namesake, Kendrick primarily showcases songs off his latest album, but he also sends the crowd into convulsions by throwing it back to albums like To Pimp a Butterfly (2015) and untitled unmastered. (2016). When he performs one of the title tracks off good kid, m.A.A.d. city (2012), I could die happy. 

I have gone to many a concert, sang and danced along like no one was watching, but this is an entirely different experience. The one person that actually has the vantage to see me IS Kendrick Lamar, and I am so glad I know the words because I’m pretty sure I will probably turn to stone if he catches me slippin’. One song I only half-know, and it transports me back to that one time at Watershed I snuck to the front, touched Tim McGraw’s hand, faux-sang lyrics I did not know and proceeded to look like a gaping fish out of water. 

 At Kendrick’s show you genuinely get the sense that he is watching you, feeding off your participation. In an unforgettable moment, Kendrick cuts the music during “HUMBLE.” and extends the mic to his audience. We spout out every word to the verse and he appears thoroughly, well… humbled. He even makes an effort to include the cheaper seats by transitioning to a central B- stage where he slows the tempo down to perform “FEEL.” and “LUST” from a light strewn cell. 

Similar to Kendrick’s dynamic vocals, his performance lives on a broad spectrum that ranges from subdued to emotional to belligerent. He uses each tone strategically to achieve a masterful performance. The sheer technicality of a mega-concert like this handicaps his capacity for improvisation (which some may have enjoyed at other Kendrick concerts). Regardless, he is anything but mechanical; sweat coats his face, he occasionally loses breath and every motion he makes is electrified with intent. Sure, there is the occasional pyrotechnics and he does perform part of “PRIDE.” frozen sideways in mid-air, but Kendrick Lamar relies less on gimmicks and more on his sheer charisma and musical genius to captivate the room. Should we even be surprised? Kung-Fu Kenny is a virtuoso of his craft.