#(the quarry sending me insane)

[ihavenosoul12]

OKAY BUT LIKE JACOB AND EMMA MAKE ME CRAZY they aren't even my favourite characters but oh my god those two

like both of them are wrong (on some level stay with me i love jacob but i ain't defending him) but also EMMA WAS RIGHT

on the surface it's like. they get together, classic summer camp thing, they break up, summer's over, they're supposed to move on, emma set that expectation but jacob couldn't let go. if summer lasts one more night, maybe he can convince her to go long distance, so he sabotages the car and he tries so hard to change her mind

but emma's mind won't be changed. and she knows what jacob is like, she's been with him all summer, and she knows how much something like her making out with another guy at the firepit will upset him. and the fact that it's KAITLYN, jacob's childhood friend, who gives her the room for this, it shows that kaitlyn knows that this is the only way as well. dylan's off the table, ryan just made out with someone else, the only real option is nick. he's jacob's best friend, her best friend's crush, that's the perfect choice. it's so calculated

and yet when they go to the docks, emma can't help but flirt a little more, like it's nature for her, she's spent so long with jacob that it's almost secondhand. and, in that one cutscene, she reveals that she still likes him but that she's still ending it. it was never that she didn't like him, it was just that she wanted it to be contained to summer, she wanted him to move past her, and for her to be able to move past him

we dig a little deeper. she says they were toxic but why is that? well, jacob has pretty clear abandonment issues or at least insecurity, and emma is an actress, she admits that she puts on a performance to make people happy. and while these things may sound unrelated as first, imagine that in play. a guy who clings onto any sign of affection, who needs so desperately to be seen, and a girl whose confidence comes from a place of not wanting to see other people sad.

she only flirted with jacob at the docks because he was crying. and he latched onto that immediately. she knows what he's like, she's been with him all summer. she knows about these issues and he doesn't know hers. he doesn't know emma at her core but was so willing to open himself up at the slightest affection

it's not even just that emma wants to avoid upsetting jacob when their potential long distance relationship goes sour, it's that she doesn't want to have to keep performing to a guy she really cares about, and because he would be exhausting to her. they're not toxic because they tear each other apart, it's that they wear each other down.

and nick being the one that she kissed, jacob's best friend at camp besides kaitlyn, it really plays into his issues. the betrayal, his ex kissing his best friend. but she knows that's the best way to try cut him off and she just can't help herself and it's SO MESSY

she just has to believe that abi will understand, or her performance will cave. how funny is that she only seems to really care about upsetting abi

anyway jacob insane for sabotaging a car and emma girlfail for vlogging

[yarrystyleeza]

Happy birthday tomorrow Yuna! Hope you'll have an amazing day ❤️❤️

As for a request... When I saw you would write for Daryl, I knew I had to send you something. Season 1 and 2 Daryl lives rent free in my mind, so can I please request:

"when they tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear while you talk" and "brushing against each other, even if there is enough room"

Thank you in advance and again, Happy birthday 😁❤️🎉

Awww thank you my love, sorry for answering this late, hope you didn't mind it, it was stupid of me! 😅💖💖💖

I was stuck with the plot of the request for the last two months until last night, I literally wrote this in less than 10 hours lol 🤣🤣🤣 hope you enjoy it, though, and sorry for keeping you hanging! 💖💖💖 You're so welcome and thank you for dropping this request and for the birthday wishes! 🥰🥰🥰

Little Things (D.D)

Requested by @munsonownsmyass

Pairing and dynamic: Daryl Dixon x female! reader, idiots in love

Prompt: fluff, s1!s2!Daryl, tucking hair behind ear, brushing against each other even if there's enough room + petnames for the cherry on top!

Word count: 1.4k!

Writer's note: I loved writing this one so much! As you lily, season one and two Daryl is my favorite Daryl era (beside S8). Not 100% proofread but I hope you really enjoy it, have a great day! <3

"Hurt y'self, little thin'?" He teased, watching you lying on the forest bed after your foot faltered and slipped you into the bottom of the hill. Your brows knitted, you rolled your eyes, he chuckled at the face you made, "alright, I'm comin'."

He slides down, smoothly, and a little bit pompously—with a smirk on his face. You can't lie—he made you smile though you desperately wanted to punch him right in the face.

He offered his hand to you and you accepted his help. At first, he let you wrap your arm around his neck as he walked you towards the hill exit—but as it turns out, you sprained your ankle so bad it was impossible for you to take another step. He scooped you in his arms and carried you back to the quarry.

And that's how you met Daryl.

You can't admit he wasn't a pain in the ass most of the time—if not always, getting on your nerves and driving you up the wall, it was so constant you started thinking he was doing it on purpose.

It kinda was. Daryl had serious troubles with conveying his emotions, and that idiot had a sickening crush on you ever since he saw you at the camp with the girls. He wanted your attention and he only got it when he drove you mad, so he tooled it in his advantage.

You were his favorite. You're the only one he talks to—other than his brother, Merle—and you, too, are the only one who wants to talk to him.

You too had a crush on him. His silly fights and bickering became more amusing to you—sometimes you couldn't even contain the smile drawn across your face when he's mad about something so stupid and could be fixed in complete silence, and when you gave him your smug face—it always drove him insane. You learnt he's quick-tempered, but these ones were visibly made up just to get a chance to be with you.

Daryl reminded you of those little boys in the playground when they used to ruin the girls' sand castles or pull their braids and ribbons just to get their attention. Ever since you came up to this conclusion—life has never been easier!

But things changed a little bit after the attack on the quarry. Daryl turned from only being a hot-headed idiot to be completely protective of you, but that doesn't mean he stopped getting angry—God forbid he does! But he got more reasonable and collected—around you, at least.

As soon as you got to the CDC, he grew closer to you, more friendly, more worried, more caring. He barely slept the night you spent there, checking on you every thirty minutes to make sure you don't need anything—despite you being a wall apart. It was adorable, and it stirred something in you.

Same night at dinner, right before you went to bed, he sat beside you as you dined, he made sure your plate was full and that you'd eaten well because 'it's been a while since you got a decent meal', he says.

And in the middle of the chaos the following morning—he solely cared for you, and not a thing was going to stop him from smashing Dr. Jenner's head that morning if it wasn't for you calming him down.

The two of you escaped in his pickup truck. But despite the horror you had just fled, you couldn't stop stealing glances at each other, Daryl was focused on driving but you spotted him staring at you with soft eyes a couple of times. Both of you blushed, multiple times—vividly, but you couldn't stop. Something was so amusing and sweet about the way he was looking at you, and you were so tempting to him he couldn't stop staring at you even if he wanted to.

Now, staying at Hershel's farmhouse, Daryl turned out to be that sweet lovey dovey guy who'd absolutely melt under your touch—in complete opposite to the face he's been showing to everyone.

As you went out to search for Sophia, Daryl offered to accompany you. He kept brushing arms with you, pumping into your side, and gently holding your biceps to guide you as you walked. He kept putting himself between you and any threat, not letting you shed a drop of sweat—you were almost a passenger princess, but on foot.

But it was very obvious the night he got shot—your heart dropped when it happened, and when you learned it was your Daryl and not some misinformation. You couldn't watch as they took the bullet out, you couldn't watch him screaming in agony—yet you heard him from behind the door. It tore your heart into pieces.

The night fell as you sat on the chair next to his bed, your head dripping every couple minutes as you drifted in and out of sleep. Your head was heavy as a rock sinking in the ocean—yet you kept fighting Mr. Sandman back, shaking your head and rubbing your eyes and patting your face.

"Go to bed, pet," he softly demanded, "ye're tired from sittin' here all day," he extended an arm, gently placing it on your thigh and squeezing it chastely, "ya need some rest."

You shook your head, "I'm fine, Daryl," you shrugged, "it's not like it's the first time I stay up late."

Both of you stay silent, staring at each other with soft eyes. "Climb up in 'ere," Daryl says, his voice was tinted with plead "at least you won't have to keep droppin' yer head like a sippy chicken."

"No, Daryl," you shook your head in utter refusal, desperately trying to show him how awake you are despite craving a warm bed, "you need your own space. What if I accidentally hit your wound--"

"Come on, pet, you know you won't..." he softly smiles, shaking his head. You sigh and climb into the bed with him and he shares his blanket with you. He turns to face you, the moonlight is perfectly casted upon your faces, his blue eyes sparkled and reflected you like a looking glass. He grazes your cheek, tucking your stray hair back behind your ear and his fingertips linger on the skin of your neck.

"Get some sleep, love," he caresses your hair, "I won't need nothin' when ye're right next to me."

You woke up tangled up in his chest, it was warm and peaceful. You never wanted to slip out of his arms—if it wasn't for Hershel coming over to check on him and the men accompanying him.

Daryl got better as the days gone by. You started to see him in the kitchen fetching some biscuits or chips, he'd pump into you on his way out, brushing arms with you and glancing at you with his blueies and a smile. And if he's in the right mood, he'd take you off guard and peck your cheek, and you'd turn red and try to bite your smile. He caught it had quite the right effect on you, and he's been doing it ever since.

"Let it down, pumpkin," Daryl flirts as he snatches the scrunchie out of your hand as you tried to tie your hair, "love it when it's coverin' yer pretty face, gives me a reason to keep tuckin' it back."

"But we're going on a mission," you protest, "it would be dangerous for both of us!"

Daryl takes a run around the golden field and you chase him—but he overpowers you and you stop running, panting and clutching your chest as he giggles. He mischievously walks back closer to you, so you try to take it back, but he's taller than you, stretching his hand up with your scrunchie and shaking it to tease you. "Ya ain't tiein' it today, darlin'."

"Give it back!" you giggle as you jump to reach for your scrunchie, but he keeps stretching his arm above his head.

"Ye look so cute like that, pumpkin," he pulls a smug face as you lean forward against him, your chests compacting and you're an inch away from kissing.

"You could've told me you wanted to kiss me," you tease, not minding that he lowered his hand back down. He tucks your stray bangs behind your ear, ending up doing what he wanted to do all along.

"But it's more fun to watch ya tiptoe and lean on to me like that," he rounds you with his big arms, pulling you deeper into his chest with a Bastard smirk on his face, "it makes you even prettier, pet. These little things you do."

Likes and reblogs are appreciated, thank you for coming to my birthday sleepover celebration! 💞💞💞

[steddieas-shegoes]

Steve was a fixer.

But when it came to fixing things, he was lacking.

People? Great.

The bathroom sink? The car? His favorite sweater? Not so great.

But Eddie was a fixer, too.

And he could fix things.

When Steve’s bathroom sink started leaking, Eddie came over to replace a part of the pipe.

Steve watched as he concentrated on removing the piece that was broken, his tongue poking out of his mouth in a way that made Steve’s heart flip.

When it was fixed, Steve offered to pay him, but Eddie just glared at him and took a beer from the fridge before leaving in his van.

When Steve’s car started smoking on his way home from work, he took a left instead of a right at the fork in the road to get to Eddie’s trailer.

Eddie spend the next hour tinkering away, breaking a sweat, causing Steve to have a heart attack while he watched.

When he finished, Steve offered him the cash in his pocket and was given a shake of the head and an offer to come inside for a drink.

He would’ve been stupid not to take the offer.

But out of everything, his favorite sweater getting a hole in the shoulder was the most devastating.

He wore it to bed, to the store, even to work when he was dealing with a migraine. He wore it during every season, during any event. He’d gotten endless compliments on it for two years running and he’d be stupid to part with it.

So the hole in the shoulder had to be fixed.

Unfortunately, Steve’s only needle and thread were for stitches. Despite his ability to stitch a wound close in minutes, he couldn’t stitch cloth together to save his life.

Did it make sense? No.

So, he took a chance.

He called Eddie, reigning in the sudden indescribable panic in his voice, hoping that he didn’t sound incredibly ridiculous.

“Yep.”

“That’s how you answer your phone?”

“When I was almost asleep, yeah.”

Steve glanced at the clock. Shit. It was almost midnight. He hadn’t even realized how late it was by the time he got out of the shower.

“Sorry, man. Um…I’ll call you in the morning.”

Steve started to hang up but stopped when he heard Eddie yelling on the other end.

“Harrington! Wait!”

“Okay…”

“Is everything good? You’ve never called this late.”

Steve gulped. He hadn’t actually called him before for anything other than trying to find one of the kids. This was entirely out of character and Eddie would be extremely suspicious if he didn’t explain.

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s…fine. Totally fine. Just had a favor to ask.”

“Ask away.”

Steve cleared his throat awkwardly. This wasn’t what he’d prepared for at all.

“So you know my blue sweater?”

“The one that brings out the gold in your eyes?”

Well. That’s certainly. Something.

“I…guess? Um. Anyways. It’s got a hole in it and I figured you’re pretty good at fixing things so. Maybe you could fix that?”

The silence on the other end wasn’t promising and Steve was considering just hanging up and driving over the cliff at the quarry when Eddie finally spoke up.

“Yeah, can do. Just bring it over in the morning.”

Steve should’ve accepted that. This was already a nice favor, it was encroaching closer to midnight, and this was a sweater he didn’t even need to wear right now.

But for some reason, Steve’s brain couldn’t let this go until morning.

“Would it…be okay to like. Bring it now?”

Silence again.

God, he was so fucking stupid.

He sounded certifiably insane. Like, send him to a psychiatric hospital crazy.

“Never mind. That’s so. Just. Never mind.”

This time he did hang up before Eddie’s silence could say any more.

The phone rang less than a minute later and he ignored it.

He could never talk to Eddie again. He’d have to learn how fix things now. Bathroom sinks and cars, and now this sweater that ruined his life.

Then the phone rang again and Steve decided he had to be an adult about this.

“Harrington residence.”

“Steve, you know it’s me.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’m coming over. I’ll bring my sewing kit.”

“What? No! You don’t have to do that. I’m sorry, it’s not an emergency, I don’t know why I acted like it was.”

“Be there in ten.”

And he was. He probably broke every speed limit between his trailer and Steve’s house, but Steve didn’t care because the panic that had settled deep in his bones was already dissipating.

Without saying a word, Eddie invited himself in and walked up the stairs to Steve’s room. Steve ran a mental inventory of every single thing currently on his bedroom floor and thanked his past self for cleaning up the day before.

When he entered his room, Eddie was already sitting on his bed, sewing kit placed next to him, sweater in hand. He was inspecting the hole, which in hindsight, was barely there at all. Eddie was going to laugh at him. Or leave and never come back. Or both.

“Not so bad, but I can see why you’re worried. This placement is right on the seam of the collar. Could’ve torn the whole thing if it got caught on something.”

And then Eddie got to work.

Steve just let his words of comfort wash over him.

Had he been silly about a tiny hole in a sweater that could be replaced? Maybe.

But Eddie acknowledged that no matter how silly it was, he was allowed to be worried.

No one had done that before. Not even for things he genuinely should have been worried about.

Steve slowly sat down on the bed, being careful not to disrupt the focused flow Eddie had going.

“Thanks for doing this. I really didn’t think it was that late.”

Eddie shrugged. “No big deal. Already almost fixed.”

He remembered Robin telling him about Eddie helping her sew a patch on her band uniform not long ago, and how Dustin said Eddie had sewn all his own patches on his denim jacket. A small hole in a sweater would be nothing.

Only a minute later, Eddie was handing the sweater to Steve with a small, tired smile.

“Like new!” He threw out his arms dramatically.

Steve examined the sweater, amazed to see it genuinely looked like nothing had ever happened.

“You’re amazing.” He looked up to see Eddie blush.

“It’s just a basic stitch. I could show you at a more reasonable hour if you want.”

Steve could learn. It probably wasn’t that hard. And Eddie seemed good at it, he barely even had to think about this fix.

“But then I wouldn’t get company at midnight.”

Why did he say that? Jesus Christ, why did he say that?

That was beyond desperate, borderline creepy, and Eddie would definitely never talk to him ever again.

“You can call me anytime you need company, Stevie.”

Hm.

“I could always use your company.”

What was going on? This felt like openly flirting in a potentially dangerous way. They were alone, it was just past midnight, Steve had been fantasizing about Eddie for months. All the pieces of the puzzle pointed to taking a chance.

Or whatever.

“I’m pretty tired. Could I stay here?”

It felt like a very sharp turn from where they were in the conversation. Steve stared in confusion.

“Uh. I mean yeah. Yeah, that’s great, actually. I can take the guest room.”

“Didn’t you just say you could always use my company?”

Steve huffed out an awkward laugh. “I guess I did.”

“Unless you didn’t mean it, I could just stay in here with you.”

Steve’s brain short-circuited, static filling his ears. Bad idea.

“Yeah. Okay.”

His mouth was now functioning without permission from his brain, which may actually be a health concern.

As Steve changed into the sweater Eddie rushed over to fix, Eddie shucked off his jeans and t-shirt. Steve would be lying if he said he didn’t sneak a look. It’s hard not to when the person you lo…like a lot has such a tiny waist staring back.

They wordlessly got in Steve’s bed, Eddie naturally falling on the side by the door. He had no interest in getting under the covers, apparently, since he curled up against one of the pillows more on Steve’s side, and let out a sigh.

Steve stared at the way his eyelashes fluttered slightly as he completely settled into sleep.

He’d tell him in the morning. Maybe.

But for now, he’d appreciate the company in his bed.

And in the morning, when he found every article of clothing that needed to be fixed, he went to his fixer with a smile and eventually, a kiss.

[scotianostra]

On December 24th 1856 the writer and geologist Hugh Miller “The Highlander who changed the world” died.

The death of Hugh Miller saddens me. On Christmas Eve, after reading some poems to his children and sending them to bed, Miller wrote a suicide note to his wife Lydia and shot a bullet through his chest, muffling the sound. Lydia discovered the body the next morning.

He may not be the best known Scot but Miller was a man of many talents, fossil hunter, folklorist, Christian, stonemason, geologist, newspaper editor, social justice campaigner, he was one of the great Scots of the 19th century.

Unlike other famous Scottish geologists like Hutton and Lyell, Miller was self taught.

Miller was orphaned after his father was lost at sea, he was educated at the local parish school and was said to have been an avid reader but also a habitual truant! After school he trained as a stone mason and it was while working in the quarries that his interest in geology began. He also started to write articles for the Inverness Courier. His book, Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland is considered a classic, collected from the Cromarty firesides of friends and family it was inspired by two of Scotland’s literary greats Walter Scott and James Hogg.

Much of his writing was based upon his personal experiences of travelling around Scotland and northern England where he observed closely the homes and ways of life of Scottish crofters and the effects of the Highland Clearances. He also became heavily involved in religion and was involved in the fledgling days of the “Wee Free” editing their newspaper The Witness.

He also wrote on Geology and made many important original contributions to this field, discovering fossils of sea scorpions (eurypterids) from the Silurian, and fishes from the Old Red Sandstone (Devonian) rocks, on the coast near Cromarty, together with plants from the Devonian and Carboniferous periods.

His fish specimens proved of great interest to Louis Agassiz, the Swiss geologist who had become a world authority on fossil fishes. He also found many marine invertebrate fossils from the upper Jurassic rocks, also around Cromarty. Many of his fossils were drawn by him and presented in his Testimony of the Rocks, and in lectures that he gave to the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute,

His fossil collection of over 6,000 specimens formed the founding core of what is today’s Scottish national collection in the National Museums of Scotland.

For most of 1856, Miller suffered severe headaches and mental distress, and the most probable diagnosis is of psychotic depression. Victorian medicine did not help. He feared that he might harm his wife or children because of persecutory delusions.

Hugh Miller left the following note for his wife;

“Dearest Lydia, I must have walked, and a fearful dream rises upon me. I cannot bear the horrible thought. God and Father of the Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me.”

Speculations about Miller’s reasons immediately rose. Upon request of his pastor, physicians conducted an examination of his brain, which showed a “diseased appearance.” The final judgment was that the suicide had been committed “under the impulse of insanity.”

He had not been well for a while. He had complained to his doctor that his brain was “giving way,” and had reported terrible nightmares that left him “trembling all over, and quite confused.” He had also reported sharp pains, like “an electric shock,” passing through his brain and leaving a burning sensation on top of his head. Because of these physical symptoms and the visible appearance of a “diseased brain,” some have suggested a brain tumour. Whatever it was, it was fairly sudden and unpredicted. As most illnesses of the brain, it was also largely unexplainable.

But people want explanations. Some blamed his mother, who told him stories about frightening Gaelic spirits. Some suggested he could not deal with the apparent contradictions between his faith and his geological studies. Interestingly, this second theory is still strong today. Yet, its proponents, like myself, don’t know Hugh Miller. He was never afraid of the truth, nor of the questions and challenges that led to its discovery.

In truth we will never know why he took his own life, like many suicides it is left unexplained, I suggest you have a look at the page below, “ The final days of Hugh Miller”

[cellard0ors]

Laura wakes up and Travis is gone.

This, in and of itself, wouldn't be so unusual, if it weren't also for the fact that a lot of his clothes are gone too.

She does her best to get up (a feat that's becoming more and more difficult these days) to see some of his dresser drawers are open. Various personal items too, are missing, and as she starts to take it all in a bone deep chill begins to settle in.

He's gone.

He's left.

He's left her.

He's left them.

Laura tries to deny it, not believing he could do something so incredibly selfish, so terrible. But more and more evidence mounts to suggest it's true.

She calls his office and they tell her he's taken a sabbatical, she looks for his car and it's gone. She's alone. She and her baby are...

Laura calls his cell. Again and again and again. No answer, voicemail disconnected. She tries to text, but she's so upset she can't even think of what to write.

Each time she tries, she starts shaking, starts crying. Some bursts come in anger, start off with a simple: WHAT THE FUCK-!

Others come with more despair: Tell me you're not doing this. Tell me you're coming back!

None of these texts get sent, because she doesn't have the heart to send them.

Laura remembers clearly when she first began to suspect she was pregnant feeling these exact same emotions. Anger, fear, despair. She was too young, she wasn't ready, she didn't want a baby.

But then, on the other side of it, she didn't want to give it up to someone else. She didn't want to get an abortion. There was nothing wrong with the idea of it, but it just wasn't the course she wanted to take.

Laura had made the decision to keep it, even when she'd been afraid that, when she told Travis, he'd blow her off. Or he'd tell her what to do - that she should give the baby up for adoption or she should get an abortion.

But he'd done neither.

He'd been supportive. He'd gone above and beyond. And then...and then they'd started having sex. And he'd start talking to her, paying attention to her, and Laura realized...

...she realized it would be easy to fall in love with this man. Not the man who'd kept her prisoner. Not the one who'd kept her in the dark.

But the man he'd become - the one free from Hackett's Quarry. The one who bought baby clothes and stuffed bunnies. The one of who got them a house. The one who started talking to her. The one who made her body ache for him.

And now, sitting in this big house all alone, she knows it's not just her body that aches. It's her heart. At some point, Laura had begun to fall for him. It's absolutely outrageous, insane, unhinged - but it's the truth.

Laura was falling for Travis. The man who was over half her age. The man who was a perpetual grump. The man who was the father of her child. It occurs to her that, at some point, she'd forgotten all about her past life and dreams, her aspirations.

That she had morphed into someone who was okay with just working at a vet's office, having a baby, and spending time with a man she thought she didn't have feelings for.

Except she does.

Laura has feelings for him and it explains why she never pictured dating again, why she didn't see herself juggling a baby and school - she didn't picture those things, because she'd stumbled into a perfectly wonderful life by accident, one she found herself more than happy with, one she was at peace with.

But it must have not been the same for Travis.

Maybe he'd just woken up one night in a cold sweat and realized he was making a mistake. Maybe he'd had plans she'd never known about. After all, Laura had never bothered to ask.

Maybe, once the curse was settled, before she'd announced her pregnancy - he'd had plans of his own. To go somewhere. To do something. But then she'd shown up and guilt had made him do what he felt was best.

Didn't he try to wiggle out of this before? She seems to recall him offering to pay for the house so she and the baby could live on their own. Perhaps he thought that was all she needed - money and support.

Not love.

Because he didn't love her.

And for some reason this realization makes her a mess. Ends with her sobbing on the sofa, big belly in her way, and the baby. Did he at least love the baby?! Laura could almost take not being loved by him, but to not love their baby...

He's out of her life for a week when there's a knock on the door. It's raining, it's Sunday, and she's been crying again, because she can't seem to stop and she doesn't know if it's because of the hormones or because she's genuinely upset or both.

Either way she's crying and she opens the door and there he is.

Travis Hackett.

He looks like he hasn't slept the entire week he's been gone. His eyes are bloodshot, the bags beneath his eyes heavier than usual. He looks awful. She knows she doesn't look any better.

About a thousand responses at seeing him now come to mind. The range from violent to uncaring to pathetic.

Instead all that comes out is a full, "What are you doing here."

No question, as it's more a statement than anything and his slim shoulders rise and fall on a heavy breath, eyes cast downwards with a hangdog expression, "I came to apologize."

"Oh." It comes out dry. Simple. "For?"

His eyes slowly tilt up to hers and then down again, shame coming off him in waves, "For running."

"Okay."

Then.

"Why did you?"

Travis looks up and finally meets her eyes. He looks broken. Good. So is she. Travis's licks his lips and she can tell he wants to look away again, but he doesn't, "I'm a coward."

"I know." This is not said with rancor, it's said as clear fact. He doesn't react to it and she didn't expect him to, "I run when I'm afraid. I ran when I first saw Chris and the kids change. Was half way to New Hampshire before I turned around."

She accepts this without judgement. The next part though, she's sure she will.

"When you told me you were pregnant...I didn't run. I stayed. Because that didn't frighten me. I wanted to help. I wanted the baby. But then something happened and I...I realized I was doing something wrong, something I shouldn't. And that's when I got afraid. And that's why I ran."

"What happened?"

Laura waits for him to say that it was wrong of him to step up. She waits for him to say it was wrong of him to say he wants the baby when it turns out he doesn't. She waits for him to say something that will completely validate her annihilating him.

Instead he looks right at her and says, "I fell in love with you."

Laura feels her mouth drop open. Travis just pushes onward, "I...actually suspected I had...I dunno, a yen or something, for you, back when I first locked you up. Trust me - I know how fucked up that is, but it's true."

"You asked me to work with you. You were so serious and earnest and...it made me laugh." He shakes his head, grinning at the memory, " Six years of the curse and horror and the loneliness of a long dead wife and you made me laugh, because you had nothing to bargain with, but you were so..."

He struggles for a definition and settles on 'alive' although she can tell he wishes he had something more succinct to say.

"Then we had our... moment...and I figured that was that. But then you come to me and tell me you're pregnant and I think..."

He runs a hand over his face, "I think, okay, this is fine. I'll help her and the baby, but eventually I'll have to step back. I'll have to step back, because I have a history of being cursed. And I'm not even talking about the werewolf thing, no, I've been cursed long before then."

Travis looks utterly miserable as he confesses, "Cursed to love people and lose them, because I can't protect them. I can't help them, and the thought of that happening to you, of that happening to my baby, our baby..."

There's a sniffle and she's not sure if it's from him or her, "So, I knew at some point I'd step away and let some man enter your life who could love you without hesitation or fear. One who would be kind to the baby and I'd just...be around. Offer support like I said I would."

Laura closed her mouth at some point, but she's close to opening it again now, ready for a fight only for his talking to continue, "But then you...you came to me. And you wanted me. And I thought it was just sex, just simply more of me doing what I could to help, but it...it was more than that. At least to me and then I felt the baby move and I realized I'd done the worst thing possible, the one thing I shouldn't do."

Travis looks like he wants to touch her, eyes glossy and brimming with unshed tears, voice full of emotion, "I realized I'd fallen in love with you. That I'd fallen in love with the baby. I realized I didn't want to leave, so I forced myself to "

He rubs the right heel of his hand under each his eyes and she recognizes this. This is how he cried that night when she found him. When they first came together. The soft, withheld crying of a man who feels that he can't cry or shouldn't cry.

"So, I ran. But...I'm still a coward because...I can't leave you and I don't want to and I'm-I'm begging you to take me back and let me stay and let me love you and love my baby and you don't have to love me bac-!"

Laura tugs him forward. Hard. Her rounded stomach rests between them, making it so their bodies can't quite meld together as they should, but that doesn't matter as she grips fiercely to him, as she hisses, "You're so fucking stupid! You stupid, stupid, motherf-!"

She cuts off with a sob, "I love you, too."

"No..." He moans, "No, Laura...you don't have to lie to me. You don't have to-!"

"Jesus! Stop being stupid!" She cries against his neck, even as she kisses him, even as she clutches him as close as she possibly can, "I'm not lying. I love you. And our baby loves you. And if you ever run like that again I'll never forgive you. Do you understand me?"

He hugs her back just as roughly, "Yes. Yes, I understand."

She pulls back and wipes away her tears. She goes for a smile but it's wiggly and weird, even as she puts her hands on her aching back and lets out a hefty sigh, "Good. Now..."

She steps further into the house, "Come on home."

Travis doesn't need to be told twice.

[apatheticlexicographer]

BYLER FIC REC WEEK 2023 DAY 6: CANON DIVERGENCE recs

without heart by aceoflanterns my beloved @aceoflanterns

will-centric; plot. a “will gets vecnaed” fic of a fashion. it’s from june, so it diverges from canon after V1. if u like fics that lean into will’s connection to the upside down, this is for u!!! the way this captivated me like honestly. i don’t wanna say too much because honestly the joy is in how cryptic it is. multichapter, complete

Crescent by disaster_energy

will-centric; plot. more post-V1 will gets vecnaed / will’s connection to the upside down!!! this one is a bit more centered around the vecnafication aspect. twoshot, complete

them’s the breaks by emelinelou

mike-centric; plot. will develops the ability to shift in and out of the upside down and sculpt it. he’s insanely closed off about literally everything that happens to him and mike only manages to force himself into the picture by sheer stubbornness. some of the best characterizations i’ve ever seen of them. explores will’s more self-sacrificial tendencies and mike’s unrelenting loyalty. multichapter, hasn’t updated in a while but still ongoing

Time After Time by SuzieBurself

mike-centric; plot. vecna sends mike back in time to the night will went missing, making him an impostor in his own life. angst!!! mike is cursed by the knowledge of what is to come and also the demon man in his head. multichapter, hasn’t updated for a while but not officially discontinued

i know, i know, i know by aude_sapere

will-centric; plot. yet another will gets vecnaed / will’s connection to the upside down fic, but this one is long as hell /pos. set after V1. will gets to go a little apeshit with his powers, and there’s some good wonder twins content. longshot, complete

hold your breath (and fall) by venusperia

mike-centric (mostly); plot. the party never encounters el and will is never rescued from the upside down. his friends and family have been grieving his supposed death for years. what they don’t know is that will, el and barb have been living together as found family in the upside down the whole time. el and barb manage to escape when the gates start opening, but will isn’t so lucky. i’ve seen several “will spent years in the upside down” fics, but this is the only one i’ve seen where he isn’t alone there. the codependent dynamic between the three is unique and the plot is captivating. multichapter, ongoing

bloody hands and soft lips by joyfullyrissa

will-centric; plot. THEE will byers timeloop fic. he’s stuck repeating the first day of mike’s visit over, and over, and over. across the loops mike slowly opens up to him —not that he’ll remember it the next day. there’s a lot of focus on mental health issues, and it’s not just timeloop-related. it slays okay idk what to tell u. multichapter, complete

bury me in your heart by Cherop

mike-centric; maybe plot? in a world with no upside down, when will goes missing he really does die. the day after they fish his body out of the quarry, mike stumbles across his ghost on the roadside. obvious MCD warning, although will isn't gone-gone (yet??? idk what direction the story will take for him). cute miwi, with the constant undertone misery at knowing will is dead and only mike can see him. multichapter, ongoing

growing up (but not old) by veraity

will-centric; plot. timetravel back to miwi era fic but this time it's will going back to just before s2!!! my poor boy is going THROUGH it and i cannot wait to see how it spirals. multichapter, ongoing

[v-anrouge]

the tooth extraction hurt so bad im on the floor however i believe you should think about you and rook hunting vil down for sport together. such a noble and magnificent quarry! just think of all the possibilities you could have in teaming up to take down a queen. vil better hope his stamina doesn't fail him, because the virtue of pomefiore, tenacity, certainly did not overlook his beloved prefect-- much less his dear vice. what they want they will certainly get. and how they want vil will all their heart! vil would proudly preen at this if not for the fact it was being used in ways such as this-- making him run for his life with naught else to think about.

rook takes to the high ground as yuu chases him from below. every so often an arrow will narrowly graze vil's porcelain skin, now slick with precipitation and dirt, and the shock rattles him to the point he's nearly caught by yuu's break neck grip-- nearly. because with a slight scramble across the forests foliage, he manages to swerve just right out of their grasp and off, deeper into the shroud of green, only to hear the faint, joint laughter from behind him.

at night, when vil is lost in the cover of night, he can see the cozy campfire rook and yuu have set up. they speak nonchalantly, as if they were no predator, but a mere traveler-- to taunt him with the illusion of safety just in his line of sight. they recount with passion just how beauty vil lookw with fear stricken across that gorgeous face and the way his breath hitches when their blades narrowly miss him and how he cries out when they up the ante and decide to chase him with horrifying ardor. of course they'd never hurt him, though! well, not in a way he wouldn't like. yuu concurs that they may not be the expert that rook is in hunting quarry, but their heart pounds at the whole notion! oh, they wonder what the prize'll be. suppose they can decide that for themselves when they take vil for the win, huh? vil can only shudder and sneak off to a safer part of the woods; when he turns back for the last time, rook's verdant gaze slanted in a smile staring right at him sends shivers up his spine even the cold of the forest could not muster.

occasionally rook and yuu will call out for vil, barking praise and sentiments for him to return back to his lover's embrace as if they did not have a bow and knife in hand respectively. they do this to locate the other, instead of vil. they've always known where he is! the thrill of the hunt was more important. he knows they're mocking him, playing with him, toying with him, but their voices come from all directions like a cacophonous call from inside his head-- and though he never gives up, the fatigue of the several day ordeal weighs heavily on his limbs, and by the time rook pounces on him and pins him down with his muscled form, he can't help but succumb to the relief of unconsciousness. before he slips off into the worldly darkness, he can feel yuu smoothing the dirt off his face as they exchange a kiss with rook-- a celebration of their victory. and he catches them murmur something, something about taking him back to rook's cabin, and.... oh, he's gonna be in for a long ride when he wakes up.

or you could hunt rook down!!! he constantly dreams about getting his throat ripped out don't tell me he wouldn't beg you to stalk him. anyways please euthanize me im so insane in the membrane about tjem

- c

NOOO OUUFUDUFDDEUWF STOP WHY R U PUTTING HUNTING VIL DOWN ON MY BRAJ IM GOING INSANE GOD PLEASE

[thissortofsorcery]

Harringrove, 2k words. Established relationship, light angst, fluff.

------

Billy doesn’t even remember what Steve said that pushed him over the edge. Between one moment and the next, Billy was yelling,

"Goddamnit, Harrington, if I wanted someone to hold my fucking hand, I wouldn't go to you!"

Steve just sat there, gaping at him, both hands still on the steering wheel. Billy thanked god they were in Steve's car and already parked, because he couldn't take the hurt look that came over Steve's eyes, so he just climbed out of the car and slammed the door before stalking off.

The half hour it took to walk back to his house and shut himself in his room had calmed him down enough for him to see he'd overreacted.

Billy had lost it on Steve again. He'd been trying so fucking hard, these pasts few months, to be someone better, to be someone Steve could like, but he was still just a piece of shit. He could pretend all he liked, could work his charm on Steve until he was melting in his hands, but in the end Billy would always let him down. He couldn't get rid of this thing in him, this- This anger. It stained his insides like tar, it clung to everything he did, made everything too sharp, too toxic.

Just the thought of it is enough to make it rise in the back of his throat again, and he sends a can of hairspray flying with a slap. It hits the wall with a bang and falls, joining the broken mixtapes on the floor. The ones Neil broke, as a lesson. The reason he was in such a foul mood in the first place.

Steve could be an asshole, but he's not the kind of asshole Billy is.

This is just an example of why this thing between them was doomed to fail. Billy was always going to screw it up. And from the look on Steve's face, he's not going to forgive Billy for this. Whatever they had was too new, too fragile.

And now it was over.

The next day is Saturday, and Billy starts his afternoon by chainsmoking at the quarry.

He couldn't stand staying at the house, with everyone else out and the silence closing up on him. Thinking that he should be out too.

He's supposed to be at Steve's.

So he'd just grabbed his keys and driven to the first place that came to mind. Billy and Steve never really came here to hang out, so it's not like anything here is making him think of Steve. But Steve's always on his mind, anyway.

Steve's dumb preppy hair, his pastel polos, the width of his shoulders, the way they feel under his hands. His ass in gym shorts. That one mole on the side of his tit that drives Billy insane. How his smile pulls a little to the left when he means it.

There's the rumble of a car approaching, and Billy pushes off the Camaro, assumes it's a cop. He tosses his cigarette to the ground and grinds it under his boot. He's halfway to snarking something about how he didn't know it was illegal to smoke there, when a voice interrupts him:

"Thought you were gonna come over today, man."

Steve's standing beside his Beamer, hands in his jacket pockets. Billy's mouth closes with a clack, and he stares. He sure as hell didn't expect Steve to show up here.

"I was looking all over town for you. I drove past your house and your car wasn't there," Steve keeps his distance, but he's looking at Billy so intensely he might as well be right up against him.

"I've just been here," is all Billy can say.

"Yeah," Steve agrees, but his tone isn't mocking. "Why didn't you come over?"

Billy doesn't know what to say. Can't say the truth, can't say thought you wouldn't want me to.

"What do you want, man?" Is what he says instead. Billy breathes in clean air and wishes it was smoke.

"What do I- Billy," Steve takes a couple steps closer. Stops.

Billy’s body wants to sway closer to him, wants to close what’s left of the distance between them. But Steve’s frowning with that little dimple in the middle of his forehead, the one that means he’s sad, and Billy’s the one that put it there.

He leans back on the hood of the Camaro, back to Steve, and lights another cigarette.

“You’re just not gonna say anything?” Steve asks, and his voice is finally rising above a dejected mumble.

“Don’t know what you want me to say,” Billy doesn’t look at Steve. He takes a drag of his cigarette, pretends his hand isn’t shaking.

“I want-” Billy hears Steve release a shaky breath, and he just knows he’s running a hand through his hair. “Would you just look at me!”

When Steve’s voice breaks, Billy does too. Steve’s hair is ruffled, like he thought, and the dimple in his forehead is gone. He’s just plain pissed now.

“Where did you go yesterday?” The calm in Steve’s voice doesn’t match his frown. Billy doesn’t trust it.

“I went home,” Billy answers, wary. Suddenly, he feels chilled in only his jean jacket.

“You walked home.”

Why the fuck is Steve just repeating what he’s saying.

“Yeah, Steve, I just walked home. What is it to you?” Billy snaps. He’s starting to feel it, the burning in his chest, in his throat.

“I don’t know, Billy!” Steve snaps right back. He’s the one that closes the distance. From the corner of his eyes, Billy tracks Steve’s hands moving as he speaks. “You just went off on me yesterday and ditched me, and you didn’t show up today, what am I supposed to think?!”

There’s a sound in his mind like a crack, a log giving in to fireplace flame, a burst of sparks, and Billy imagines smoke coming out of his mouth like he just inhaled an entire cigarette.

“How will I know what you think, Steve? I'm not a fucking mind reader!” Billy snaps.

“Maybe if we talked to each other once in a while!” Steve yells back. “I try to get you to talk to me and I might as well be trying to pull out your teeth!”

“Doesn’t that tell you something? Why don’t you back the fuck off?!” Billy’s voice rises above Steve’s, hoarser, meaner. Just a little more desperate.

“Because you never tell me anything about how you feel, and it drives me up the fucking wall!”

“If you’re so pissed, then why the fuck did you even come here?” Billy’s voice echoes in the absence of Steve’s answer. He blinks at Billy, face blank.

They stare at each other for what feels like the entire afternoon, breathing hard. When Steve speaks, Billy jolts at the thought that the quarry is just as bright as it’s been the last fifteen minutes.

“Fuck. Fuck- I’m sorry,” Steve says, voice shaking, and rubs both hands over his face. “I didn’t mean to pick a fight. I’m not pissed at you. I’m sorry.”

It’s enough to make Billy take a full step back. The roaring fire in his chest goes out in a single gust of wind, leaving him chilled.

“Why are you apologizing,” His voice comes out flat. This isn't on Steve.

“I lost my shit at you, and that’s not-” Steve takes another deep, shaky breath, reaches a hand out to Billy, painfully slowly. “I’m not pissed at you, I was worried.”

“Worried about what.”

Steve’s hand finally touches Billy’s. His fingers are warm around Billy’s palm, they always are, and Steve just. Holds his hand.

“You were acting weird yesterday, when I picked you up,” Steve steps closer, bends their heads together so they only need low voices to hear each other. “At the diner, too. Then you snapped in the car, and I thought- something happened, right? With your dad?”

Billy can’t look at Steve, so he just stares at their hands, together. Nods.

“He didn’t- He just broke a bunch of my tapes. Got the ones you gave me, so.” It wasn’t that bad, considering. Billy’d had a lot worse. He should have just been happy he’s been able to still get out of the house. But the sight of Steve’s mixtapes in pieces on the floor had made his stomach turn.

When Steve sighs, his breath is warm on Billy’s face. He doesn’t say he’s sorry, doesn’t say he’ll make Billy new ones. He knows that’s not the point. He squeezes Billy’s hand instead.

Sometimes it feels like Billy’s living in a world of fog and Steve’s the only solid thing he’s got to hold on to.

He looks up, “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday. In the car.”

He has to say that, at least. If there’s anyone in the world Billy would trust with his shit, it’s Steve, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

“I know that,” Steve says, like he never doubted it. “I know you.”

Billy’s breath hitches, and his eyes burn. His other hand reaches for Steve, grasps at his hip, pulls him close.

“Billy,” Steve starts, “you thought I was pissed at you.”

Billy gives him a look, “You were yelling at me.”

“Yeah,” Steve huffs out that self deprecating laugh Billy hates. “But you said, ‘why did I even come here’. You thought I got pissed yesterday? Is that why you didn’t come over?”

Billy hesitates, chews on the inside of his lip. Looks down at their hands again.

“I lost it at you in the car.”

“And I lost it at you just now,” Steve shoots back.

“Yeah, but I keep doing it. I can’t stop.” Billy grinds out, voice rising again. Steve doesn’t understand. It’s not the same. Steve apologized but he wasn't the one at fault.

He makes to step back from Steve, and Steve lets him go, but not far.

“I keep- I just get so-” Billy can’t come up with the words, so his breath leaves him shakily, between his teeth. “And one day you won’t-”

Billy’s voice cracks, and he shakes his hand free to cover his face, but Steve’s hands get there first, wiping his thumbs over his cheeks, taking away the wetness he didn’t realize was there. Billy clings to his bony wrists, instead.

“Billy,” Steve says, barely a whisper. “You’re not gonna lose me because you get angry sometimes. Okay?”

Steve knocks his forehead against Billy’s, gently. Rests it there.

Billy gives a barely there nod.

“I’m serious,” Steve says. “You’re allowed to get angry, especially if I’m being a dick. You’re not doing anything wrong,” He insists. “I just blew up at you and you forgave me just like that.”

Billy shakes his head, “It’s not the same thing.”

“Kind of is, though, man,” Steve insists. “I told you, I know you. You’re an asshole, but you’re not cruel,” He laughs softly, smile lopsided. “I should know, I’m an asshole too.”

Steve’s eyes are bright in the afternoon sun. There’s nothing clouding them, no frown. No dimple on his forehead. Then he says,

“I’m not just gonna give up on you,” and Billy has to close his eyes.

Steve’s nose nudges his own and they just. Breathe together.

Billy feels his way to Steve’s mouth by sucking tiny kisses from his cheek, to the corner of his mouth, to Steve’s smiling lips, and Steve kisses back with his entire body, settling into Billy from chest to thighs, the toes of his sneakers bumping into Billy’s boots.

Billy digs his fingers into Steve’s hips, sighs into his mouth when Steve cradles his jaw into his large hands, buries his fingers into the hair curling behind Billy’s ears. A tingle goes down Billy’s spine, and he bites at Steve's lips until he can press in, in, like he can crawl inside and make a home there. His fingers find his way under Steve’s shirt, feeling around for skin until they splay over his lower back, pulling him impossibly closer.

Steve is warm everywhere, where their hips and their chests touch, where his fingers dig into Billy’s scalp, where Steve’s lips wrap around Billy’s bottom one and suck, on his tongue when Billy licks into his mouth in return, on his breath when theirs mingle together for the hundredth time.

They trade soft, slow kisses in the sunlight, lips parting just to come together again until they’re just resting against each other, breathing together again. Steve’s thumb strokes the hollow of Billy’s cheek, back and forth.

In a minute, they’ll drive separate cars to Steve’s house, only to settle together on the living room couch and while away the afternoon with pizza and beer. In a minute, Billy’s going to slap Steve’s ass when he turns to get into the Beamer and make a dirty joke that he’ll follow through with later that night. In a minute, they’ll let go of each other.

For now, Billy buries his nose in the hair that curls behind Steve’s ear and closes his eyes, breathes in. Thinks back to the drive over from California, how he was sure every mile was a shovel of dirt piled over his grave, and any chance of happiness was left behind there with the warmth of the sun. Thinks he was wrong.

It was bringing him to this instead.

[maccajohnny]

mclennon fanfic recs based on what i've been reading lately :)

very much feeling emotionally wounded paul energy at the moment. blame peter jackson for making me watch 23 seconds straight of him crying over john not showing up.

As The Days Stand Up On End by roundthatcorner - 9k. i'm a sucker for george's pov on mclennon, but this fic handles it differently from ways i've read before. the scene during quarry-era and then also when they're all high are my favorite scenes :)

what is living is burning by orphanbeat - 99k wip. i normally never read unfinished fics as a rule but this is just INSANELY good. in a world where brian never died, paul is outed in 1968. john & him try to cope. also john goes to therapy?? it's a fascinating plot and brian is handled Phenomenally. also MAL is beautiful here. and JANE. also GEORGE. i don't know if the author's gonna finish it but there's like 10 chapters so it's worth it, read this and freak out over it with me LMAO

that which resembles the grave but isn't! by clarinetta - 12k. major tw for an attempt. i keep coming back to this fic over and over and over again. paul doesn't end up with linda so there's no one to pull him out of his darkness when john, george, and ringo team up against him. it's angsty as all hell but it's wonderful hurt/comfort and ends up happy :)

Lennon, Rolling Stone by skeletondance - 5k. okay this made me feral. it's basically written as an excerpt of an interview john gives (prob in the late 70s) where he essentially gives a tell-all about the sexual nature of his relationship with paul. it is SO well-written and in character that i thought it was real for a second. obsessed with the concept of linda mccartney reading this on tour and just walking into the ocean LMAOOO

No More Situations by skeletondance (obsessed with u) - 15k. hamburg fic! one of john's artsy friends has a crush on paul. chaos and dubious consent ensues. it's really good but i felt the need to hold paul after reading it LMAO not really angsty but john kinda bullies paul for a second there </3

Whatever Gets You Through the Night by sleeprettydarling - 13k. AHHHHHH this is INSANE. more hamburg. basically john & paul keep having threesomes with this prostitute as a way of kinda sorta maybe acting on those repressed Gay Thoughts. it's so good, really in character. MAJOR john pining which i'm always game for. obsessed with it.

Tessellate by cloudy_blue - 5k. oh my GOD this fic. cynthia lennon studies! her pov on john & paul. the star of the fic is cyn & paul lamenting john leaving them both. it's just SO good. i'm so happy this fandom is moving away from wife-bashing and embracing them as full-fledged characters.

(where is the lesbian linda fic, i need to write that i guess)

does it worry you to be alone? by clarinetta (obsessed with u) - 12k. FLUFF. the four lads taking care of each other in different occasions <3 but it's so in character and well done. im a sucker for any of the "bigger than jesus" conflict. brian is great here too. made me feel very warm and fuzzy. plus i love men crying LMAOOO

okay that's it for now, send me a message if anyone ever wants like a specific themed rec list. i'm prob gonna put a 70s mclennon list together cause i live for the DIVORCE DRAMA and also prob a george specific mclennon rec list okay goodbye love u all scream with me about these

[captain-tch]

Oh Brother (The Walking Dead x Shane's Sibling!Reader)

After a trip to get medical supplies, you suddenly realise your brother has changed from the man he once was.

Standing outside the high school, your back pack heavy with medical supplies, you prayed. Walkers were hot on your heels, Shane was injured, and Otis was severely winded. You seemed to be the only one unscathed, worry curdling your thoughts. Shane was limping quickly next to you, with Otis huffing heavily next to him.

Secretly, you knew you all wouldn't make it out of here alive.

You checked how many rounds you had left in your pistol. Heart sinking, you realised the chamber was mostly empty. Two bullets shone at you, mocking you. If this all turned south, at least you had something to end the misery, you thought darkly.

Shane's face was haunted. The revolver in his hands was nearly empty too. After sharing a despairing look with Otis, you knew he was running low on ammo. Your gaze turned to the growing herd to walkers hunting you. Fear shot through like a bullet.

Looking at Shane, all you could think was how happy he was with Carl. How at the quarry he laughed and smiled and chased frogs, all for one boy. He hadn't smiled like that for a long time, even before the apocalypse began. He confided in you once that his happiest times had been with you as a child, playing in the mud and jumping off swings until one of your scraped your knees. So having seen that smile after so long, then see it dim... it tore you apart.

You knew you had to get the medical supplies back through any means necessary. For Carl.

Shrugging off your pack, you pushed it at Shane's chest, turning on your foot. Silently you hoped he didn't see the tremble of your hands. "I'll hold them off."

"Are you insane, you won't survive!"

Sending him a small smile, you lined up your shot, aiming for the walker nearest Shane and Otis. "But Carl will, if you get those supplies to him."

When neither of them moved, you pushed Shane's chest again, not caring how he winced when he stumbled backwards. "Just go!"

"Like hell I'm letting you die, you're my family." Shane snatched at your arm, dragging you with him. You protested, trying to shrug out of his grip.

"Shane, look at me." You stopped, forcing him to stare you in the eyes. "I'm the only one who can run away. Let me distract them."

You could see the cogs turning in Shane's brain. It was only logical for there to be a distraction. With this amount of walkers, you needed one, and soon, otherwise you three and Carl would be dying tonight.

The next few seconds after that you struggled to comprehend. With his spare hand, Shane was aiming at Otis. The gun fired, the bullet piercing Otis' leg.

Shook washed over you in waves. You couldn't form any words, only watching as Otis collapsed to the ground, battling Shane off of him as Shane tried to pry the back pack off of Otis.

The walkers loomed closer.

"Y/N! Help me!"

It felt like you had been glued to the floor. Everything was moving in slow motion. Your brain struggled to process what you were witnessing. Somehow, you managed to form a sentence. "You... you shot him."

"He's going to die, just help me!"

Panicking, you surged forward, hands shaking as you helped Shane pull the back pack off of Otis. You attempted to block out Otis' screams, his protests, his curses. You were hearing this man's last words and there wasn't anything that you could do.

The pack finally fell away from Otis' body, Shane passing it to you. You shrugged it onto one shoulder, paying no mind to how it was still warm from Otis' body heat. Shane soldiered on, his limping gait quickening. You were frozen in place, seeing Otis look up at you with pleading eyes. Your heart shattered.

You were going to be the last person who ever saw this man alive.

This truth weighed heavy on your chest. In a final act of kindness, you tossed your gun to him.

Bolting after Shane, you fought the tears springing to your eyes. You focused on pumping your arms at your sides and pushing your legs forward, uncaring that you were leaving Shane behind. Breath left you in puffs as you leaned next to Otis' truck, another reminder of the man you had both brutally sacrificed.

It felt like you couldn't breathe. You slumped against the car door, grasping at your chest. Your lungs were balloons, just filling and filling with air, and not popping.

"Y/N, the hell are you doing, being out here on your own is dange-" He cut his warning short, seeing you crumble before his very eyes. Instantly he limped towards you, reaching a hand out.

It was the same hand he pulled the trigger with.

You physically recoiled. The thought of him touching you with the same hand he used to murder an innocent man made your stomach turn.

Wordlessly, you climbed into the truck, tucking your knees in your chest. Shane sighed, rubbing a hand over his head. He followed suit, clambering into the driving seat.

For once you were grateful for the silence.

"We need to get our story straight." You said nothing, Otis' squirming body on replay in your mind. "We got overwhelmed, the walkers got him. You got it?"

You nodded, turning away to look outside. It did you no good; you could see his face in the reflection. Every time you looked at him you could see the eerie calm that passed his face. You could see the man you once knew start to crumble before your very eyes.

Before the car had fully pulled to a stop, you were opening the car door. You bolted out, walking with a speed hard to match. All you could hear was the resounding gun shot, Otis' cries and the walkers tearing into his body. You were deaf to the shouts of your friend T-Dog at your back, the spew of lies Shane told the group, and the grief of the man who you murdered.

Tearing through the flaps of your tent, you collapsed to the ground. A lump in your throat had formed, your eyes bone dry. Staring at nothing, your mind wandered to the events of the night. If you hadn't offered to stay behind, would he have killed Otis? If you hadn't made Shane realise a distraction was needed, would he have been so quick to pull the trigger? You would never know; now, your hands were red.

Looking down at your hands, you couldn't see any blood. There was no trace of the life that had been robbed, but you knew it was there. Otis' death had left no mark on your body: it left a mark on your mind. A sudden urge overcame you to scrub them clean.

"Y/N?" T-Dog's voice sounded from outside the tent. "Can I come in?"

You wanted to tell him no, to let you unravel in peace. Another part of you just wanted to be held as you cried.

"Shane told us what happened. Are you okay?"

Just like that, the need for comfort faded, an overwhelming guilt taking its place. "I'm just tired."

"Okay..." The shadow of T-Dog shuffled. You could tell he was itching to help you. "I'll grab my sleeping bag and stay with you tonight. You shouldn't be alone."

You wanted to protest, the words quickly dying on your lips. You wanted the company of your friend tonight. While you weren't sure you could tell him the truth, see his perception of you change in a fraction of a second, you were sure that you wanted him nearby. He was always so good at calming you down from nightmares.

When T-Dog reappeared in front of your tent, you unzipped it. His gaze quickly darted from the redness of your eyes, to the quaking of your lip. He said nothing, giving you a small squeeze on the shoulder as he made his way into the tent. You turned to zip it closed, to say goodnight to the horrors and hello to the demons that will plague your dreams, when you saw him.

Him - the reason for the weight that felt like it was crushing you. He was your flesh and blood. He was the man that put plasters on your scuffed elbows and scorned your partners when they brought you home too late. All of your memories with him had been full of smiles, laughter. You couldn't remember the last time he scared you. Yet, looking at him stare at you from afar, his eyes piercing into your soul with a silent threat, you felt fear snatch at you in a vice like grip.

You were afraid of your own brother.

Swallowing harshly, you zipped the tent closed, praying it would be enough to block him out. That night you barely slept a wink. The events kept unfolding behind closed eyes. T-Dog kept waking you up, a sad smile on his face each time. He looked exhausted; what was worse was knowing you were the reason behind the bags under his eyes. He didn't seem to care, his concern for you outweighing his urge to yawn.

After that day, you withdrew into yourself. The shadows made your hairs stand on end. The wind caused your heart to race. The gaze of your brother made you spiral. Your words were a limited resource, used sparingly and only when desperately needed. T-Dog lingered around you more so than usual, making sure you ate and keeping watch while you were drawn into the world of nightmares.

It wasn't uncommon to find you in random nooks and crannies of the farm. On many occasions Dale caught sight of you through his binoculars, staring into the abyss. He saw how you were crumbling before his very eyes.

"Hey, Y/N." Dale smiled down at you softly. You couldn't spare the energy to reciprocate the gesture, merely shifting on the log you had found solace on to give him some room. Gratefully he fell onto the wood, his eyes falling to where yours seemed to be glued to. "How are you feeling?"

You shrugged, pulling at the grass by your feet. You found satisfaction in ripping the green apart, watching them float back to the soil.

"You've not been okay for a while, have you?"

From the corner of your vision, you could see Dale still fixed on that point in the horizon. You just shrugged again, praying that he would take the hint and leave you alone.

"We've all noticed, we're worried." Dale turned, noting the glassy sheen overcoming your eyes. "It's about Otis, isn't it?"

Instantly, you tensed. Like a deer in headlights you remained so still it was like you were a trapped memory in a photograph. Swallowing deeply, you stood up, brushing the grass off of your legs. Sending Dale the tiniest of smiles, you moved to walk away, jolted back when Dale reached out, grabbing your hand tenderly.

"You don't have to be afraid of him."

You yanked your hand out of his grip, all but running away from him. Your chest was tightening and your vision was starting to collapse in on itself. The final gunshot sounded in your ears. Suddenly you were back there, Otis on the ground, scrambling to make it back home. Your brother, pawing at him as if he was a wild animal. And you, standing helplessly on the sidelines, unable to save the man who just wanted to right his wrong.

"Y/N." A voice hissed.

The image of the past melted away. You don't know how, but you'd found yourself standing in front of the rock pile that was Otis' grave. Oh god, you couldn't even bring a body back for them to bury.

"Y/N." Hissed the demon. Your back stiffened. You recognised that voice. It haunted your darkest dreams.

"What did you tell him?" Shane demanded, appearing in your field of vision. His new haircut made him look more volatile, doing nothing to ease the hammering of your heart.

"Who?" You managed to squeak out.

"Dale."

You stared at him blankly. Dale had only sat next to you, you didn't even speak a word. Shane mustn't have thought this, his hand reaching out and gripping your forearm in a tight grip. His eyes were searing into yours and for a moment, you didn't see your brother. You didn't see the man who taught you how to ride a bike, or the brother who jokingly pulled out his revolver when you brought your first romantic partner home.

All you saw was the devil.

The grip on your arm was getting uncomfortable now. You tried to wiggle out of his grasp, a small whimper passing your lips. He held still, waiting for you to answer.

"I didn't tell him anything!" You flailed, trying to wrench yourself from his grip. "Shane... You're hurting me."

His hand left you as soon as the words left your mouth. His wide eyes stared at the mark he'd left on your arm, undeniable that a bruise would soon form. Taking a step back, he started to stutter over his words.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry."

You blinked, and for the briefest moment, you could see your brother again. Maybe that's why you instantly caved when he opened up his arms, offering you the first hug since everything had happened.

"It's okay." You muttered into his shirt, though both of you knew it really wasn't.

~

The fire crackled. The smoke burned your throat and nose; it was worth it for the warmth. You felt a chill down to your bones, and it had little to do with the biting air threatening to freeze you in place.

The farm had fallen. Walkers that stretched beyond the horizon attacked, ripping apart your loved ones and shattering any hope of a safe haven. Reaching a hand to your cheek, you could still feel the blood smeared there. Whether it was a walker, your friends, or your own, you had no clue.

You weren't paying much attention to the conversation around you. All you could focus on was counting the number of people around the fire, desperately searching for someone you knew wasn't there.

Shane.

Your brother hadn't met up with you all on the highway. At first, you thought it was because he needed time to catch up. Then more time passed. The sun started to dip below the horizon. Rick's hand gently found your elbow, telling you in a low voice that you had to leave. You couldn't muster the will to beg to stay for five more minutes. It was only drawing out the inevitable.

T-Dog shuffled closer to you, draping his arm around your shoulders. He tried to rub his hand up and down your arm, to stimulate some form of warmth. You were frosty to the touch. Subconsciously you leaned into him.

You heard his name. Your brother's name. Instantly they had your attention, pulling away from T-Dog's touch.

"I put him down."

Shane was a walker? It felt like your world had come crashing down around you. It was one thing to know that your brother was missing. It was another to know that he had turned into the thing you all feared most. As much as you wanted to, you couldn't muster the energy to cry. Secretly, you were almost glad that he was dead. Your mind had been a whirlwind with what he could do next. Now, there was nothing left to worry about.

"I killed him."

T-Dog tried to hold you, to give you something to anchor you to this reality. You jumped to your feet, the words processing in your mind. Rick, the man he considered a brother, the man who had come to your own graduation, that you treated like family, severed your final tie to the world before.

Before you could comprehend what was happening, you were running at him, hands raised to hit him. T-Dog had the foresight to snatch at your waist, effectively holding you captive while you screamed poison at Rick.

"Was he bit?" You weren't sure who asked the question, or why it mattered. All you knew was that this man murdered your brother.

Rick shook his head, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're all infected."

Your body fell slack. The words hit you like a truck, stealing all of your fight from you.

You were all doomed to become one of those monsters.

Shrugging away from T-Dog's grip, you fell to a nearby log. Your face was in your hands.

"How long have you known?" Your voice was so quiet it was almost lost to the wind.

Rick looked conflicted, the weight finally lifting off of his shoulders. "Since the CDC."

The group were in a state of shock. You couldn't fathom it, knowing that information for so long. Then, it hit you. Carl put your brother down. Rick killed your brother.

Slowly, you drew out your words. It was almost like the longer it took to ask, the longer it would take to hear the answer. Your brain was subconsciously protecting you from a bitter truth you knew deep down. "How did you kill him Rick?"

Rick stayed silent for a long time. He gauged you reaction, how you were tense on the log, ready to pounce. "I stabbed him."

"Where."

"In the stomach."

A hysterical laugh slipped past your lips. You couldn't help it, you shook your head, looking at Rick with such disdain he nearly recoiled. "You killed my brother, and knowing what you did, you let him turn."

Memories of Shane laughing, ruffling your hair sprung to mind. "I know he changed from the man you knew, but you couldn't even give him the decency to end it forever."

Rick took a step towards you, hand outwards. He tried to calm you down, tried to justify his actions. You brushed it off. "You killed my brother Rick. There's nothing you can say right now that makes this better."

"He was trying to kill me."

"You should have reasoned with him! Knocked him out, slapped him silly." Your voice hitched. "If you had to, you should have made sure he never turned into one of those... things."

You didn't have many fond memories of your brother since the apocalypse had began. At first, you had blamed it on the stress, but seeing him fall madly in love with Lori, form a family unit and have it ripped from him? He started to change the moment Rick appeared back in their lives. How their relationship unravelled rivalled the story of Cain and Abel, one killing the other out of jealousy.

And god did you hate him for it.

"Over the past few months, I haven't recognised the person my brother had become, but you," You huffed, fixing Rick with such a venomous stare it was a surprise he didn't fall on the spot. "You made him turn into a monster."

the walking dead masterlist

[littlemisslol-fic]

The Silent Opera

Chapter Twelve: But You Don’t Really Care for Music, Do You?

Summary: In a world populated by Soulmates— people drawn together by wordless music connecting them to their destined other half— Varian is an anomaly. He is Songless, someone without a Soulmate of his own. He makes due with the cards dealt to him, used to being the castle oddity by now, but when an interesting blond takes up residence in the castle, he can’t help but be drawn to him.

Hugo, on the other hand, is horrified to find that not only is his Soulmate a palace brat, but that Varian doesn’t hear him back— meaning Hugo is trapped in a one-sided bond. When presented with a horrible choice between completing the theft Donella had sent him to do, or taking a frightening step into vulnerability, Hugo finds himself at an impasse he just might not be able to charm his way out of.

And then politics get involved.

Notes: Hugo finds himself with an impossible choice. Varian makes it for him.

Hugo spends the next night horrifically awake. He spends it staring at the ceiling of his tiny room and chewing his fingernails to stubs and trying to figure out what he’s going to do. On the one hand he could abandon this whole sinking ship, take the crown, and be out before anyone would know what happened. It’s only another month until the Day of Hearts, when Cyrus would be around to collect their quarry; only another month that he’d have to be around his one-sided Soulmate, hear all the little nuances that Varian’s proximity sends through the Song. Only another month of this before he could leave it all behind.

But.

If he does that, he’ll… he’ll never know. He’d resign himself to hearing a Song that would never reach harmony, to walk the earth with a pit opened up under his heart. He’d always be frightfully aware of what he was missing. Who he was missing. And it just might drive him insane.

To Sing was to project yourself. To take all the little parts of you and open them up through Song on the hopes that somewhere out there, your Soulmate would hear you. Without truly being open, being vulnerable like that… there was no way they’d ever find you.

But to Sing would mean to project that to Varian. Varian, who was kind, and funny, and driven to the point of excess. Varian, who saw the gifts he’d been given and had sworn to do right by them. Varian, who insisted that true love was in other people, in community and companionship, and who was everything that Hugo wasn’t good enough to have. Varian, who would surely be horrified to hear all the jagged edges and rough surfaces Hugo’s side of the Song surely would have.

Hugo can’t fucking risk it.

But he just might have to.

The knowledge of what could have been would surely kill him. To know what Varian’s smile looked like, to know the feeling of his lips, to hear his laugh—and then to leave it behind? It would tear Hugo apart. He was right, that night they’d first breached the physical barriers between them.

He’ll get a taste, the familiarity of what he could have had, and it would drive him insane for the rest of his life.

Varian had suffered for nearly twenty years because of Hugo’s fear. Wouldn’t it just be poetic for Hugo to take the next shift? In a way, he probably deserves to; Hugo’s had it good for so long, all while his Soulmate languished instead. It’s not fair to Varian. None of this is.

So he spends the night awake, mulling over everything and trying to ignore the soft Song that drifts across his thoughts. Varian’s Song rings with frustration and hurt, with the smallest peppering of guilt—which arguably makes this all worse. Hugo’s the asshole here, and he knows it, so why Varian’s feeling guilty Hugo has no idea. He tries to tune it out, like he always had before his stay in the castle, but now that he’s Resonated… it’s so much louder. It rings, screaming. Pay attention to me. Do what needs to be done.

But the thought makes him lock up.

It really does. The idea of Singing, of letting Varian see him for what he is… it’s debilitating. Every time he even thinks of it, his stomach does a weird little flip that makes him nauseous. Hell, he even starts to sweat which is objectively disgusting; however, the nerves have dug in deep and there’s really no way to get around them.

Rapunzel said that he didn’t need to do anything right away, that they still have time, but Hugo knows himself better than anyone. He knows that if he’s given time, he’ll never get off his ass and actually do what needs to be done. He’s the king of waiting until the last minute.

He stays awake for the rest of the night, hming and hawing and trying not to vomit, but when he makes his decision it feels like a breath of fresh air. The nerves finally being to settle. The sickness abates. The bandage is ripped off, and all there is left to do is let himself bleed out.

The sun crests over the horizon. The new day dawns, bright and shining, and Hugo has to steel himself against the threat of it. Whatever comes, he’s ready for it.

He’ll have to be.

—————♪—————

In theory he is still on a job. Regardless of how the rest of the day goes, he’ll inevitably have to finish Donella’s work before he’s even going to have a chance of working out what to do next. So he skulks around the halls, waiting, watching, for his chance.

And, eventually, he gets it.

Fitzherbert’s been slacking. The man’s been distracted for the last two months, pulled between extra protection for their esteemed guests and the usual palace duties, which is exactly what Hugo’s been waiting for.

The captain’s office is basically abandoned, as expected this early in the morning. It’s child’s play to slip in, snag a very specific paper from a very specific pile, and bail. It’s so easy, in fact, that Hugo takes a second to draw a comically horrible version of Eugene’s face, one with scraggly hair and crooked teeth, before he leaves. Just as a little present for Fitzherbert to find later.

It’s kind of funny that he’s stealing from both sides, per se. He’s a man of many talents, and yet here he is, stealing papers like a goddamn mailman. Honestly it was harder to grab Landis’s dirty documents than Fitzherbert’s—they really should be upping security. Hugo can’t help but chuckle, smug.

Take that, old man. The new kid’s got you beat.

He manages to find his way back to the lab—abandoned, as Varian is out running a trial of a more explosive invention out on the archery range—with startling ease. Somehow the castle has really started to feel familiar over the past few months, in a way that Hugo can’t really remember feeling before. He knows it like the back of his hand, at this point.

The lab’s empty; it’s weird to see it so quiet, to not hear the rattle of hammer strikes on metal or bubbling concoctions from the side tables. Like seeing a bird lie still. Strange, unnatural even; it makes the Song in his mind ring all the louder. Varian’s much calmer today from the sound of it—Rapunzel must be right; he did just need some time to calm down. A good thing, for what Hugo has planned.

But first, his ill-gotten gains.

Knowing he’ll be left alone, Hugo pulls out the paper and gives it a quick scan. The guard schedule for the next month—including the Day of Hearts—stares back at him. It’s perfect, really. If what he’s reading is right, there’s a ten-minute window between when one set of guards leaves the post to go on patrol, and when the next one arrives to take up watch. In theory it’s a nearly perfect system with guards constantly wandering at random intervals—however, if a certain sneaky bastard could manage to steal the schedule… well then.

It’s not long until the Day of Hearts. Not long until Varian’s marriage. There’s not a whole bunch of time left, but more than enough for him to work with now that he’s got the missing piece. Varian had only mentioned it offhand, but it was more than enough for a mind like Hugo’s to pick up on it. He’d nearly forgotten in light of… the current drama, but he knows a lead when he smells one. It’s just a matter of following through.

He folds the schedule, stowing it away in his vest pocket. Nice and safe; Donella had taught him how to sew it just so to keep it hidden from prying eyes. It’s not a moment too soon that he does, however, as a set of echoing footsteps ring from the hallway beyond.

For a second he thinks it’s Varian. The implication of that makes his nerves rattle—oh gods here we go, it’s showtime, time to make a total ass of yourself—but something stops him. The footsteps…

They’re too heavy.

It’s nothing to panic about—he’s allowed to be here, after all. He grabs at one of the mist bottles for the plants, quietly tending to them and pretending to act natural. Just a guy hanging out with ten beanstalks. Totally normal.

The footsteps stop outside the lab. There’s no music; it’s not Varian. Hugo keeps working on the plants—it’s good to keep them guessing, after all— and doesn’t look up until someone clears their throat.

It’s a terribly familiar voice.

Hugo turns and barely offers the person a glance. He keeps misting the plants, trying to hold himself together.

“Varian’s not here,” he says. “You’ll have to check somewhere else.”

“I’m aware,” Landis says. He walks into the lab like he owns the place; a jolt of concern runs up Hugo’s spine when the door closes and the click of the lock rings loudly. Landis doesn’t seem concerned, instead coming up to stand near the plants. “I was looking for you, actually…”

“Hugo.” Prick doesn’t even care to remember anyone’s name, huh?

Landis’s mouth thins. “Hugo. Right.” He reaches up, tugging at one of the beanstalks—Seventeen, specifically, the healthiest plant they have—before clicking his tongue. “You’re friends with Varian, correct?”

Debatable, at this moment, but—“Yep. If you want dating advice I’d go bother the princess, though.”

Landis sidles a little closer. Fuck, he’s tall. He cleanly manages to lean over Hugo, putting a massive hand down on the table and glaring at the blond down the bridge of his nose. It takes everything in Hugo not to back down, to shrink away; Landis’s face doesn’t move from that judgmental stare.

“No, I think you’d be just the man for the job, wouldn’t you?”

Ah. Oh fuck. This can’t be what he thinks it is, right? Sure, he and Varian hadn’t been super careful, but no one even knew—

“I’ve seen how you look at my fiancé.” Landis says it frankly, almost flat. “And it’s cute, it really is. But I know what you’re up to, and it needs to end. Now.”

The floor drops out from under Hugo’s feet. For a second he freezes, unable to stop the whirring thoughts that tumble over each other—how does he know, how much does he know, fucking hell what does he do—but all Hugo can manage is a choked “You haven’t even proposed yet, have you?”

Landis grins, smug. “Not yet,” he concedes, “but you and I both know that’s more of a formality, don’t we?” He leans closer then, so that they’re nearly nose to nose. “So you’re going to back. Off. Before I have to do something drastic, hm?”

Fuck, shit, think asshole! Hugo’s heart nearly drowns out the noise in his ears, but he’s never been one to be browbeat by some fucking noble who thinks he can waltz in and act tough. Especially when Landis is trying to keep him from Varian—it’s not fucking happening.

“You can’t prove anything.” One day his huge mouth is going to get him in trouble. That day is probably today. “And besides, I’m not scared of you. Neither is Varian.”

The Grand Duke’s face shifts then. “He doesn’t have to be. You, however, I would be much more concerned about.”

Hugo doesn’t break the man’s stare, challenging. Landis’s eyes narrow, suspicious and gauging. He mustn’t see what he’s looking for—fear, probably—because he shifts back, reaching into his vest and pulling out a sheet of paper. It’s a letter, folded thrice. Landis holds it like a knife.

“I’d never heard of a Hugo living in Koto, when I was last there.” He says it with such confidence, his voice practically dripping with it. “It was only a year ago, about their Songless princess of course. She’d already been betrothed by the time I got there, so the trip was a bit of a waste; however, I made great friends with a few of the knights. None of which mentioned you when I wrote to them. They did, however, have such interesting news for me about the archivist’s assistant. Would you care to hear it?”

Fuck. Fucking shit. His expression must speak volumes because Landis fucking laughs. “Oh, so you must already know. That’s fine, I’ll skip it then. Because after that, I said to myself: you know, that’s kind of strange. They’ve never had a Hugo at the castle of Koto. So of course, since you spend so much time around my fiancé, I really should be doing a background check of some kind. Wouldn’t want anyone… untoward, around him. You understand.”

Hugo doesn’t say anything. What the fuck could he even say?  

“So, anyways. Did you know that the locks in the servant’s quarters here can all be opened with a skeleton key? It’s interesting, really. It’s for the maids. Easy enough to get one, of course. Corona should really look at fixing that, it’s such a security hazard; we wouldn’t dream of having such a flaw back home in Socria. Could you imagine, anyone could just walk in and find all kinds of secrets.”

He leans over. Hugo backs away, his spine hitting the edge of the table. He’s still staring at Landis, but any challenge has left his mind entirely. Landis shakes the paper again, clearing his throat. “I found something interesting,” he tells Hugo, sounding like a professor about to start a lecture. “If I could entice you into a bit of light reading. Here, I’ll start.”

He flicks the paper open, shifting a bit in show. “Hugo,” he begins to read, “remember that Cyrus will be waiting for you by the docks. He’ll be waiting in an inn called the Prancing Pony. Get the crown to him and return to the castle before they can realize it’s been stolen.”

Hugo’s heart drops into his fucking feet. He’d hidden that note—or he thought he had. Not well enough, apparently. His face goes ashen white, blood draining from it. Landis pauses, a sly grin crossing his face. It looks wrong, like watching a tiger smile—threatening and unnatural.

“Shall I continue?” Landis asks, like he hasn’t just pulled the rug right out from under Hugo’s feet. When the blond doesn’t reply, still shell-shocked, he sucks in a breath through his nose. “I think we could come to an agreement, right?” His tone shifts, to something that sounds almost pitying. It puts Hugo even more on edge, the cold, creeping fingers of dread clutching around his heart and squeezing. Landis moves, standing near the window and gesturing toward it. Hugo follows, not knowing what else to do.

“Varian is… well, he’s extraordinary.” Landis sounds like he’s pitying Hugo, the fucker. “I’m not surprised that he’s got someone like you nipping at his heels.”

“Fuck off—”

“Oh, no, I don’t think I will. It’s simple really.” He gestures out the window. When Hugo looks through he can see the archery range outside. He can just spot a crown of raven hair, next to a man in a bright red coat. Varian, next to Eugene. Landis leans against the windowsill, deceptively casual.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to continue with your little heist. You steal the crown you’re after, you deliver it to your contact. You stop getting close to Varian. And then? Then you fuck. Off. And in return, I don’t sell you out. Fair?”

Hugo’s frozen in time. He—he doesn’t know what the fuck to do, doesn’t know what to say. What can he even say?

“And… if I don’t?” He can work around this, right? Surely—

“Then I have my ways of making people disappear.” Landis shrugs like that’s a normal thing for someone to say. “And impersonating a castle official… yikes. That’s a pretty open-and-shut kind of case, don’t you think?”

The Song swells with a sudden pulse of excitement. Hugo looks down, sees Varian whoop with glee when his experiment works—an explosion of purple dust scatters across the training field.

Landis winces, patting Hugo on the back. “Think of it this way,” he says, his voice close to pity. “What exactly did you think was going to happen? Varian’s… well, he’s used to a certain lifestyle. Did you really think that he’d risk it? Risk all this?”

He gestures around the lab then. Cold dread settles deep in Hugo’s gut—he knows Varian’s not material like that, knows that Varian has never once cared about fortune and prestige… but is that why he didn’t fight harder to break the deal?—and the doubt clings deep. There’s a noise from down on the archery range, and Hugo watches Varian adjust something, shifting his weight before he launches another projectile.

“I know that you like him,” Landis is still fucking talking, “but think about the long-term. Can you really see a future with him? Where he gives up everything… for you? Could you really ask him to do that?”

The dread stabs in his stomach. It’s hot, painful and rough and agonizing—and it’s right.

As much as he wants to act like it’s fine—it isn’t. Landis is right. Hugo knows he isn’t worth giving up much of anything; he’d been earning his keep since the moment he was born, why would anyone want to stoop that low when they had the option not to? How could he ever ask Varian to give up everything for a Soulmate who’d failed him?

(“Nothing comes for free, Hugo,” Donella tells him. She’s playing with a coin in one hand, flipping it in a dazzling display of dexterity. Hugo’s transfixed by it, eight years old and still naive to the world. It’s so pretty when it catches the sunlight.

“Everything has its cost. Sometimes it’s in gold, sometimes it’s in blood. But you pay for everything in the end.”

“What about love?”

Donella scoffs. “Especially that.”

He wants to ask what she means by that. He never does.)

So he thinks about Landis’s question. He can’t find it within himself to lie.

“…No,” Hugo admits. “No, I can’t.”

Landis claps him on the back. “Exactly. I’d say take what you can get, or I’ll have to get Frederic in here and trust me that man has a temper. Really, I’m doing you a favor. You get the crown, and you leave with your head attached to your shoulders. Easy.”

Right. Easy.

Landis holds out his hand for a shake. “Do we have a deal?”

There’s a broken second that rings too loud in Hugo’s ear. Maybe if he—or he could—what if—

Fuck.

There’s another pulse of joy through the Song. One that’s pure and happy and… perfect. Too perfect for him.

He takes Landis’s hand and shakes it, hating himself all the while. The Grand Duke smiles, something disarming and all too fake. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Their hands part at last, just a pinch too long to feel normal, when Landis takes one last look down at the training field. At Varian.

“Don’t worry,” he says. The man shifts away, brushing a hand along the pots of their plants. “I’ll take care of Varian, of course. He’s worth quite a bit, after all.”

He picks up Seventeen, inspecting. Something in Hugo snarls, angry and bitter—drop that fucking plant, it snarls, drop the plant and get away from Varian and never come back—but his body is frozen in time, absolutely thrown by the waves of panic crashing over him.

Landis meets his eye, then. “And remember your side of the deal. No contact. Or you won’t like what happens next.”

His grip on Seventeen’s pot goes lax. Hugo lunges before he can think better, trying to catch the beanstalk, but he misses. His fingers graze the pot just before it slams into the stone floor, shattering.

Landis only sneers, kicking dirt from his boots and fully turning away.

“Good talk,” he calls into the quiet of the lab. Before Hugo can even blink he vanishes, leaving the room like they’d just been casually discussing the weather.

Hugo winces when a sharp fire runs up his hand; blood, crimson and bright, begins to well up from a cut. He must have gotten nicked by a piece of broken pottery. He doesn’t even register the pain.

But he sits there, in the dirt surrounded by broken pottery and blood, and tries to hold it together. He’d been ready… so ready… and of course, as it must, life had given him a well need reality check. He’s a failure of a Soulmate, a failure of a friend. He’d messed up their bond so badly that he was losing Varian entirely as punishment. Somewhere, the Maker is laughing at him.  

The first tear drips down, a small blip that cuts through ruby blood and jasper earth. The clarity lasts only a moment before it’s swallowed up. Hugo hangs his head, the heat of shame settling through his entire body. He’s such a coward…

If you wait until you’re ready, you might just miss your chance.

And he had.

—————♪—————

He’s tested on that deal almost immediately. When Landis leaves, like ripping an arrow from a wound, Hugo’s left to simmer in the depths of what he’s just done—alone with the plants, or what’s left of them.

Seventeen isn’t… looking great. When Hugo finally gets his shit together enough to stop weeping like a child, he slowly scoops the beanstalk up out of the mess of dirt and blood and broken terracotta. The beanstalk’s main trunk is mostly okay, but there’s a harsh bend near the top and one of the major branches has snapped clean off. The leaves are wilting already, their waxy green surface torn to shreds from the impact.

For reasons Hugo couldn’t put words to, it makes him want to start crying again.

So of course that’s when Varian pops back up.

“Hugo?” a voice calls. It echoes, but not enough to snap the blond from his stupor. He still doesn’t look up, cradling the broken plant in his shaking hands.

“Hu—oh, no, what happened?”

The footsteps stop. There’s the ghost of boots on the outskirts of Hugo’s vision before Varian leans down and carefully touches Seventeen’s broken stalk.

“Did it fall?”

Hugo sniffs. Shakes his head. “Just an accident,” he says roughly.

There’s a beat of silence. Varian shifts, standing and vanishing for a second before returning with a broom. He sweeps up what’s left of Seventeen’s pot, careful of the broken shards, and scoops them up in a dustpan.

“It’ll be okay.” Varian’s voice is soothing. “We can re-pot him, give him some support until he grows a bit more. I’ve seen plants come back from worse.”

Hugo just nods. He finally stands on shaking legs, depositing Seventeen’s limp little self onto the table—why does it hurt so much? It’s probably a mixture of all the past few weeks of stress coming home to roost on one little dying plant, if Hugo had to guess, but that doesn’t make the surge of emotion that wells up any less real.

Varian dumps his dustpan in the trash. It barely makes a noise. The Song stutters in relief once the small danger is gone, something that breaks Hugo’s heart all the more.

“Are you okay?” Varian asks. When Hugo doesn’t say anything he reaches forward, as if to steady the taller teenager, only for Hugo to shrug and back off. Varian looks hurt, which is only another turn of the knife.

“Fine,” Hugo grunts. Fine, fine, absolutely fine, just stop asking and leave me to deal with this.

Varian obviously doesn’t buy it but he keeps his distance. “Well… okay. Can we talk? I wanted to, uh, well you see…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I wanted to maybe talk about last time we, uh...”

Oh, here it fucking comes. Another blow to shatter Hugo’s fragile grasp on his composure. Varian sucks in a breath through his nose, fidgeting. For a second he looks like he’s about to vomit—when Varian opens his mouth, Hugo’s sure he’s about to.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and… that’s not what Hugo had expected. Varian must take his silence as a stony one, as he keeps tripping over his own words. “I’m sorry, for… for shutting you down like that. And for not clarifying things before we decided to, um—”

“Fuck?”

Varian’s eyes narrow. “Get intimate. But I should have talked about the boundaries before I just sprung it on you, and that’s my fault. And then when you tried to open that can of worms I just shut you down. So I’m sorry.”

Hugo has two options here. The truth is still clawing at his teeth, demanding to be released—let me out, it says, just say it—but Hugo grits it back. He’s got two choices, and neither of them are objectively great. They both end with someone trying to kill him, after all.

But only one is the best for Varian. Even if… even if it’ll hurt in the short term. Hugo swallows the words he really wants to say and lets the lies flow.

“Yeah, you should have.” It’s almost easy. The Song twitters in confusion; Varian’s eyebrows knit together. Hugo doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him, and tries to ignore how his stomach rolls.

“You should have tried to talk to me. I know you just wanted a fuck to make you feel like you’re in control of something—”

“Well wait a second—”

“—No, you listen.” The Song stutters then. Hugo clenches his fists to keep them from shaking. “You knew I was okay with one-night stands, and you saw your shot. That’s fine. But you can’t just waltz in here with a shitty apology and expect me to jump back into this.”

Varian’s eyes narrow, but it’s not in anger—instead the Song rings with confusion. Even Hugo can see this isn’t in character for him. Case in point, Varian tilts his head. “Hugo, are you okay? You’re… acting different.”

“I’m acting like someone who’s sick of being jerked around by some guy who wants to have his cake and eat it too. You can apologize when you figure your shit out.”

Hugo needs Varian to get mad at him. He needs it, needs Varian to start shooting back, to play the game, so it feels less like a lie. If they’re arguing, if it’s a two-sided fight, then maybe the sickness in Hugo’s stomach will pass. But Varian can’t even give him that. Instead he steps closer, reaching out a hand.

“What’s going on with you?”

Something mean in Hugo snarls—why won’t he just play the game?! “Not a damn thing. I’m just sick of this!”

Varian winces when Hugo’s voice grows louder. “If it’s nothing then why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about! I get it okay, you didn’t want to give it up to the ponce first, and you hopped on the first guy you thought would give you a chance.” He knows he’s hit just where he meant to when the Song snaps in sudden anger. It makes him sick.

“Shut up!” Varian’s tone goes hard. “You know it’s not like that! What the hell are you on?!”

“It’s not like that? Then what’s it like, huh?” Push me away. I need you to push me away.

Varian shakes his head. There’s a tenseness in his jaw now, a stiff grit. “Hugo—I thought, I—”

“You what?”

“I thought you were different. You know it’s more than that.”

And it’s then that Hugo sees his in. Something he knows that will make Varian snap, if he only has the strength to say it loud enough. If he spits it quickly, maybe he could hear it over his cracking heart.

“Different how?” He’s digging himself a grave, one word at a time. “Different like you? It didn’t mean anything—I might sleep around but I’m not Songless.”

That does it. Varian stumbles back like he’s been physically smacked. The Song dips the lowest Hugo’s heard it since he Resonated, since this whole mess kicked off, and it feels like the Song is ready to tear his Soul in two. Varian puts a hand on his chest, fingers going white with how tightly he grips his vest.

For a moment Varian looks like he’s about to burst into tears. His eyes are buggy, shocked and offended and surprised. Hugo can’t believe he fucking said that, so Varian obviously doesn’t either. The silence stretches another moment before Varian’s hand drops and his expression sinks.

“Why would you say that?!” he asks. His voice is barely more than a whisper. “You know how much that—what that means. Why did you say that?”

Hugo’s going to fucking vomit. To get you away from me, for your own good. “Because you can’t seem to understand that I don’t accept your apology, and that I don’t want you around anymore!” Because I have to let you go. Because your life is going to be so much better than anything I could give you. Because you’re worth more than that.

Because maybe it’s better this way.

Varian’s face does an interesting little switch—from hurt to confused and finally to a cold rage.

“Is that true?” His voice is steely.

No. “Yes.”

There’s a silence that rings through the lab. To Hugo’s right, Seventeen is lifeless and limp. Varian, in front of him, looks ready to explode. The Song rings with misery, rage and… acceptance. Fuck. Varian backs off a step. Then another. The distance between then is horrible, growing wider.

“Is that it, then?” he asks.

Hugo can only nod. He doesn’t trust his voice. Varian’s Song dips even lower, all fury and confusion and hurthurthurt—

But Varian just scowls. His knuckles are ghostly white, hands clenched tight against the tides of very obvious rage.

“Fucking fine,” the alchemist spits. “At least I can say I tried, here. Just go wallow in whatever episode you’re in, Hugo, but don’t bother finding me when you’re done.”

“I won’t.” He can’t.

Varian’s face is downright murderous. “Fine!” he snaps. He turns for the door, fuming.

“Fine!” Hugo barks back, crossing his arms and looking away. Varian wrenches the door open, turning one last time. When Hugo catches his eye, there’s nothing but a storm of outrage swelling in those blue seas. Varian must see something in Hugo’s face he doesn’t like—he puffs up that little bit more in offense.

“Fine!”

And with that, he storms out of the lab, slamming the door shut. Everything rattles from the force of it. Hugo slouches the second he’s gone, dropping back down to his knees. His hand still aches, deep and hot and terrible—though it’s nothing compared to the twisting, cloying disgust that claws at his throat.

He tries to breathe, tries to ground himself—

But under it all, his Soul screams.

—————♪—————

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they’re pretty sure they’re about to lose their absolute shit.

Varian’s going to fucking scream. Or cry. Or something—anything to make the sickening sensations in his chest stop. He’d left the lab—left Hugo—in a bit of a fit, but he hadn’t known what else to do. It was either that or keep arguing (and knowing them they’d go around and around in circles, and nothing would get fixed). All staying would accomplish was more hurt feelings and Varian isn’t sure which would have been better.

As it stands he’s storming through the castle. He doesn’t have much of a destination; he’d planned on hiding in the lab, but now that that’s off the table, he’s not sure where to go. The tower roof, maybe… it was a good enough spot to think. Anywhere’s better than here: stumbling through the castle hallways and drawing weird (or weirder) looks from the other staff. Everything blurs together, a swatch of purples and pink and white stone that mixes into an incomprehensible wash.

Everything had gone so wrong in a matter of seconds—and the worst part of all of is that he knows it’s his fault. Of fucking course Hugo’s frustrated with him; Varian’s flighty and temperamental on a good day, but with all the chaos surrounding the treaty and Landis and his future… he’d just wanted something to be his. For Hugo to be his, so he could pretend to pick something for himself before it all came crumbling down.

The thought makes him sniffle. Hot tears well up before he can stop them, a sick pressure against the back of his eyes that he just can’t fucking shake—he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, but even then some slip free. He comes to a stop and leans against the wall near an ornate clock, the subtle tick-tock cutting through his panic.

Varian can’t keep running. Not in a state like this. His back ends up pressed against the wall and he lets himself slide down until he’s sitting on the floor. Everything’s spinning a bit, his knees are sure to give out soon enough. So he presses back, grounding himself with the feeling trim digging into his spine. It kind of helps, that subtle pain cutting through the floodwater. He wipes at his eyes, chasing the errant tears away before anyone can see—before anyone can ask.

Tick-tock.

This was… this was for the best, right? He’d known this couldn’t last… but something in him…

He groans, crossing his arms over his knees and burying his face into them. For a second he’s three years old, hiding away from the light in a childish game. Before everything had been so complicated, before he was given an impossible choice… before he was fucking Songless.

The thought nearly brings on another wave of tears. Varian grits his teeth against it—so tightly, he feels he might crack a tooth. They quell but only just. Instead Varian buries his head deeper into his arms, hugging them close to his chest. The clock above him tick-tocks, a soothing rhythm to cling to… since he’d never have one of his own. He’s so focused on the noise that he nearly misses the telltale thumps of approaching footsteps until they’re nearly in front of him. 

“Ah, there you are.”

Varian peeks up, just enough to catch a pair of perfectly polished, black shoes. The shine from their brass buckles is almost blinding. There’s only one person who still wears shoes like that.

“Nigel,” he mutters. He can’t bring himself to look up, so instead he focuses on the shoes. “Is this really important? I’m… busy.”

He doesn’t have to see the man’s face to hear his frown. “I’m afraid not. Your presence is required in the great hall.” When Varian doesn’t start moving, his voice hardens. “Now.”

The clock behind him chimes. It’s a funeral bell if Varian’s ever heard one.

But he still stands. Wipes at his face. And lets Nigel lead the way. Varian knows what’s coming: it makes him feel numb. The hallways blur even worse than they had when he’d been near tears; time slows and get goes too quickly, and soon enough he’s just around the corner from the entrance to the castle. They don’t even have to reach the great hall for the swell of voices to be deafening.

He knows what’s coming. And he fucking dreads it.

Nigel tsks when he sees the state Varian’s in, reaching over to fix his hair. It’s not gentle, not like when Rapunzel absently weaves a braid or two in while they read, but Varian can’t even bring himself to swat the man away. Nigel’s lips purse, still unhappy with the alchemist’s appearance, but he still opens the door to the great hall. Varian follows wordlessly, entering to see that it’s packed full of courtesans and staff alike.

He spots his dad, standing in the crowd. Quirin looks confused. Good. Maybe it’ll break his heart less, to not know his son’s being offered up like a sacrificial lamb to appease the politic gods.

The crowd’s split in two, leaving a long aisle down the middle. At the front stands Frederic and Arianna… and Landis. If there was a way for Varian’s Soul to fall through the floor, it surely is about to do so. It takes everything in Varian not to vomit all over the fancy, stupid fucking carpet under his feet. Nigel bullies him forward until he’s standing up on the dais as well; when he looks over the sea of faces, there’s mostly boredom, maybe some confusion. Not many had seen this coming. Just as planned.

Varian sees his dad out in the crowd again. Eugene stands near him—no guesses on who had brought Quirin to the castle, then. Something in Varian is thankful: even if he’d diligently hidden this from his father… it was nice to know he’s there. It makes him wonder, however…

Where is Rapunzel?

Varian’s whole world freezes when he feels a large hand take his. His head snaps over to see Landis, awkwardly kneeling before him. One of his hands is holding Varian’s—tight, inescapable, a shackle or a noose to keep him in place—but the other holds a small box, unassuming and oh so very damning.

“Varian,” Landis starts, his voice projecting loudly. It makes Varian wince. He’s dehydrated from the near-tears, a headache looms on the horizon and the noise isn’t making it better. The alchemist only just keeps his face a careful neutral. If Landis notices he doesn’t say anything, instead carrying on with the speech that was surely written for him.

“When we first met, I’ll admit, I didn’t know how exactly to parse you out. I only knew that you were like me, a one-in-a-million kind of fluke.”

How flattering.

“But when I got to know you, got to really see you, I knew that there was something special. I know that it’s unorthodox, and a little fast, but I would like to ask you to take the next step with me. While we may not be Soulmates, I’m sure we can at least find comradery in the silence. I believe we can do great things together. I’ve asked your King, and he approves.”

The alchemist has to keep himself from wincing. I’m sure he fucking does.

But Landis only stares up at him, expecting. “Varian of Old Corona,” he says, “would you do me the pleasure of marrying me?”

It’s not really a question. Varian swallows thickly. In the silence that follows, waiting for his answer, he hears the doors to the great hall creak. No one else notices. Varian can’t stop himself from looking, can’t stop himself from meeting a pair of desperate green eyes behind large, round glasses. Hugo pushes his way into the hall, Rapunzel hot on his heels, and stares at them with horror. It’s obvious what kind of picture he’s just walked in on. When their eyes meet from across the crowd Hugo’s whole face goes ashen white. He hast the manic energy of a trapped animal; Varian’s sure he looks almost exactly the same.

But then, then, Hugo has the fucking audacity to shake his head no, silently begging Varian not to do it.

And all the rage, the offense, the bitterness of hearing someone he’d trusted call him Songless, the betrayal of opening up that bit of himself to Hugo and having it thrown back in his face, it all comes rushing back. Varian doesn’t try to keep the sneer of contempt off his face—Hugo looks ready to push forward into the crowd, to stop this himself, but Varian won’t give him the chance. That ship has fucking sailed.

And it’s time for Varian to grow up and accept his responsibilities.

So he turns back to Landis, the man still holding the ring out like a hangman’s noose, and smiles. He swallows past the rage in his throat, the bile that had swarmed up at the thought of signing his life away, and allows Landis to take his hand. The feeling of skin on his burns, branding. He does his best not to wince.

“It would be my honor to marry you, your grace,” Varian says. 

The crowd erupts into cheers, loud and booming and overwhelming as all hell—but Varian can’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. For the first time since they’d met, Landis’s face splits into a smile, a real smile, and Varian allows the man to slip the golden band onto his ring finger. The Grand Duke follows it with a kiss to Varian’s knuckles, chaste and claiming, before he stands and clasps their hands together. Landis holds their hands high in triumph, spurring another round of applause from the crowd. Over the rush of noisy people, Varian just sees a head of golden blond vanish through the doorway again. It hurts more than he’d like to admit. He swallows past it.

Landis begins to boast, finally letting their hands drop. The man’s launched into another speech, something about love, even for the Songless. Varian’s not even listening, so caught up in the swelling noise of blood in his ears. So he stands, glued to the floor. Trapped. He’s accepted the proposal. The plans that had been made, the treaties, they were all hinging on this. There is no turning back.

Not anymore.

[mypersonmyg]

The Misery Chick | MYG

thank you to my favorite @kimtaehyunq for the wonderful banner, ily you talented cutie <3

pairing: Yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, a lil tiny bit of angst, college au

wc: 5.2k (issa short one)

warnings: language

summary: maybe yoongi has a fat crush on you OR he notices, that’s all

a/n: happy birthday to the one and only min yoongi! i am so so fond of him and i couldn’t not write something for him, so I hope you enjoy :D and as always feel free to send in drabble requests for the fic and blah blah blah...

honorary tag: @gukssunshine​

masterlist

To wonder about the quickened stride of the beating appendage in Yoongi’s chest, would be to question the routine catch of gaze to the lone figure at the far end of the classroom, dwarfed by cuddled fabric, consumed with the rapid turn of the lengthy page. His arm rests atop the desk’s surface, supporting the chin that minutely dips with your every flicker of expression, the parting of your lips in gasp mimed by his own. His eyes are glazed under bright light, lids threatening to blink, the passage of time too fast, but oh so slow. 

Yoongi’s knowledge is second hand, rumblings of your demeanor spread through the vine of dialogue that floats coincidentally through his ears to connect with the edges of his brain, chewed and regurgitated without second thought. He holds his refusal to high regard, refusal to believe that you’re nothing more than a student, disgruntled by circumstance. It’s not simple attraction that guides his mind to the eye of logic, the region of reason, though it was the peak of initial interest.

He notices, and that’s all. 

He notices the round of your puffed cheeks that follows a particularly surprising piece of narrative. He notices the seat left empty between you and the wall, open but not a forced invitation, and he notices the way your posture straightens when someone grazes a hair too close. He notices the deflation of your shoulders when you’re left without pair during lessons framed with the inopportunity of interaction forced to simulate the false reality of reality itself. He notices the things others are blind to in their half squint, though the picture is still blurred like the edges of a polaroid. 

The numbness of his wrist, angled by the rest of his chin, draws him from captivation despite motivation to outlast the congregation huddle before you, their fronts focused toward him, his view obscured by obligation of association. His lips form the curvature of amiability necessary for pleasantry, neck craning to the defense of blue jeans offending his locked gaze.

“Can you stop staring so hard? She’s gonna eat you alive,” Hoseok’s finger nudges at the round of Yoongi’s jaw, urging his attention completely away from his person of interest. 

“Fuck off, you don’t even know her.” 

“Neither do you, despite your dedication to staring holes into her side every chance you get. They don’t call her ‘the misery chick’ for nothing, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.” The jab rubs the wrong direction, Yoongi’s hand landing with a thud to the thick of Hoseok’s skull. “Come on, it’s a joke.”

“Maybe to you, and to everyone else, but she is a person. You guys just don’t look beyond what you wanna see because then she’s more than just a good laugh.” Every utterance of the moniker draws is lips to a downward twitch, fists balling in the pocket of his hoodie or scraping at the fabric of stressed jeans. It’s knowing that if he’s heard it you have ten fold, the thought harboring the wish that he could fold you inward, close to the beat of his chest to shield from the displeasure of words half baked with stupidity and the ignorance of hilarity. 

“Well not everyone wants to see her between the sheets.”

Interruption of the education saves Hoseok from the verbal spar pending within the fire engulfing Yoongi’s pupils. A place of love harbors the words of war, he knows this, knows that Hoseok’s plan is to rile to the point of action, but he’s driven to the brink of insanity by twisted words of encouragement. The kindest person on the planet playing into the stereo of broken records hurled toward the edges of your delicate framing, . 

Yoongi’s hands curl around his pen, ballpoint and already dancing the page, jotting words flown from one canal to the other and back to the atmospheric toxins of brains shorting caffeine. His sleeves are suddenly burning, neck itching with the heat of nerves crawling outward from within the confines of his collar. He glances toward Hoseok staring absently at Yoongi’s decorative scrawl, raising a brow to colliding gazes.

“Is it hot?” Yoongi puckers in mumble, swiping at the skin kissing the fringe sweeping his eyeline. Hoseok’s head careens in the negative, averting gaze to the front of the room, professor droning about the coming assignment, a project that Yoongi barely catches wind of. 

The plague responsible for his discomfort of familiarity is comfort enough to stop the distant tremble of shoulders keen to the stare that meets his eyes from the room’s opposing side. He jolts, or rather the calm of his heart picks back to pace, when his eyes meet irises reflective of his own.  They’re gone as soon as he finds them, but he’s confident that the cool of his neck is confirmation that sanity isn’t all lost. 

“Dude, could you take your notes? I’m gonna need those later,” Hoseok nudges at his forearm, limp from distraction. Yoongi hurries to scribble missed lecture, patient for a lull in speech to make room for declaration. 

“She was looking at me.” 

“What?” 

“Y/n, she was looking at me. I saw her...I felt her.” 

“Maybe she was just staring off into space because this class is a snooze-fest.” Hoseok speaks through the timing of yawn, perfectly punctuating his point. “She probably doesn’t even know you exist. Though, I guess everyone knows you exist, so maybe she just doesn’t care.” 

The words aren’t false, Yoongi’s following his beyond the definition of quaint, his celebrity following him from the rush of the court to the thrill of the keys. He’s hard pressed for a moment of peace, but he often finds it here, lost in you. 

“I’m serious.”

Yoongi sighs an audible defeat, Hoseok’s dropped lids and the rest of his chin atop folded arms a clear sign that his mind is beyond the classroom and beyond Yoongi’s own romantic woes. The end of the lecture appears miles from the start, the wave of dismissal a spell releasing its hold on the shackles chaining the  ghoulish appearance of sleepless students. 

Yoongi has worked himself to the brink of decision by the end of the lecture, sure enough that his stride to your desk will prove a build in the shy tint of his cheeks when he musters a faint ‘hello’. The pan of his half thought out plan doesn’t sort as well as he hoped, the rush of legs scurrying for the door tripping him up in his rush to the chair where you patiently filed notebook to bag. 

His vision is blurred by the passage of sweaters and hoodies, emblems emblazoned on sleeves and beanies sagging from the tips of bedhead. Hoseok follows after his stride in a confused wake from the desk that housed his sleepy head for the last seventy minutes, stumbling along with the drag of feet on tile. 

When destination is met, your chair is neatly housed, your figure nowhere to be found, Yoongi paces back, his sizable sneaker just scuffing the metal recline of an adjacent chair. 

“What are you doing?” Hoseok clutches the muscled fabric of Yoongi’s shoulder, stopping near disaster following the weighted displacement of the two. 

“Nothing, let's get lunch.”

The passage of days are a haze in the midst of the craze of midterms and Yoongi’s attempt to find reason to believe your glance was more than a passing innocence. The press of his back to his mattress, sheets freshly laundered, linens, scented of the artificial makings of fresh lilac courtesy of Jeongguk, are used to his mid-day collapse for a pre-study snooze. He’s swallowed whole beneath the dense of his comforter, fingers curling into the soft material, lips emitting a sigh of satisfaction. 

The buds in his ears are a dull hum, white noise to saturate the crevices of his brain still vibrating from the surge of knowledge consumed at the twice rapid pace of the semester’s schedule. His lids are aflutter, pupils rolling to the dark precipice, the unconscious already tugging at the bits of his subconscious manifested to snooze.  

The muscles of his pillowy cheeks fight upward against the smush to the firm cushioning of his mattress, arms cuddled around the decorative cushion of deep blue. A pitched giggle echoes in the receptors of his brain, bouncing against the walls, a comforting sound. It’s foreign though, the melodic stutter, yet it engulfs his chest with the warmth of affection, his stomach turning with nerves of the giddy sort. 

He teeters on the edge of more, features dancing between streams, a waterfall blur. Yoongi aches for the reach, his physical and metaphorical being extending from the depths of his full size bed, yearning for the exploration of the four walls and beyond. He can swear his fingers graze the soft of skin, the trace of lip curved in sensuality just visible through sleepy haze. The giggles grow in volume, almost as if guided toward his hasty reach. 

“Jeongguk, shut up!” Yoongi falls forward, just catching onto the ledge of his dresser, quick reflexes doing wonders for his physical well being, but the skip in his mental and the stop of his heart are undeniable. 

He's heard the voice a handful of times, an arm eagerly shooting to respond to a professor’s quarry, the hidden mumblings that he swears he’s the only one to pick up on, his smirk almost never enough to stop impending chuckle.

It’s you. 

He knows, but can’t quite grasp that just beyond the barrier of belief, past the door sealed to keep from disturbance you’re somewhere laughing with Jeongguk. He listens for a moment, unmoving, to attempt a deciphering of your intentions, but laughter has turned to the inaudible mumblings from the room across the hall.  He’s silent in his trek to the door, pulling it on rusted hinges, cringing with every scrape of copper and wood. 

He slips down the hall on tiptoe, unsure if you’re attune to the other members of the house, but not ready to face you if Jeongguk’s door swings back to reveal the occupants of the small cubical. Yoongi makes way to the kitchen, surprised to find the rest of his roommates crowded into the sizable space, each occupied with their own endeavor of strewn textbooks and half frozen toaster strudel. 

“Well well look who’s awake,” Jimin sneers playfully in Yoongi’s direction, drawing attention from the rest of the room. 

“Bet I can guess why,” Taehyung snickers, glances exchanged with a conspiratorial air, the shift of Yoongi’s feet not unnoticed by his personal tormentors. “We told Jeongguk he might wanna keep it down, we know how you like your rest.” 

“Jeongguk didn’t wake me,” Not the correct turn of phrase, realized just moments late, the flicker of pupils raising with the feigned ah ha! Yoongi side steps them all, settling on the sphere of orange grabbing his interest from the bowl on the table, plopping into the nearest chair. 

“Oh he didn’t? Well what other reason could you possibly have to forgo your pre-study nap, hmmm?” Jin pokes at the slightly greened peel of Yoongi’s fruit, hand smacked away with haste. He withdraws to card through his hair, lengthening by the day, framing his face with more beauty than should be allowed by the ethereal senior. 

“I was hungry, s’all.” He tosses scraps with each peel of fruitful flesh, eagerly sliding bits of tangerine past his puckered lips. Anything to keep his mind from the fresh dose of giggles eating at his brain like a love bitten parasite. “Who—umm, who does Jeongguk have over.” 

“Oh, Kookie has a friend over? We had no idea,” Namjoon hums, glasses perched to the bridge of his nose, arms eaten by the sleeves of his hoodie. 

“Maybe you recognize their voice? I mean, you’re the only one close enough to hear it.” Hoseok’s grin is shit eating, half hidden behind the length of his hand, fingers curling in position at the tip of his chin. 

“Oh, oh! I think I recall him saying something about a...Y/—hmmm was it…” Taehyung fakes stumbles over the name, tips of his fingers tracing the glass of his crumbed plate. 

“Y/n.” Yoongi speaks through teeth clenched, his cheeks rosy from snatched sleep and the scrutiny he’s placed himself under, the heat of a lamp concentrated in the five pairs of eyes trained on his every movement for their amusement. 

“So you do know her, why don’t you go say hi?” Jin pats him with vigour, the sound of an echoed frame permeating the air of what Yoongi has affectionately titled, friendly toxicity. Those same muffled voices grow with the trek down the stairs, threatening to give way with each step. Yoongi lifts his eyes from his half eaten fruit for the first time since he sat down, daring them to say a word out of turn with a single look. 

“It’s pretty quiet considering seven guys live here,” Your voice is audible from the front door, Yoongi’s grip tightening, juice spilling down the crevices of his hand, soiling his shirt sleeve, palms already sticky from the stress. “I have one roommate and, as you’ve seen, she can be loud enough for the both of us.” 

“I’m just as surprised as you are actually. I know Yoongi is probably asleep,” Yoongi sinks into his chair, knowing glances threatening to drop him straight through the wooden surface. “The rest are probably out.” 

“Yoongi?” Your voice strays a bit, Yoongi’s lip twitching, unsure what to think of the sudden strain in pitch. 

“Yeah, do you know him?” 

“Oh, um...kinda? Not really, we share a class together, but we’ve never talked. I’m pretty sure he’d think he’s too cool for me anyways. You know, ‘misery chick’ and all.” Yoongi levels a stare at Hoseok whose arms lift in readied defense, though his own face conjures frown at your words. Your attention clearly never spotting the longing with which he’s leveled you for the past few months. 

“You’re not the ‘misery chick’,” Jeongguk’s voice holds firm reassurance, something Yoongi wishes he could give you, but he’s glued, too curious for the thought of impromptu interruption. “People are just jerks. Besides, Yoongi-hyung isn’t like that at all. He likes to pretend he doesn’t know how cool people think he is.” 

“Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it. I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, Koo.” 

The door closes, Jeongguk just as soon rounding into the kitchen, tracks dead when there are six pairs of eyes trained on his figure. “Wha—have you all been here the whole time?” 

He only takes pause momentarily, his stride leading to the fridge, a juice box of all things pulled from metal confines. The naked eye would never guess the soft interior of Jeongguk, his features contrasting with the boots swallowing his feet and the tattoos eating his arm, tracing his digits. But he’s the walking embodiment of the careful youth painting each man posted in the room, a piece of him nursed by a piece of them with each day passing. 

“Yeah, we’re just hangin’ around, Jeonggukie.” Hoseok shrugs, ruffling the base of Jeongguk’s wild curls. 

“Well you’re doing it pretty quietly, Y/n thought it was weird.” 

“Are you guys dating?” Jimin’s question is thrown with abandon, eyes trained on Jeongguk with absolute focus, Yoongi sending a glare toward the silver haired fiend. 

“No.” Jeongguk pays little mind to the question, too busy squeezing every last drop from the box clutched in his fist, doe eyes glistening with concentration. “We met last semester in lit and she’s really cool so we started hanging out. You guys should meet her sometime, she doesn’t have a lot of friends because of this dumb rumor that she’s ‘the misery chick’ which is ridiculous because she’s one of the nicest people I’ve met here.” 

“Yeah, you can bring her over any time.” Namjoon encourages, book lowered to the table, face scrunching in mental agony when he realizes the corner of his novel is soaked with the spill of orange juice. 

“She said she knows you from class Yoongi, but she doesn’t think you’d like her. I think you would though! Maybe you should try to talk to her next class.” 

“Yeah,” Yoongi readily agrees, new found vigor in his speech. “Maybe…” 

Over the next several weeks, Yoongi is sure that coincidence isn’t what found his stare locked to yours, Jeongguk’s overheard conversation clearly leaving your interest peaked about Yoongi who was forced to make his own gazes less frequent for fear of being caught. His first sighting after he floated the walls of his home like a ghost in haunt was next lecture. 

The nerves that ate at his skin the first instance of your curious scan was turned bearable by the itching of excitement to his every nerve, skin alight with the tango of possibility traversing his very being. His attention was wayward, standing at the head of the class, scooping the pages required for lecture from the overflowing desk, a minute ‘excuse me’ cutting through the thick of his cogged brain. 

“Yes?” Was his response, regurgitated dumbly despite the forming line waiting for him to budge to his waiting seat. 

“Uh...could I get by...papers.” He smiles, unintentional, but the effect is the duck of your head, refusal to meet his eyes under such a heated gaze. He’s left to stare a moment longer before the snag of his sleeve, Hoseok forcing him away, calming the mob of students too impatient to momentarily still for the fruition of his romantic interest. 

Lately, your exit from class seems somehow quicker than usual, the practiced haste too much for him to master, another obstacle to his formal introduction. Though it seems your professor can read the tension that hovers the expanse of the classroom, a thread itching to be linked by two lovers, one unknowing of the delicate pull she has on her soul suitor. 

“Okay!” The professor stands at the front of the room, barely holding the attention of the class, barely holding Yoongi’s attention until he speaks once more. “Instead of a formal midterm, I want you all to complete a joint essay, yes you heard me correctly! I want you to pair up and write an essay on the topic of your choosing—as long as that topic is related to the course.” 

Yoongi perks up, ignoring the telltale that Hoseok hopes to grab him as soon as the class is dismissed because Yoongi has a plan of his own. 

“Of course I won’t force you to choose a partner, I know some of you prefer to work alone. But no more than two people to a group. Now I can see that you’re all on the edge of your seats, but I’m feeling generous today, so you’re dismissed, but your pages are due on my desk beginning of class Monday!” The final words of the professor send the class into frenzy, those who were paying attention quick to grab hold of their half and those who weren’t suddenly catching up and scrambling for someone who’ll make do.

“Hey, we’re partners, right?” Hoseok looks at Yoongi hopeful, but Yoongi already has his sights set on you, watching everyone link up, resigned to working solo. 

“Nah, I’ve got another partner in mind if that’s okay with you.” Hoseok catches the drift rather quickly, wide smile forgoing slight disappointment at his loss of the sure A on his midterm. 

“Go for it,” Hoseok gives a light shove forward, much appreciated by Yoongi whose heart threatens to burst from his chest, sure that the nerves are painted on his face like a slice of Van Gogh. He’s just in time, your hands shoved into your pockets, ready to leave the suffocation of a space smothered in unwelcome. 

“Hey.” Yoongi can see the uncertainty, your eyes glancing to either side to ensure that he is certainly addressing you. 

“Hey…” 

“So, this midterm thing is kinda weird, right?” He can already see the snicker on Hoseok’s face, though his friend is posted at the door opposite him. Your own lips quirk, his only thought of coherency aimed at how cute the action is. You rock on your heels, he notes your style isn’t far off from the bones of Jeongguk, hoodie black and heavy boots ready to stomp through endless waves of the nauseating sea of university. 

“Yeah...I guess it’s a little unconventional. But great for people who get test anxiety,” You humor him, hands withdrawing from jeaned confines to gesture wildly to the room void of anyone but the three remaining vessels, two of which are engaged in unlikely exchange. “Did you need something?” 

“Huh?” 

“Sorry! I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a class to get to and I have a thing about being late. I figure there’s a reason you’re talking to me seeing as we’ve never actually talked before…” You catch yourself in ramble, tripping over phrases whilst Yoongi watches without missing a beat. 

He’s incredibly taken with the way the words flow without pretense, a nice change to the closed off demeanor people falsely associate with you. He would listen for a lifetime to the things you have to say, hopefully with the clasp of finger and longing glances. Your intent is nonsense, nerves eating away at the buds of your tongue. To him it’s a poetry specially curated, a tickle to his throat bringing forth the soft laughter that halts your speech. 

“I’m sorry, you go ahead I’m just...nervous.” 

“No no, don’t apologize, I like listening to you,” He coos when you smile, quick to recover before your eyes, wide and attentive find his own once more, now notably softer, safer. “I love your smile too…” 

“You’re not so bad yourself…” Soft spoken and not altogether sure is the way you speak, your class long forgotten, a blip in rear view shadowed by the shining beacon before you. “So…?”

“Right, right...I was just wondering if you’d maybe wanna work together?” Despite compliments and hinted flirtation you’re taken aback by the offer, your eyes skirting Yoongi completely, raising question to the figure station by the exit. Hoseok offers you a smile you can’t help but return his thumbs raising in the affirmative. 

“He’s all yours,” Hoseok assures, taking his leave prematurely, Yoongi still waiting for confirmation. 

“No pressure, just thought I’d ask. I think we’d work well together,” And I wanna know you, he withholds for fear of frightening you more so than the sudden acknowledgement already has.

“Well I don’t know about that, but yeah I’d love to if you’re sure.” 

“I’m positive. Wanna meet at my place after school?” 

“Sounds good.” You pull your phone swiping at the screen before passing it over. “Just text me when you’re free.” 

“I’ll text the address,” He knows it’s unnecessary, just taking precautions to shield from the admission of his eavesdrop the last time you occupied the residence. You wait until you’re once again clutching the spherical confines of your devices, checking and double checking that all digits are present, not unfamiliar with the harsh reality of falsehood buried beneath genuine interest.

“Oh, I actually know where you live. My friend Jeongguk is one of your roommates, so I know my way.” 

“Well I’m sorry we’ve missed each other, that it took me so long to say hello.” Yoongi’s legs lead him half a step closer, an accidentally purposeful close of the gap between, your eyes avoid the bottom half of his face, focusing instead on the bill of his cap and the dark hair tickling the edges. 

“Guess you’ll just have to make up for it somehow.” 

“Guess I will.” 

Your visits to Yoongi are routine over the next week, the laughter filling the hectic halls caused by him rather than his roommates. He’s seen more of you in a week than he could’ve hoped in a lifetime, even more confused about the way you’ve been outcast by a majority of your major. He’s awed by your lack of reaction to the judgement of peers, often citing it as a joke, sarcasm lacing the words. 

It’s the day before assignment is due, you’re perched at Yoongi’s desk, he’s laying on his bed, tossing his basketball in mock free throw simultaneously with his toss of ideas while your fingers type vigorously in final draft. 

This particular evening leaves you alone with Yoongi, the other members of the house trying and failing to convince you to join for their weekly outing to the nearest bar where they would no doubt drink their weight to poorly prepare for the week to come. Yoongi was swift to opt out, much preferring your company to the stench of stale beer and jokes poorly executed by Jin after he downs his fifth shot. 

You were insistent that he let you handle the rest of the paper, just pages standing between you and your final product, but he’s too fond of the way your post-its decorate the shelf over his desk, different colored notes for every paragraph, the ink of your pens highlighting each point in magenta saturation. He’s obsessed with the way you hunch to close to the pages of your textbook while scolding him for getting too close to the screen of his laptop in the next breath. 

He can’t help the thought of what could be, close calls and a hair’s breadth stepping between you all week. It’s the price of seven roommates and a lock loosened with the jiggle of a handle. The hesitancy that still fills your pupils despite the easy way his words lace with genuine interest. 

Yoongi remembered what it was like to notice, deciding that it’s much better to experience you. The moment is delicate, your soft suggestions and argumentative replies tossed with a hint of tease lacing the bite of your tone. He doesn’t try to hide the smile that breaks the mold of his face, lips dampened by the press of gums prominent from healthy reach. 

“Can I ask you a question?” He raises, your fingers slowing against the keyboard, chair swiveling to offer full attention. “Does it bother you...the whole ‘misery chick’ thing?” 

He’s not sure what possesses it, but he is sure that knowing will make things easier, break a barrier that to him doesn’t exist. He knows your breath is baited, knows you’ve been waiting for the pull of the rug, so he offers a tug, a comforting teasing sort of thing to ease your mind and close the gap of misunderstanding that he could never blame you for. 

“Can I ask you a question? Do you believe the whole ‘misery chick’ thing?” You counter, scooting along hardwood until your knees are pressed to his mattress, sinking into the cushioned flesh as far as it allows. Your stare is careful, not expectant of the negative or offended by the positive. “It’s okay if you do, just don’t lie about it.” 

There's a sadness in your delivery and Yoongi notes it immediately. Your attempt to hide the twitch of your lip and the anxious fold of your hands in your lap don’t escape him. Your tone is even, your eyes much the same and he wonders how anyone could ever believe it, he’s grateful that he never did. 

“Not for a second.” He responds almost immediately, waiting for any lingering doubt on your end. It never comes.

“Good.” Is your reply, just as even as the question itself. Your shoulders relax, posture not as stiff as before. “It does bother me, not as much as it used to, but it does. It bothers me that they don’t like that I’m not like them. I don’t mean that in the whole ‘I’m not like other girls’ way, but I’m just not Cathy college, you know? I don’t get excited about parties and drinking, I don’t need to go out all the time to have fun, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you if you do, but I don’t and because I’m not like everyone else I have to be ‘the misery chick’.

He’s sure you don’t realize it, but Yoongi see’s the build of tears in your eyes, unshed but there and it breaks him. Breaks him that something so trivial could be the defining factor of someone’s experience, that you can hide it so well at the cost of your own happiness.

“I mean, it’s college, you’d think that people have better things to do than come up with reasons to ridicule someone, but I guess I have too much faith.” You finish, glancing up to find Yoongi all ears, lips etched in frown. “Sorry, you didn’t ask for all of that.” 

“People suck.” Is all he says, hand extending toward you, inviting you to join him on his island, silent but sure. You crawl the length of the mattress, your back pressing the headboard, fingers laced with his own, warm and sweaty from nerves, yours or his neither of you are sure. 

“People do suck.” 

“I know what’ll make you feel better.” He offers, thumb running along the jagged edges of your knuckle, skin kissing skin. You lift your head, half leaning on his shoulder so your eyes meet, a reflection of picture perfect, a record in perfect sync. 

“Yeah?” 

“You should go out with me.” Yoongi doesn’t expect a snort, but the response is exactly what he receives your head averting to conceal your laughter, hands shielding your face from the expanse of an ego deflated by the graze of your accidental needle. “Why are you laughing?” 

“No I’m not—I just—you’ve been looking at me like I’m completely insane all semester! I didn’t think you liked me, I thought you were looking right through me...I kinda thought you were just coming to class high every day.” 

“I don’t even smoke, those were not the eyes of a stoner, they were the eyes of a man who’s very fond of you.” Yoongi defends his position, his usually dormant stare now bugged to exaggeration, unavailable for serious consideration. 

“My mistake, though I don’t know whether to be weirded out or completely flattered.” 

“You better be so flattered that I can see hearts in your eyes because you were pretty quick to agree to be my partner for this project!” Yoongi keeps the charade, glad to lighten the tension and draw from the heaviness of the previous conversation. It’s not a chapter that’s closed, but the beginning is the build and he’s planning an entire novel with you, so he figures his time isn’t limited by the tick of a clock nearing the midnight hour. 

“I heard I’ve got a sure ‘A’  and I’d be an idiot to pass that up.” 

“You could get a passing grade in your sleep, you can’t fool me. But you can go on a date with me.”

“So you, cool guy Min Yoongi, want to go on a date with me, ‘the misery chick’?” You gasp, hand clutched to your chest, Yoongi’s hand catching hold and bringing it to his own, to the beat of his heart, the bass begging for a melody that only you can satisfy. 

“More than anything.” 

“Well when you put it that way I have no choice but to say yes, but to be clear, I’ve definitely seen you looking at Hoseok with that same look in your eyes so you might wanna sort some stuff out first—”

[whimsywispsblog]

Fault in Our Stars

Warning: PTSD, references to childhood abuse and trauma, sexual trauma and depression.

Inspired by: @vukis2

Lips quivering. Tears trailing. Body shaking from the cold and fear. Eyes widened- alarmed and frightened.

Running into the dark forest was definitely a bad idea. But what was Donna to do other than run? Run for her dear life? Run away somewhere- somewhere away from the lands infested with blood-sucking vampiric creatures that feasted on her family's blood, leaving her the youngest and the damaged for last.

Damaged. Ruined. In every sense. In every way, a woman is not to be ruined.

The hazy light of the gloomy skies shaded by the canopies of the tall and twisted brown trees lit the dark path ahead. Each step was taken carefully as the rustling of the carpet of dried leaves, and twigs below Donna's feet gave a crisp crackle, each sound making the girl turn back while tightly squeezing the arm of her ragged doll, Angie. And the sounds of the high-pitched giggles turned into ear-piercing shrieks. In the dark forests, vile creatures lurk in every corner, staggering and tottering in the shadows hunting their doomed prey. A forest lore, narrated by every village person. Or was it a forewarning left to the villagers by the unfortunate quarries who could never return to see another sunrise?

Most never knew which, but that day, Donna realised that it was the latter.

The dark forests always played with its victims' minds: most never escaped from its evil clutches, and the ones that did, they were driven to insanity by never-ending nightmares of its devilish creatures. There was no escape.

Donna stopped as she heard sudden footsteps approaching. They were fast, very fast.

'Run.' 'Run.' 'Run.' She kept commanding her body, but her legs shook and felt heavy, making the girl fall on her knees. The girl refused to turn back, and she closed her eyes. The wind was strong, pushing her backwards as if tempting her to open her eyes and see what stood behind her.

And then, the sounds of the ravens squawking, but in human tongue filled the languid air of the forests. Their crows were so frightening, so horrifying that they made poor Donna's flesh bleed and cut.

//"She the woman who made the Devil destroy the paradise for a kiss,"//

"I did not fall. I did not fall." The girl repeated the sentence over and over again, clutching Angie close to her breasts. The ravens flew around her, its sharp beaks piercing through her tender skin, its shrill squeaks hurting her sensitive ears, the pitch getting louder and louder until it started ringing in her ears. They started ripping her hair from her scalp and skinning her thighs, relishing in her decaying flesh.

The girl then let out a loud scream.

"HE PUSHED ME!"

//"No one questions the Devil, whore!"//

And with that, it was back to the eerie tranquillity of the forests.

Eyes watching. Ears listening. Tongues wetting. Stomachs growling.

She was tired. Scared. But determined to escape from the forests' demons. But would she?

Donna shook her head sideways, swallowing all her doubts. She was going to escape and start her life anew, somewhere far, far away. In lands where she was not damaged. Not cursed. But welcomed with open hearts and warm smiles. And with that, she pushed herself up, not letting her mind succumb to the dark pits of self-doubt.

The frigid air bit into the girl's tender skin through her ripped clothes and burnt her lungs while numbing her nose. The girl hugged herself, trying to keep the cold away. Lips pale, eyes swollen, hair covered in icicles, and her body covered in dried blood and mud. It seemed like the path went on forever, and the sky-kissing mountains were just an illusion.

The earthy smell after the first rainfall that loomed over the dark lands slowly faded away as a more metallic smell with burnt char took over—burning flesh. Someone or something was close.

Donna chanted words of Orison to her creator- for protection. For courage. For salvation. And if the Gods chose to cut her thread of fate, then so be it. She was ready to welcome the torment of hell that awaited her. Somewhere away from the abhorrent lands that she walked on. Was walking on. Her trembling hands tightly clasped on Angie's neck while her steps became slower and more cautious.

The girl found a rock big enough to hide behind as the smell got stronger and sounds of inhuman growls got louder. She didn't want to see them as she shut her eyes tightly, her prayers chanted at a frantic pace bobbing her head back and forth. Until. A human voice caught her attention- a voice which she regretted listening to.

"Take the fat one. That's all you will get for the night," A bunch of snarls poured out from all directions until the person finally screamed, "SHUT UP! Go find more food somewhere else!"

The sound of soft whimpers made Donna peek from behind the rock. In a wooden cage were 6 small-sized men, looking down at the creatures in fear. They were the dwarfs. On the ground was a giant dwarf that shouted for mercy, as his limbs were torn from all sides and his body ripped with the splatter of blood and his insides. Donna held back her urge to gasp, biting her tongue so hard that she felt the taste of blood in her mouth.

"Oi fish freak!" Donna's attention shifted from the mutilated remnants of the corpse to that of a man, tall and sturdy with messy, greasy grey hair covered by a hat. He wore a long brown coat that swayed with his every movement. He had a gigantic hammer in his hand, one that made the girl tremble in fear. Not only could this man control a horde of dangerous human-eating monsters, but he was also burly, judging by the size of the metallic hammer.

"Hey, moron! Yeah, you! Come here ya quim!" A blob-like grotesque creature stumbled towards the man. It looked so ugly and ghastly that Donna felt the contents of her stomach rise to her throat.

"Fry these midgets and send them to Miranda." The fish-creature bowed its entire body as if nodding to the man. The man with the hammer turned away, facing the rock as a slight smirk appeared on his face, and that scared Donna. Did he see her?

Donna pulled herself behind the rock as she breathed in heavily, hoping that he hadn't seen her. She felt something warm and wet on her shoulder, and she slowly looked up. To her horror, one of those creatures stood behind her, looking at her famished. The girl let out a loud scream, pulling Angie close to her chest. But before the creature could put its sharp rotten nails on her, its head was smashed by something, making its blood splash all over her. The girl, who was still in shock, stared at the creature's headless remains, her body trembling like a leaf and her heartbeat thudding loudly.

Suddenly, her hair was grabbed, and she was picked up like a rag doll. Her eyes stayed fixated on the mushy brown ground, but a gloved hand grabbed her face and forced her to look at the person. It was the man with a hammer.

"Mhmm...Young blood," He said, observing the girl's face. His eyes landed on her ruby-red necklace. "Scarlet, eh." The man dropped Donna, and she landed with a soft grunt. He bent down to her level, watching her closely. The girl was about to beg for grace. The sounds of painful screams made her turn towards the horrific scene. The dwarfs were set on fire, all of them hurdling close to each other, screaming into each other's bodies as if sharing their pain and death.

The man in front of her grabbed her face and made him look at her again, pulling out something from his coat. An apple. Delightfully red. He brought the fruit closer to the girl's lips. Without wasting another second, Donna grabbed the apple from his hand and bit into its scrumptious flesh, greedily and ravenously. Without chewing properly, she bit into more and more until she choked a few pieces out.

The man watched the girl eat in dark amusement. A raven perched on his shoulder, crowing in his ears, making him grimace.

"Yeah yeah, it's poisoned." He said, shooing the raven away. The girl was just halfway through her apple, but she felt dizzy and sick. It was as if the world was spinning at such a fast pace, and she felt as if she was losing control of her body. The man effortlessly put the girl on his shoulder and walked away while magically getting his hammer to fly right into his hands.

...

Donna's eyes fluttered open to the sound of people talking and the muffled mewls of a younger person, probably a girl. She felt hot, and an unusual but familiar pain tingled throughout her body, pulsating through each nerve excruciatingly. The girl tried to move her wrists, but there was something tight and sharp clamped around her wrists, restraining any movement.

Angie...Angie wasn't there in her hands. Donna bolted up, alarmed and terrified. The room she was in was quite cold, dark and damp, like the inside of a cave. It was dimly lit by the lamps on the walls. In front of her stood a woman with raven feathers unfurled behind her. To her right was the hammer-man, telling the woman about something. Between them was another chained girl with platinum blonde hair, bloodied, bruised and naked. Probably a survivor. Or a prey.

The lady with the raven feathers grabbed the blonde girl's face and lifted her up, her feet away from the ground.

"Young Rose...Fresh virgin blood," The woman mused with a slight grin, squeezing the girl, Rose's face. The woman brought her closer, taking a deep whiff of the girl's neck. "She smells delicious. Girls! Come here!" The woman shouted, and out of the shadows glided three women, giggling and jumping with their faces covered in blood. As they walked, a swarm of flies surrounded them and, out of their sleeves, fell off maggots- wet and slimy.

The raven woman threw Rose in their direction, and the poor girl fell with a loud thud. "Her blood, please." The woman ordered the three girls.

"Of course, Mother Miranda!" The girls giggled and laughed, taking Rose and throwing her to a bed of needles and kept pushing her deeper into the sharp metal, impaling the helpless girl's body. The cave echoed with the laughter of the insect-witches and the weak cries of dying Rose.

Donna watched the scene in horror and started crawling backwards until her back hit the wall.  The raven lady, Mother Miranda, turned her attention to Donna, looking at her with steely darkened eyes. The woman disappeared into a murder of crows and suddenly appeared in front of the girl and kneeled down to her eye level. Her pale and cold fingers grabbed the girl's jaw and pulled her forward, observing her closely.

"What is your name, child?"

"D-Donna", The girl stuttered, shaking uncontrollably. "Donna Beneviento."

"Ah, House Beneviento! My daughters and their spawns recently ravaged their Village and families," Mother Miranda chimed, looking at the three insect-witches who kept stabbing Rose's mutilated corpse with their large metallic nails. "Young Rose was from there."

"W-Why d-do you kill?" Mother Miranda smiled at the girl as she pushed the stray strands of her hair behind her ear.

"Human fear and blood keep us alive." The woman traced her fingers across Donna's cheekbones. "We were damned by the Old Gods, the ones who were in favour of your wretched kind."

"Y-you are all m-monsters!" Donna choked out, pushing herself away from the woman's touch. Mother Miranda grabbed a fistful of the girl's hair and pulled her close, biting the girl's neck. Donna let out a piercing scream, trying to pull herself away from the woman.

"Ah, that's a first. You're not Virgin blood. Unchaste!" Miranda raised an eyebrow and looked at the girl in disgust.

//"Stained and the tarnished scent of the vile harlot"//

A tiny scar near the girl's left eye caught Miranda's attention. The woman roughly pushed her hair away and looked at Donna's blistered scar in revulsion. "And she is a cripple."

"Not a virtuous Doll, eh?" The hammer man chimed, looking at Donna in amusement, but once his eye landed on her scar, his smile dropped.

Doll...Doll...Angie! Donna gasped and looked up at the hammer man in distress. "Angie! Where is Angie, my doll?!"

"Burning." Mother Miranda replied with an indifferent expression.

"W-What? N-no! NO!" Donna screamed and shouted, trying to push herself upon Miranda, but the woman was strong. Without much effort, she slapped Donna, making the girl break down into a whimpering mess.

Angie. The only remnant of her innocence now burnt away in the heat.

"This one's of no use to me."

"But she smells so delightful!" Said one of the insect witches, sniffing her around and licking the blood of the wound where Miranda had bitten her.

"Indeed she is, child. But your Mother won't be pleased with any of you drinking impure blood," Miranda spat, looking at Donna in contempt. Donna looked down, ashamed and embarrassed at the way they kept taunting her. Just like how she was harassed in her Village for something that wasn't even her fault...

'I did not fall...I did not fall...'

"Alright then, she can be a nice play-thing for the Lycans." The hammer man said, putting his hammer on the ground and resting his weight on it.

"Fine then, Heisenberg. The girl's fate is in your hands." Mother Miranda got up, glaring at the girl.

His name is...Heisenberg? Familiar name.

The man nodded, grabbed the girl's chain. He pulled the chain sharply with a slight grunt, making the girl stumble and dragged her across the sharp stony ground. Donna let out soft mewls of pain.

"Quit your whining!" He said as he dragged her slower this time, making every inch of her skin throb, red and wet.

-

Sounds of metal grinding metal stirred the girl from her disturbed slumber. She wasn't sure how she slept off. She was still shackled in chains, but instead of being seated in front of a Cult family, she sat alone in a chamber, cold. And wet.

"Ah, you're up!" A loud, boisterous sound made the girl flinch lightly. She slowly tilted her head up to look at the person.

Heisenberg. Smirking and eyes glinting with mischief. He held out a water jug to the girl. Although she desperately needed it to quench her thirst and wet her dried mouth, after the poisoned apple, she was afraid.

"Relax, there's nothing in the water," Heisenberg rolled his eyes in annoyance. The girl hesitated to take the glass from him, which caused the man to groan in frustration and sipped a little of the water. "See? I am alive. It's normal water,"

Donna quickly grabbed the jug from him with trembling hands and drank the water, messily and shakily, the water running down her neck. She drank in so fast that the poor girl choked on water, coughing up some of it.

Heisenberg chuckled, sliding a plate of stale bread and some bright coloured fruit. The girl didn't wait for another second and quickly devoured the food down, juice of the squished fruit staining her skin and clothes. Heisenberg observed the girl quietly with a neutral expression. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it up, smoking in a direction away from the girl's face.

"W-Why a-are y-you not killing m-me?" Donna's soft stutters pulled the man out of his thoughts. He rubbed his eyes as he contemplated her question, letting out a soft yawn.

"Didn't you hear what I told Miranda?" Donna nodded her head sideways, making the man sigh. "A play-thing for the beasts."

"W-Will they...k-kill me?"

"That depends." Heisenberg shrugged, walking away from the room. "Oh, and the chains will stay. " He said, closing the door behind him.

Donna pulled her legs close to her chest, tears trailing down her eyes. Her skin was bruised and bloodied, her clothes tattered, she stank, she was starved, she was tortured, and she was ruined. Too much for a lifetime.

The sound of the crow of a raven made the girl lookup. 'How did that bird get in?' The girl thought, looking at the bird baffled. The raven had red eyes and looked at the girl menacingly. It let out one more shrill crow and dove straight towards her, its sharp beak pointing at her. Donna curled into her legs and let out a whimper, too tired to scream. But the attack never happened. Instead, a laugh- malicious and vulgar- emerged. Donna looked up, and there stood the Hag.

//Broken disgusting whore! Shame on you!//

Donna didn't fight back. She stayed quiet, thinking of her time at home, back in the Village. The Hag continued with her taunts and screams, her ravens poking the girl's delicate flesh, but the girl was too tired, too lost. Too broken.

"I know," Donna whispered, fresh hot tears trailing down her cheek as she remembered the night, back in the Village, when she got the Stigma of the Fallen Maiden- The whore.

Bodies sticking together with sweat. A heavy weight on her chest crushing the delicate flesh of her breasts. Hair yanked and tugged with a few strands ripped off. Teeth biting deep into her skin, blood flowing out of it. An unbearable pain as she felt herself lose her chastity and virtue...No longer virginal and innocent. She was marked and claimed by another man.

//You are no graceful deer like a faithful virtuous maiden! You intoxicate them with your ardour! You vile demon!//

"I know," Donna whispered again, her eyes heavy and burning and swollen. She cried no more. She couldn't. There was nothing to cry for. She was forever going to be this- a whore.

"Oi Hag! Get the fuck outta here! Go teach your lessons about virtues and morality to those Demitrescu girls." It was Heisenberg. The Hag turned back at the man and laughed loudly and sharply, making both Donna and Heisenberg wince in pain. The older woman burst into raven feathers, disappearing from the room.  Heisenberg turned his attention towards Donna. He took a few steps towards her until he was close enough.

"I know what happened that night," He said, looking dead into Donna's shocked eyes. How did he know? The man sat down, placing his hammer by his side and taking his hat off, running his hand through his hair.

"H-how did y-you know?" Donna asked, looking up to the man.

"Tales like these spread fast through the Village and beyond." He shrugged. Donna nodded, her eyes glued to the cold ground, observing its cracks and crevices.  "You don't remember me do you?" Donna looked at the man. The name Heisenberg did ring a bell for her. But she couldn't recall from where. "Ya remember the name, Karl?"

Karl...Karl...Heisenberg...

Karl Heisenberg! Heisenberg's son!

Donna nodded her head lightly, old memories of their time together as children returning to her. It was him.

The only child in the Village who was never afraid of her or treated her differently. Every time they were together, Karl's father would forcefully pull him away, shouting and screaming and hitting him for playing with the Spawn of Demon. But that never stopped Karl from going back to her.

Until.

They turned 16. She was a woman, and he was a man. She grew beautiful, and he grew taller.

She couldn't remember much, except one night during the Village's ritual: Young women who bled for the first time.

It was in the outskirts of the woods. Young Karl and Young Donna. Sitting by the rock. Moonlight dancing on their youthful flustered faces. Karl's gentle hand on her cheek, pulling her closer. And closer. And closer. Lips just touching. So soft.

"You disgusting boy!" And after that, all she remembered was being pushed away by Karl's father, her head hitting the ground sharply. And Karl's faint cries, "Donna!"

"W-Where d-did you go after that day?" Donna asked, her hands deeply buried into the fabric of her clothes.

"Father sent me away to another Village, to live with my uncle. Cruel man- known to straighten up Wild Things. But I just ran away." He shrugged.  There was a silence between the pair. But this was a comfortable one—just the sounds of their breathing, with the gentle whistle of the winds outside.

"Why here?"

"Mhmm?" Heisenberg peered at Donna, rubbing his scruff. "Ah well, like you, that useless Hag caught me. But things are fine here. I get a roof on my head, food and clothes. No whores though," He snickered but immediately stopped seeing Donna flinch at the word. "If you want to survive here, don't let that hag get to you."

"Do you have any advice on how I'll survive you?" The girl asked.

"Huh. Why do ya ask?"

"You say I am a play-thing for the Lycans. You said they might eat me."

"Ah, that. Yes, the Lycans do enjoy the company. They're just dogs." He said nonchalantly, waving his hand.

"But I don't want to stay here."

"Unfortunately, Donna, for people like you and me who are called 'wild' and 'vile', this is the only place that we get close to home." Donna looked away, feeling fresh hot tears prickling in her eyes.

"There's no 'we', Karl," The girl snapped. Karl hid his surprise at her sudden change of demeanour behind an irritated scowl. "I am everything you're not. I am not a vile whore-"

"GODDAMIT DONNA", Karl stood up, throwing away his hammer in frustration, breaking something nearby. "How long, how fucking long are you gonna keep crying about that bullshit?! It happened. You were fucked, whether you like it or not. Going around telling everyone that you aren't a whore won't change anything-"

"I know," Donna whispered, shivering from cold and fear. "Believe me, I know." The woman looked up to Karl, staring deep into his eyes. "But that doesn't make me a whore. That doesn't make me vile."

"Then you fucking accept the circumstances. It is written in our fates." Heisenberg sighed.

Donna stared at Heisenberg, pained by the helplessness that radiated off him, as the memory played in her mind.

Fate...

"Karl, your father won't let me be with you. Forget being near you. Your reputation will be tarnished because of me. The Village thinks I am cursed," Said a 15-year-old Donna. It was nighttime during one of their many midnight trysts in the woods. When the Villagers were fast asleep, and no one tried to hurt the couple.

"To hell with the Villagers and my father. They can say whatever the fuck they want, but I will have this life my way, and I will take you with me." Donna smiled softly, feeling her heart fluttering at her lover's determination and adamance to want a life with her despite all the difficulties they would face.

"But what if this is how things have to be? What if it is just...written in our stars?"

"Well then, fuck the stars. It's our lives. No one has a say in it. You choose your path and if that makes you happy, then fuck everything else. You choose your fate," He said, planting a soft peck on her cheek.

"You told me that day, we choose our fate, Karl," Heisenberg grunted, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Yea. I fucking did. Now, where has it got us both, hm?"

Donna stood up from her place shakily and limped towards Karl until she could feel the tug of her shackles. She was close enough. She raised a hand towards the man's face, but before she could touch him, his hand shot up and grasped hers.

"Don't", He growled, his ocean-blue eyes piercing into hers, trying to intimidate her.

"Please," She whispered, wriggling her hands a little, making the man drop his hand, letting the woman touch his face.

Donna slowly traced his scars. A story behind every one of them. Some she knew, some she did not. Karl didn't flinch as she kept caressing his rough skin with her softer, bruised fingers. He just looked at her as if searching in her for the old Donna he knew. The old Donna would dream with him about a beautiful future they would never have. He found her.

But to Donna, she never saw her old Karl. The one who dared to dream despite their doomed circumstances. He was now a broken man. A hopeless man who had seen and been through enough. A man who forgot what it was to experience bliss.

"I don't know if I will ever get to live this life with you, the way we dreamed. But...If there is still some life in you, I'd like that." Donna said, pulling her hand slowly trailing to Karl's chest, feeling the soft, slow thud of his heartbeat. With a wave of his hand, Donna's shackles broke. Karl slowly encircled his arms around her waist, gently but firmly and pulled her closer. With a hand cupping her cheek, he looked at her.

"I would have loved that. But look at me now. I am one of them." He said, his hand lingering on a cut on her cheek that she got because of him when he dragged her towards the factory. "But you. You can live on. A better life."

"I could have, but that better life that I wanted," Donna paused, breathing in as she felt her words being swallowed. "I wanted it with you."

"But I can't give that to you, Donna."

"Then give it to me here. Right here." Donna said, inching closer to Karl, feeling his hot breath on her cold damped skin. Karl pulled her close and rested his head on her forehead, closing his eyes and feeling the warmth and comfort he got from her.

"Get some rest. By tomorrow, you will be better." Karl said, pulling away from her. Donna held his hands tight, afraid to let him go. Afraid to lose him again.

"W-What do you mean?" Karl slowly loosened her grip on his hands and smiled at her softly. Picking up his hat and hammer, he walked out of the room, shutting it from outside. Donna sat down, confused and dejected. Lying down on the cold floor, the girl shut her eyes tightly and sobbed, her wails and whimpers slowly lulling her to sleep.

-

It was as if the ground below her was shaking. She didn't know what it was. Donna jerked awake as she felt a sudden push from below. The girl gasped, looking around. It wasn't the room where Karl had kept her. It was...smaller and more cramped and...moving?

"Ah, Lady Beneviento! You are awake!" A jovial and cheery voice pulled Donna's attention. It was a man, friendly and big.

"W-Who are you, and where am I?"

"I am the Duke, a humble merchant, and you are in my carriage. Lord Heisenberg asked me to take you to the other side of the forest."

"Karl? Karl, where is he?!" Donna asked, looking around frantically.

"He couldn't make it," Duke said apologetically. "He wants you to take that little box. That should help you earn a living, not luxurious, but enough to survive," Donna looked to her right and there it was, the box. She opened it, and inside was Karl's chain that he wore every day, some coins and some ornaments. And a small doll that resembled Angie. But prettier and newer.

"What happened back there?"

"Lady Miranda caught him trying to escape. Ah, it looks like we're here!"

"Duke. Can I go back?"

"I'd suggest you not. He wants you to stay alive, my Lady. Best you honour his wishes. Do this for him" Donna looked at the chain, tracing the engravings on it. The girl looked into the box and saw a small note in it.

Thank you for setting me free. I hope to see you in another life where we will be together, just like we dreamt.

The girl pulled the note to her chest, feeling a strange pain in her body. She felt heavy. She felt like she was breaking apart. She felt as if she couldn't breathe. Duke looked at the girl sadly. He couldn't help her, and he wasn't sure how to.

"Thank you," Donna muttered, stepping out of the carriage with the box in her hand. Ahead she saw a little Village. A chance for a new life, but one without Karl. How could she live without him?

'Best you honour his wishes. Do this for him.'

"Okay, Karl." Donna sniffed, a bittersweet smile on her face, as she walked towards the Village, her hand tightly clutching the chain. As she approached, a man, probably the gatekeeper, stopped her.

"Who are you, and state your purpose."

"Donna. Donna Heisenberg. I seek refuge in your Village. Mine was destroyed by monsters." The gatekeeper nodded and took a moment to observe her ragged state, his eyes softening as he noticed her bruises and blood.

"Alright, follow me. You can speak to his Majesty." Donna nodded, smiling softly.

A new life. A better life. For Karl.

In the woods, near the factory lay Karl Heisenberg, bloodied and stabbed on the ground. He held a glove tightly in his hand. Donna's glove. The one he pulled from her when his father forcefully separated him from Donna. Rubbing his thumb across the soft material of the glove, Karl smiled, looking up to the heavens, his vision fading away slowly.

"Thank you, Donna."

[franzis-frantic-thoughts]

We conclude The Third Year of Jon’s life at the Mill of Kosel’s Quarry.

Read Chapter 33 - Between the Years on AO3 now!

The Master is making Jon suffer hard work and endless nightmares for his insolence. But Jon’s resolve strengthens. First he talks to Tim, then he sends word to the cantor who arrives on New Year’s Eve to challenge the Master and ask for Jon’s release.

This chapter features art by the insanely talented @theyellowmistress! Thank you so, so much for this one, I’ll stare at it forever!

With this chapter, we also conclude the story and I would like to once more express my gratitude to everyone who has stuck with me along the way.

Thank you to @mag-118, @different-felix and @mx-vin (as well as my non-tumblr friend Amy) for their invaluable input.

Thank you to @zannakai and @theyellowmistress for their amazing contributions in art form. Their paintings have honestly blown me away.

Thank you to @martinbelovedblackwood and @banashee for endlessly hyping me up.

Thank you to the mods of the @tmabigbang​ for organising this amazing event.

[ID: A mood board for this fic. It is made up out of six rows of three squares in black and white. The top three rows are lighter in colour, the bottom three rows are darker in colour. They feature in order (top left to bottom right): 1) a jack knife, 2) star-shaped white flowers, 3) a snowy forest, 4) flour being filled into a flour sack, 5) a frozen mill race, 6) a bowl of flour, 7) a foggy forest, 8) a flour sieve, 9) a straw mattress, 10) a water wheel, 11) a dark forest, 12) a skull and candle, 13) a magic book, 14) a raven, 15) the Grim Reaper, 16) a black horse, 17) a noose, 18) a sluice gate. The text "The Magnus Archives" and "Franzis Frantic Thoughts" are superimposed over the top and bottom row of squares respectively. The title of the fic "White Flour and Black Magic" is superimposed over the middle squares of the third and fourth row. /End ID]

[scotianostra]

On December 24th 1856 the writer and geologist Hugh Miller “The Highlander who changed the world” died.

The death of Hugh Miller saddens me.   On Christmas Eve, after reading some poems to his children and sending them to bed, Miller wrote a suicide note to his wife Lydia and shot a bullet through his chest, muffling the sound. Lydia discovered the body the next morning.

He may not be the best known Scot but Miller was a man of many talents, fossil hunter, folklorist, Christian, stonemason, geologist, newspaper editor, social justice campaigner, he was one of the great Scots of the 19th century. Unlike other famous Scottish geologists like Hutton and Lyell, Miller was self taught.

Miller was orphaned after his father was lost at sea, he  was educated at the local parish school and was said to have been  an avid reader but also a habitual truant!  After school he trained as a stone mason and it was while working in the quarries that his interest in geology began. He also started to write articles for the Inverness Courier. His book, Scenes and Legends of the North of Scotland is considered a classic,  collected from the Cromarty firesides of friends and family it was inspired by two of Scotland’s literary greats Walter Scott and James Hogg.

Much of his writing was based upon his personal experiences of travelling around Scotland and northern England where he observed closely the homes and ways of life of Scottish crofters and the effects of the Highland Clearances. He also became heavily involved in religion and was involved in the fledgling days of the “Wee Free” editing their newspaper The Witness.

He also wrote on Geology and made many important original contributions to this field, discovering fossils of sea scorpions (eurypterids) from the Silurian, and fishes from the Old Red Sandstone (Devonian) rocks, on the coast near Cromarty, together with plants from the Devonian and Carboniferous periods.

His fish specimens proved of great interest to Louis Agassiz, the Swiss geologist who had become a world authority on fossil fishes. He also found many marine invertebrate fossils from the upper Jurassic rocks, also around Cromarty. Many of his fossils were drawn by him and presented in his Testimony of the Rocks, and in lectures that he gave to the Edinburgh Philosophical Institute, His fossil collection of over 6,000 specimens formed the founding core of what is today’s Scottish national collection in the National Museums of Scotland.

For most of 1856, Miller suffered severe headaches and mental distress, and the most probable diagnosis is of psychotic depression. Victorian medicine did not help. He feared that he might harm his wife or children because of persecutory delusions.

 Hugh Miller left the following note for his wife;

 “Dearest Lydia, I must have walked, and a fearful dream rises upon me. I cannot bear the horrible thought. God and Father of the Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy upon me.”

   Speculations about Miller’s reasons immediately rose. Upon request of his pastor, physicians conducted an examination of his brain, which showed a “diseased appearance.” The final judgment was that the suicide had been committed “under the impulse of insanity.”

He had not been well for a while. He had complained to his doctor that his brain was “giving way,” and had reported terrible nightmares that left him “trembling all over, and quite confused.” He had also reported sharp pains, like “an electric shock,”  passing through his brain and leaving a burning sensation on top of his head. Because of these physical symptoms and the visible appearance of a “diseased brain,” some have suggested a brain tumour. Whatever it was, it was fairly sudden and unpredicted. As most illnesses of the brain, it was also largely unexplainable.

But people want explanations. Some blamed his mother, who told him stories about frightening Gaelic spirits. Some suggested he could not deal with the apparent contradictions between his faith and his geological studies. Interestingly, this second theory is still strong today. Yet, its proponents, like myself, don’t know Hugh Miller. He was never afraid of the truth, nor of the questions and challenges that led to its discovery.

In truth we will never know why he took his own life, like many suicides it is left unexplained, I suggest you have a look at the page below, “ The final days of Hugh Miller”

https://www.mddus.com/resources/publications-library/insight/winter-2013/the-final-days-of-hugh-miller

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

Could we see more of the healer!Tommy prompt? (c!primeboys)

The superhero one? Sure, I can do some writing in that universe. Sure! You didn’t specify what other than Primeboys so have Dream and Tommy/Theseus's first meeting! And yeah if you’re reading this you can suggest scenes from my AUs it’s fun!

Rough hands dragged him, beaten and blindfolded, through corridors, elevators, up and down stairs after he was pulled out of the car. Tommy tried to desperately struggle himself free, but the feeling of red hot fire on his arm incapacitated him, leaving him screaming in agony.

“Don’t try anything funny, Theseus,” Sapnap hissed. “For both your sake and mine. The boss prefers when we bring in the merchandise undamaged.”

The mere mention of “the boss” made Tommy bite his tongue. Dream. The fucking leader of the Dream Team. God, could his luck get any worse? 404 and Sapnap were terrifying enough on their own, 404's perception filter allowing him to be anywhere, anytime, without you noticing, and Sapnap able to fight with the best of them and set entire city blocks on fire, but Dream… Dream was something else.

No one knew if his power was teleportation or space manipulation or just super speed, but that’s not what was most frightening about him. Calling him as smart as a whip would be an insult to his intelligence, and he would do anything for power, breaking rules even most villains wound balk at. Tommy's team, the SBI, were pretty sure they’d only cracked the surface, but they already had clues leading towards human experimentation and the trafficking of super powered people.

That raised terrifying questions about what they were going to do to him. He’d assumed he’d be kept hostage, which was terrifying enough, but with Dream in the mix he had no clue. Maybe they’d experiment on him, cut him up to figure out how his powers work. Maybe he’d get sold for some insane price to the highest bidder on the black market. He didn’t want to think what sick uses supervillains would have for healers.

Eventually, he was brought through what seemed like the thousand set of doors, and forced down to his knees roughly. He bit down hard on his tongue, trying to prevent himself from hyperventilating.

“Ah, Sapnap, George, I see you succeeded in capturing the quarry,” a calm, almost bored voice rang out, and fuck, this was Dream. He was at Dream's nonexistent mercy.

“Boss,” 404- no, George, he’d have to remember that for when (if) he was rescued complained. “Don’t use my real name in front of a hero.”

Dream laughed. “No need to be so formal, George. Besides, we can always tear the kid's voice box out if we need to.” Tommy's legs trembled underneath him, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

He yelped in surprise when his blindfold was ripped off and- fuck, he was face to face with Dream. He was so, so dead. No, he would have been better off if he was. Dream chuckled slightly, face hidden by his stupid smiley face mask. “Hello, Theseus.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy said without thinking and, oh, he already knew he’d regret that. Challenging a supervillain as ruthless and prideful as Dream, he was going to be put through tortures unimaginable, wasn’t he?

Dream tsked. “No, I don’t think I will. Sit,” he said, and suddenly the arms restraining him are gone. Dream goes over to a soft and obnoxiously neon green chair, contrasting with the unremarkable look of the concrete bunker, and motions to an identical seat next to him. Tommy stared ahead, frozen in terror. “I said sit, Theseus. We have much to discuss. Unless you want to talk kneeling to me?”

The correct answer to this would be something like “Yes, sir.” Instead, what Tommy said was a curt “No.”

Dream hummed. “No?”

“I’m not playing your stupid power game, dickhead,” Tommy said, trying to hide the fear in his voice.

Dream laughed. “You're a defiant one, aren’t you, Theseus? I expected the SBI's pet healer to be more domesticated.”

“I’m not a pet anything,” Tommy growled.

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you, Theseus? That’s fine. You’re far more interesting than I planned for. If I didn’t know any better, I'd say you were trying to gain my interest.” Dream chuckled again- God, did he ever stop laughing. “If so, it’s working. I might just have to plan to keep you all to myself, little Theseus.”

Tommy hissed like a feral cat. “Don’t call me that, prick.”

“What, do you not like being made aware of how powerless you are? How young you are? Little Theseus, we all have to face harsh truths. And right now, you need to face that you’re mine to do with whatever I please.”

If anyone else wants to send in some more AU ideas it’d be lovely and I will make them heavily involve c!primeboys no matter what and again that’s a challenge.