#Anyway I originally intended that cover to come out before//soon after that event came to eng and...

[shadowlikesvsynth]

Done with all of the coloring!!!!

I will figure out the background tomorrow when I have energy.

[ashasmonsters]

The Middle Prince

Male reader x Male Tiefling (Amon)

Citrus rating: Lemon

Content: Detailed wet dreams, alcohol

Words: 8k

Note: Some MLM goodness for Pride Month! This took me longer than I intended, but only because I wrote it way too long and had to break it up into parts! Expect more in this series.

The dreams started assailing you a little over a month ago. During the first week, you couldn't remember anything. You would awake in your bedchamber covered in sweat and panting as if you had just finished a sparring session. These nights, a name danced on the tip of your tongue, escaping just as you attempted to sound it out and make it real. Confused and alone you would promptly go back to sleep after flipping over your pillow. As time passed, the dreams grew both in intensity and clarity. Though still more mysterious than normal dreams, little details here and there coalesced in your waking memory: a soft touch followed by a rough one, the smell of lavender, your fingernails gliding over shallow ridges, the color of aquamarine gemstones. These dreams visited you every night without fail.

The determinations made by the court oneiromancers were limited in scope. After spending the night in the care of one such dream diviner, they found these dreams to be coming from somewhere else. The dreams were not your own, at least not fully. Beyond this, they had no more revelations. Anything more was conjecture; one stated that if magick was involved, it was either massively strong, thus able to conceal its origin, or so fleeting and ephemeral that even the oneiromancers couldn't trace it.

Your father's concern waxed but mostly waned. Perhaps if you were the eldest crown prince instead of the middle one, the answer would have been willed into existence by his command. He simply asked that the oneiromancers track your condition and report any findings to him, but no more than once each week. Though dismayed that little was being done to solve this mystery, you were used to being far from priority. Even years ago when an attempt on your life left one of your legs still and unresponsive, a leg brace allowing you to stand at public appearances was issued and the problem was declared solved. You vividly remembered the look on the assassin's face when he realized he had accidentally struck third in the line of succession rather than first. His reaction was not dissimilar from your father's when you mentioned your dreams: a mildly amused but primarily disappointed visage. The spot where the dagger had pierced your spine no longer ached but your discontent was as raw and fresh as the day the realization struck.

With the oneiromancers essentially told to only report something unquestionably threatening to your life or the family's honor, you shared very little with them. Several times you had dismissed them with little more than a hand wave. None of them ever protested. To their knowledge, no new developments within these dreams came to light. It was just another little curiosity that came with the court.

To their knowledge, anyway. In truth, there had been a quite substantial development that you withheld from them.

The night air was cool and crisp. From your bedchamber's veranda, you let the gentle sound of the garden's fountains below soothe your nerves. This had become your regular nighttime ritual; your last chance to feel relaxed and cool before waking up overheated and frantic. You enjoyed the last of it before sliding under the sheets and waiting for the dream to visit you.

This was the clearest dream to date. The scattered sensations and feelings from prior episodes came into focus: the touches came from smooth, tender hands, the smell of lavender from purple cups of herbal tea. Your fingers played over short, filed horns. That bold aquamarine color like a burning emerald belonged to a pair of eyes, their pupils narrow and catlike. The overall plot of the dream remained unknown to you. What came next, however, was new. Very new.

A pair of hands caressed your body as whatever clothing you had dissolved into the air. Your mind reeled from the realization of what was happening, yet you were relaxed all the same. Though surprised, you didn't wish for it to stop. Even as the tender hands had you at their mercy, one playfully pinching a nipple as the other reached lower in between your legs, you welcomed their touch without knowing why. You just did. It felt right. The hand between your legs started confidently stroking your shaft; making you moan. Their touch was expertly coordinated as if they knew everything about you. Not long after, the building pressure within you was too much to bear, then...

"AMON!" You cried out, the name that had eluded you all those nights finally woven from syllables into a complete utterance. You were no longer dreaming, your own hands reflexively covering your mouth in a futile attempt to take back the exclamation. In the dead of night like this, you most certainly alerted someone.

"My Prince, are you alright?" Your chief courtier, Petra, had burst through your bedchamber door. Guards with polearms at the ready had her back.

"I'm alright," you caught your breath, "it's the dream again. No cause for alarm." As usual, you bore a sheen of sweat and your heart was thundering in your ears.

"You've never called out like that before," Petra noted, not yet dropping her guard.

"I called out?" You lied, wincing as you felt something viscid and slimy on your groin under your dressing gown. Deep embarrassment came to the forefront of your mind, your face helpless to hide it. "Bring me my washbasin, please," you quickly uttered.

"At once, my Prince." Petra left the room as the guards resumed their posts. You peeled back your dressing gown to inspect the damage by moonlight. It was worse than you thought. Undoubtedly this gown would have to be thrown out. You groaned, disappointed in your own body for betraying you like this.

"Your washbasin, Prince." Petra returned and you hurriedly covered yourself up again. The moonlight was too dim, or perhaps she pretended not to see, but she was soon at your bedside without pause, brandishing a sponge and towel.

"I can do this myself," you said, taking the implements from her. She looked at you with intent to interrogate.

"Prince, if there have been changes with your dreams, you must inform the oneiromancers."

"No need," you said, eager to fully clean yourself. "You are dismissed, Petra."

Petra held her tongue. Her eyes told you she only did so because she was eager to return to bed. When she departed your bedchamber and closed the door, you finally discarded the soiled gown and did your best to cleanse yourself of your nocturnal emission. You donned a new gown and welcomed an ordinary slumber.

When morning came, so did Petra and a bevy of assistant courtiers. From the accoutrements they wielded you identified them as the "fashion corps," your nickname for the hairdressers, wardrobers, clothiers, and makeup artists whose arrival portended a formal event you were required to attend. As the squad of aesthetes communicated amongst each other, Petra drew you a bath. While the tub filled, she came to your side and took your shoulder on hers to help you hobble into the bathing chamber.

"What's the occasion, Petra?" You unfolded a privacy screen, dividing your bathing chamber in half. As you stripped and entered the balmy water, you heard Petra pull up a chair on the other side of the screen.

"The biannual alliance gala, Prince."

"The alliance gala?" You asked. Your appearance had not been required at one for quite some time. "Why me?"

"Your father has requested that the entire court attend. From what I've heard, there is quite the number of fiefdoms and baronies joining the kingdom at this one."

"Grand." You sighed and resigned yourself into the water until it met your chin. You imagined the great hall of the palace, teeming with strangers from far-off lands all speaking in such meaningless platitudes that they needed alcohol in hand to tolerate it.

"If it makes you feel any better, Prince, most of the night depends on your elder brother and your father. You have the freedom to do whatever you like once your father's opening speech is concluded," Petra said with a mild tone.

It didn't make you feel better. Your father built a kingdom that, apparently, smaller domains were scrambling to join. Your elder brother was the crown prince with hordes of suitors seeking his heart. Even your elder sister, with no direct claim to the crown, was quite sought after. Then there was you, with permission to get as drunk as you like at the gala. You seriously considered exercising that privilege.

Your ruminations were interrupted by the clatter of hammered metal and leather straps from beyond the screen.

"I've got your brace ready, Prince. Let me know when you're dry," Petra said. You reluctantly finished scrubbing and soaping yourself before heaving your body onto the lip of the bath and toweling off. Sat there, damp with dripping hair and a towel round your waist, you permitted Petra to attach the brace to you. She respectfully averted her eyes as she affixed the contraption to your immobilized leg. With it attached, you traded comfort for the ability to limp and stand unassisted.

Next came the gauntlet of clothing, hair styling, and makeup that the fashion corps employed. Even for today, which was merely a rehearsal for the true event tomorrow, they gave no mercy. They encircled you and passed you around as they worked like a knight being suited by his squires. The process was grueling. Your hair was tugged and the breeches squeezed your brace into your leg. With the freedom to choose your own clothes removed from you, there was no choice but to deal with the feeling of metal biting at your skin.

Bound in the tight, ceremonial clothing, Petra took your arm for the long walk to the great hall. It was full of palace staff and buzzing like a beehive. The ceiling, high as a cathedral's, let in beams of sunlight through its many massive windows. Tables were being arranged with the intent to give each attending guest a view of the stage: the stage where your father and elder brother would be giving their opening speeches tomorrow. The two of them were behind a podium, your brother reading a piece of parchment over your father's shoulder. Behind them towards the back of the stage was a row of ornate seats; not quite thrones but just as uncomfortable. Your elder sister met your gaze as she sat on one. She beckoned you over.

"That will be your seat for the rehearsal, Prince," Petra said.

"Rehearsal for sitting?" You quipped, walking towards your seat anyway. Resistance was futile no matter how silly this all was.

"I'll undo your hair and get you into more comfortable clothes as soon as I can, Prince," Petra said apologetically. "Bear with it. I must attend to the other staff now."

With that, Petra disappeared into the crowd of scrambling staff arranging the great hall into order. You limped to your seat, your brace clicking all the while.

"You look excellent, little brother," your sister said. She was attempting to alleviate your sour mood, but she still hadn't figured out how. Neither had you.

"I look like an idiot. And my leg is killing me," you snapped.

Your sister merely sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her hair, in a high bun, bumped the bejeweled headrest and made her curse.

"You used to love these events when you were smaller. You had perfected waving to the crowd before you learned to talk," she said.

"That was a long time ago. Things were different; I was naive, none of us had official duties, the assassination attempt hadn't happened, I wasn't bedeviled by these dreams... mother was alive." You cast your gaze downward, examining your buckled leather shoes. You heard her sigh.

"Not all change has to be bad. And to be fair, you still don't have any official duties to worry about." She placed a hand on your shoulder.

"That's a polite way of saying I'm useless." You looked up at your father and elder brother. They were discussing something about their speeches, annotating and marking the parchment before them. A small audience of pages stood in front of the stage, listening to them run through portions of their speeches. They hadn't yet paid you any heed.

"It's a blunt way of saying you're free," your sister said firmly. "Every week I'm fielding suitors from all over the world, and not one of them has proven to be anything but repulsive. I'm terrified that one day strategy and diplomacy will land me with someone like them."

Your eyes widened at her open disdain for the matters of the court.

"I'm sorry," you said, reconstructing your vision of who your sister truly was. "I had no idea you felt that way... I thought—"

"You thought I was traipsing about with handsome men from far-off lands every day?" She smirked.

"...yes." You blushed.

"Hah! I wish!" Your sister flinched at her own exclamation, then relaxed when she realized the monarch and the crown prince hadn't noticed. "But you don't have to wish for that. You're free to traipse with whomever you please."

You blushed harder. Turning away from your sister, you saw your brother and father finishing up their speech revisions. On cue, Petra emerged from the throng of staff to conclude this "rehearsal."

"Looks like Petra's coming to get you," your sister noted. "I know you'll be free to retire to your bedchambers as soon as the speeches are over, but I want you to try and enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It's what I would do if I could." She gave you one final smile before getting up from her seat.

"I will," you said, finally cracking a tiny smile in return. Petra had your arm soon after.

"Your presence is no longer required, Prince." Petra helped you up. "Shall I take you back to your chambers?"

"Yes, please," you said, giving your sister a thankful glance. She returned a similar expression as Petra whisked you away.

When you had finally returned to your chambers and changed into less constrictive clothing, you asked Petra to stay awhile to converse. Your sister's advice had forced you to re-evaluate your approach to the gala. Your priorities had shifted just as much as your notions of her personality had.

"You mentioned there were many newcomers to the kingdom? Quite a few tables were being set up in the great hall," you quizzed Petra.

"Yes, from what I've gathered, it's expected to be the largest event we've hosted all year. We're expecting guests from as far as Ankara and Nubia," she answered matter-of-factly. Perhaps she was a little proud, too.

"Are there any specific guests I should know about?" You asked with the grace of a war elephant. Courtship had crossed your mind for the first time mere minutes ago. "Anyone of high repute?"

Petra picked up on your clumsy intent immediately. She knew you too well.

"Prince, it would be quicker to list the attendees not worth approaching than those with stellar accolades. If it were me..." she drew in air through her teeth as if expecting to be reprimanded, "I would consider tomorrow's gala an excellent time to court someone."

"I'll try to take that advice to heart, Petra," you said.

"I'm pleased, Prince. Your matters are your own, but if I may speak unequivocally..."

"Speak your mind." You gave her permission. She hesitated, then sighed.

"You strike me as lonely, Prince. Ever since the Queen passed, your social life has suffered." Petra paused again, considering her words carefully. "You deserve love of that measure once more, whether from a partner or a good friend."

"Thank you," you sighed as if she had given you permission to use your heart. "I appreciate the advice, Petra."

"Of course, Prince." She glanced out the window towards the setting sun. "I recommend you retire early tonight to be invigorated tomorrow, lest the dreams strike again."

You nodded.

"They will." You avoided her eyes as you remembered what happened last time. "Have a washbasin ready. For the, erm, sweat."

"Of course, Prince," Petra said, her face remaining unmoved. You didn't bother trying to discern whether she was oblivious to last night's gown-soiling or if she merely extended you the courtesy of pretending. "I'll leave you be. Get some rest."

You watched her exit your chambers without another word, finally exhaling the breath you held. The idea of having to clean yourself up again was hardly appealing. Standing on the veranda and enjoying the cool night air was only prolonging the inevitable.

The aforementioned inevitable reared its troublesome head as soon as you surrendered to sleep. Your consciousness materialized somewhere, a location unidentifiable but still more detailed than you had ever encountered before. You glimpsed kaleidoscopic carpets, hammered brass, and vines growing freely about the place.

"Welcome back." A man's voice like sweet honey floated through the warm air.

"I missed you." The words left your mouth without you knowing them. You were merely an observer to your own actions. "Amon."

"My sweet prince." Lips on your knuckles. The smell of lavender tea. "Tea?"

"No thanks. We must keep this quick," you uttered again, breathless and surrendering to a desire that was both yours and unknown to you.

"Tut, tut. What's gotten into you, my prince? I've never seen you so impatient," the voice teased. Your head spun.

"I need my energy," you gasped, something warm and wet lapping at your member. "For tomorrow." The ministrations paused.

"Of course. Tomorrow will be very special indeed." The tongue on your shaft resumed, making you squirm. You reached out into the nothingness, your fingers grasping at frayed carpet tassels. Your other hand reached in between your legs and found a head of hair. You grasped a smooth horn that curved neatly behind an ear. It bobbed up and down at a tantalizing pace.

"Amon, I... I shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Another pause in the pleasure. You caught your breath. Those eyes again, burning into yours with the hue of warm ocean waters. "Say no to me, my prince. I implore you to try."

Caught in the stare you were helpless. You quivered with need, your manhood twitching and drooling. Only a high whine left your lips.

"Thought so."

You shot up in bed, crying out and spasming. Once more you had spilled yourself into your gown, your entire body slick with sweat. As a small victory, your cries remained nondescript rather than referential to this "Amon." In the dream, you had felt a sweet warmth in your breast each time you spoke to him and even warmer when he responded. In your waking memory, this name was empty. There was no connection and no feeling of belonging. If you hadn't heard your own voice leave your mouth in the dream, you would have had no way of knowing those experiences were your own. Your dreaming memory and conscious recollection were severed, at odds with one another. What did he mean when he said tomorrow would be special? Did he know about the gala? You didn't know how much you knew.

"The washbasin, Prince," Petra uttered as she carried it into your chambers. She stowed it at your bedside. "Shall I leave you like before?"

"Yes, please... but would it trouble you to return afterward?"

"Not at all, Prince. I'll return at your word." She slipped out of the room. You took the opportunity to cleanse yourself of the evidence before permitting Petra to return.

“Petra, would it be possible to acquire a guest list for the gala?” You asked.

“Possible, yes. However, it will be quite long without any qualifiers. As I mentioned previously, this is one of the largest events of the year.”

You considered simply asking her if the name Amon was among the attendees, but Petra would likely alert the oneiromancers and in turn, your father. You doubted anything would happen at all if she did, but this was a matter you wanted to confront on your own. Like all other decisions made for you at your father’s behest, your own interests would unquestionably be cast aside if he decided to involve himself.

“I’d like to know the first names of all the male guests scheduled to attend,” you said. Petra raised an eyebrow.

“That doesn’t narrow it down much, Prince,” Petra answered. The sweet, honeyed voice from your dream remained in your mind. It was the voice of a young man, one likely of your age.

“Only the male guests around my age, then,” you specified. Petra raised her other eyebrow, making her expression one of surprise rather than skepticism.

“Ah. That kind of list. I see...” Your cheeks burned; though you didn’t know where this inquiry would take you, you also felt the conclusion Petra came to was not wholly inaccurate. “Shall I make,  erm, other arrangements as well?”

“Arrangements?” you asked. It was Petra’s turn to blush.

“The standard things... extra pillows, oils, skins—”

“Yes, of course, Petra,” you cut her off, not wishing for her to extend the list of amenities any further. Searching for a suitor was a favorable charade. If nothing else, if this search for the mysterious Amon proved fruitless, then you would at least have the means, motive, and opportunity to bed somebody... if you had the audacity. The look on Petra's face said she didn't think so.

"I’ll have the list and the... goods brought in before sun-up,” Petra said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, Petra, that will suffice.”

“Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Morning arrived and so did Petra's promises; the chief courtier herself was nowhere to be found, but a neatly transcribed list of names and a box tied with a bow sat atop a chaise lounge when you awoke. You already knew what waited inside the box, so you went for the list. Though only containing the names of guests that fit your qualifiers, the parchment was both long and double-sided. Your eyes began to tire just as they fell across what you were looking for:

Amon II - Eparch of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia

You were puzzled. Makuria and Elodia were names you hadn't heard since you were tutored. Even your father's kingdom with its diplomats venturing far and wide rarely mentioned them. You only knew they were small kingdoms far away from this one. There was not one but two oceans between here and there, they spoke a language no tutor in the palace taught, and both titles of "Nobatian" and "Eparch" were unknown to you.

Then the fashion corps arrived. You dropped the parchment and pondered the new information as they manhandled you into the appearance they had crafted for you yesterday. Perhaps due to more practiced hands or being lost in your thoughts, the process seemed to go much faster than previously. You almost didn't believe it when they told you they were finished, but the shifted sun and your appearance in the mirror confirmed that the gala would soon begin. Your hair was fashioned into an unnatural shape, your face was dusted with powder, and your clothes were so form-fitting that you appeared sewn into them. The bulge of the leg brace through your breeches peeked out at the ankle; the leggings were so tight that your overcoat preserved more of your modesty than they did.

With Petra absent and likely scrambling to put last-minute touches on the gala, you walked to the great hall with the assistance of the fashion corps, who likewise made hasty repairs to your appearance as your gait jostled things out of place. When you arrived, the great hall was even busier than at the rehearsal. It seemed there was a member of palace staff for each seat at every table, all of them fastidiously arranging cutlery, plates, decorative vases, placemats, and myriad other things you didn't know the names for.

“Little brother!” You turned your head and spotted your elder sister within a parade of her own fashion corps regiment. She waved at you from one of the great hall’s entrances.

“Sister,” you responded with a nod, your own cavalcade parting to allow her approach.

“Have you given tonight any consideration?” She asked.

“Yes, actually...”

“You’re not going to retreat to your chambers?”

“...not immediately,” you said, noncommittal.

“I’m glad.” She smiled gently. “I’ll likely be busy most of the night, though if you’d like me to send anyone your way, let me know. Who’s on your list?”

“My list?” you sputtered. “Petra told you?”

“Petra? Goodness, no,” she chuckled. “I just figured you’d have one. It’s standard practice for these sorts of things; I’ve a list as well. So... who’s on yours?”

You lowered your head and examined your shoes.

“Well... it’s quite long.”

“How scandalous!” she gasped exaggeratedly.

“I’m just casting a wide net is all! I don’t intend to bed every single male my age!” Your cheeks burned again. You considered dropping the charade if it meant this level of humiliation.

“I expected my mild little brother to have a rebellious phase eventually, but this...” she said, ignoring your cries.

"Sister, please," you pleaded. The tone of your voice convinced her to return to normal. She extended a hand to ruffle your hair but stopped herself when your fashion corps hairstylist glared at her.

"Apologies, little brother. I had to jest a little," she smiled at you, this time without intent to tease. "They're going to start letting in the guests soon. We should take our seats."

You nodded and followed her to the stage. The fashion corps fell away from you and went to help elsewhere. You sat in your uncomfortable pseudo-throne and waited, eventually joined by your other siblings save for your eldest brother. They greeted you as they took position at your side, but there was very little to talk about. This was the first time you had seen them in a while.

Then came the guests: the table-setters had cleared out some minutes before the floodgates burst and more staff escorted groups of people to their tables. The cathedral-like great hall was full in mere moments. Sorted by table, there was a sea of people in colorful finery all conversing amongst themselves and giving you and your siblings the occasional glance. You tried to pick out Amon from the crowd but quickly realized half-remembered fragments from your dreams wouldn't be enough to pick him from a sea of hundreds. Even finding his name on the list took a considerable amount of time.

Then the hall fell silent, or something close to it. A lively conversation between hundreds of people dropped to hushed whispers. Your father and brother had entered the hall and begun their walk to the podium, silencing the crowd with nothing but their appearance. When your father reached the podium, he extended both arms palms up and the previously subdued crowd erupted into cheers. If not for the applause, he would have heard you groan. Your sister said nothing, only giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

When the speeches started you practically willed your ears shut. Perhaps you would have built a tolerance to them if you had appeared at more of these events, but you couldn't bear to listen to your father and elder brother boast of their achievements to a sea of complacent, nodding heads. It was like a reminder that within the kingdom your father built, you served your purpose by distracting that assassin some years ago and now outlived your usefulness. At this gala, you were decoration only a few ranks higher than a potted plant.

You thanked any and all higher powers when the speeches were over. Father and his crown prince had left the stage to begin their targeted commingling with VIPs, prompting you and your siblings to stand from your seats. They all dispersed before you could look to them to follow their lead. When you stumbled off the stage and distanced yourself from it by leaning against the wall as you walked, hardly any attention came your way. Thankfully, the attention you did receive was from Petra.

"Prince, are you alright? You look troubled," she said, sidling up to you.

"What do I do, Petra?" you asked, intimidated by the sheer size of the room and the attendees within it. Each table was like its own little kingdom with strangers you didn't know and faux-pas to stumble over.

"See how each table has an empty chair or two?" She pointed to the tables nearest you, one full of scaly Sāmm-abraṣ emissaries and another with human diplomats bearing the flag of Bavaria. You nodded. "All the guests are expected to stay seated while dinner is served. They won't get up to dance and drink until the meal is concluded. Right now, only people from the host kingdom— like you, me, your siblings, and other members of the court— will be walking around."

"So I just sit at whichever table and introduce myself?"

"If you even need to. The fact you're walking will show them you're hosting. They'll pay you proper respect without you saying anything at all."

"Hm," you mused. That sounded like a lot of work, especially since you weren't aiming to meander. Finding Amon would be immeasurably more difficult once the crowd was disorganized and inebriated, though, so now was your best chance.

"I've a copy of your list, Prince. Shall I help you navigate it?" Petra asked, holding up parchment.

"Yes, let's," you said. The lengthy document threatened to touch the floor. "Let's begin alphabetically."

"Alphabetically, Prince?"

"By first name."

"Of course, Prince. That means we should visit Aariyeh, Sardar of Anatolia, followed by Abdul II, Knez of Smederevo—"

"Any Eparchs on that list?" You winced at your own forwardness. The charade was wearing dangerously thin.

"...Eparchs?"

"I'm in an Eparch mood at the moment," you explained weakly. Petra looked at you as if checking for signs of illness.

"I see. There's one: Amon II of Nobatian Lower Makuria and Alodia."

"He sounds splendid. Take me to him."

Petra, either from exasperation, deference, or both, folded up the list and took your arm without another word. She led you through the clusters of gala attendees. You could feel every one of their eyes watching you as you caught their attention. Just as the scrutiny was starting to become too much, your eyes found a target of their own. A warm shiver ran through your spine, a sensation the French would call déjà rêvé: a dream made real.

His verdigris eyes locked onto yours. They peered at you from behind short, white curls of shiny hair. His skin reminded you of the bluebells in the gardens, and his pert, curled horns were a shade darker. He flashed something between a grin and a smirk at you, revealing pearlescent teeth with canines that could be mistaken for fangs.

Amon was breathtaking and he knew it.

If your arm wasn't in Petra's grasp already, you never would have made it to the chair. She struggled a bit as she plopped you into it, your leg brace protesting with clicks and creaks. The other tieflings at the table, all varying shades of azure, stopped what they were doing to acknowledge your arrival. You gave them a weak nod while you regained your composure.

"Greetings, delegation from Lower Makuria and Elodia. I'd like to introduce you to our Middle Prince," Petra said from over your shoulder, upon which she planted a firm hand. She squeezed hard.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," you managed to get out. Your audience of tieflings nodded and muttered.

"As am I, Middle Prince." Amon set his cutlery down and rested his chin on interlaced fingers. His voice was high and carried a boyish, scheming air; you envisioned him stealing lumps of sugar from a pantry. "I didn't think my kingdom warranted such a visit. What brings you to my little exclave of Nobatia?"

"A whim."

"How quaint," he said, still smirking. His gaze shifted as he eyed his all-tiefling entourage. The intent was to communicate something, though you didn't know what.

"I am the middle prince, after all. I've few obligations. None, actually," you said.

"Hm," Amon said, looking decidedly amused. "We may have more in common than we thought." His retinue nodded along with his observation.

"Surely you are a busy man? You are Eparch of not one, but two territories."

"Do you know what the title 'Eparch' entails, Middle Prince?" Amon said, more as a targeted quip than an actual question.

"I... am not familiar, I admit," you ceded.

"An Eparch is a figurehead. Makuria and Alodia have long been ruled by invaders and rebels, respectively. I'm kept in a symbolic position to preserve what's left of Nobatian culture," Amon sighed. "In fact, I was sent here in place of the true rulers since they thought it so unlikely that you would have anything important to say to us. Anything other than absorbing us into your hegemony, of course."

You averted your gaze. He clearly was not happy with his status, and while his discontent wasn't targeted at you, it hovered about him like a cloud. He picked at the remainder of his meal while the cloud dissipated and you plucked a topic from the clearing air.

"How was your journey here? You've come a long way," you said.

"It was pleasant enough. Your trains and... horseless carriages are quite impressive," Amon said, pausing. "What's your name for them again?"

"Automobiles," you answered.

"Yes, automobiles." He rolled the word in his mouth as if tasting wine. "Though you have such a fine river and only use it for cargo. A felucca would have made my journey quite enjoyable."

"A felucca?"

"Ah, it's my turn to inform you." Amon smiled. "A felucca is a sailboat we use on the Nile. It's built for comfort, with carpets instead of hardwood decks. Some even come with a kitchen, and it's unheard of to sail without finishing a pot of tea."

"It sounds lovely," you said. "Lavender tea, I hope."

Amon raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, my favorite," he looked amused. "How did you know?"

"A whim," you answered. "The same one that brought me over to your table."

"I see." His eyes locked with yours for a lengthy pause. His retinue shifted in their seats at the uncomfortable silence. He was thinking hard about something, but the subject of his thoughts remained unknown to you. If he truly shared the dreams with you, surely you must have gotten the point across by now?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Middle Prince." He broke the silence and straightened his posture. "But I would hate to keep you when you have other guests to see."

"I really don't—"

"Nonsense, my prince," he interrupted, "go on and mingle. Perhaps, if we're lucky, our paths will cross when the festivities begin in earnest."

You couldn't believe your eyes. Did he wink at you?

"Of course..." you said, slowly realizing he was scheming. "Enjoy the gala." He locked eyes with you again.

"Oh, we will."

You had resumed hovering with Petra on the edges of the great hall. More staff had filed in to take away dirty dishes and the remains of the guests' meals. The dance floor had been opened, the musicians were in position, and staff bearing silver trays readied drinks for the merry and hors d'oeuvres for the peckish.

"How was your visit with the Eparch?" Petra asked.

"Enlightening," you answered cryptically. The need for secrecy hadn't passed, but now you were unsure of what charade to uphold. You only knew Amon was in on it as well.

"I trust that means it went well?"

"Yes, I think so." You scanned the crowd of attendees, which had now gotten up from their seats and begun to mix and intermingle. Amon disappeared like an ace into a shuffled deck. Petra flashed you an impatient expression.

"Prince, do you want me to help you get with him or not?" She said with folded arms.

"Petra!" You gasped. "You're rather forward."

"It's quite literally my job to make sure you end up with him if you wish it, Prince," she assumed a stern tone as if you refused your vegetables. "Give me a yes or no."

You stewed under her gaze. It seemed the pressure and time-sensitive nature of the gala had started to affect her as well, though for different reasons to you.

"Yes." You muttered. She didn't ask for confirmation, instead slipping away into the crowd with nothing more than a nod. Was this part of the charade, still? You had no idea what Amon even wanted, or frankly, what you wanted from tonight.

The musicians started and the small groups that had formed on the edge of the dance floor produced couplets of dancers. They were eager to begin the waltz, a somewhat contentious dance that had only recently come into popularity.  You hadn't been practiced in it, instead learning of court dances like the cotillion. As you watched it take place, the dancers seemed awfully close. They were practically pressed against one another!

While you tried to discern the intricacies of this new style of dance before you, that familiar azure face peeked at you from the crowd. Amon smiled and raised his drink in your direction. It was a small gesture but you were helpless to do anything other than join him. Before you knew it, you were at his side in the sea of people and some sort of libation had been thrust into your hand.

"You know, I'm starting to grow partial to this stuff," Amon said, sipping on a duplicate of the drink you held.

"I was under the impression your faith disallowed the consumption of alcohol," you said, watching him finish the glass.

"An easy mistake to make." He handed off the glass to a roving staff member. "Modern Makurians and Alodians don't drink. Nobatians like me do. It's one of the holdovers of my dead culture."

You looked at the glass in hand; it was a clear, cold drink with a slice of lime. As you expected, the taste was bitter and unwelcoming.

"You like gin?" You asked, one taste enough to identify it.

"As I said, it's starting to grow on me," Amon chuckled. "It's not good enough to stop me from missing home, but it'll get me through the night."

"Speaking of home..." you started, looking around. You were unable to spot any other blue-skinned tieflings in the crowd. "where has your retinue gone?"

"I told them to enjoy themselves. As my courtiers, that means they're likely hovering by the exit, waiting to escort me out of here when I leave."

"They seem like a serious bunch."

"They're overprotective," Amon hissed. "As I said, my culture is long dead. They see it as dying. They think they can save it by putting me in a glass case for future generations to study."

"You've given up on Nobatia?"

"Pah! Of course I have!" He deftly procured another drink from a passing waiter. "Nothing will bring the old country back. Nobatia is a minuscule region; I can say with certainty I'm the youngest one left. When I'm old and infirm, Makuria and Alodia will reject the idea of a royal family entirely and I'll finally be allowed to be forgotten."

"That's quite a bleak outlook, Eparch," you gently chided. "Perhaps in war, things would be on a fixed course, but matters of diplomacy are more malleable."

"Perhaps," Amon said, sipping his gin. "But that's enough about me. I'd like to know more about you."

His eyes looked into yours as if he would magick the information he wanted straight out of you. No incantations were uttered, though, and you took a pragmatic sip of gin to fill the pause.

"What would you like to know?" You said.

"I'd like to know about this 'whimsy' you have," Amon probed. "To be frank, my prince, I expected to be out the door by now. Instead, I'm here, conversing with you. It doesn't make sense."

You finished your gin. This was as good a time as any to explain yourself.

"What do you know of oneiromancy?" The question left your lips and slapped Amon across the face. He chuckled.

"The school of magick so vague and unmeasurable it's not even officially recognized?"

"It seems you know the same as most," you said. "Oneiromancy is real. At least, real enough to give me the same dream night after night."

"I see..." Amon was mulling something over.

"In each one of these dreams, though my waking memory is hazy, I remember one thing they all had in common." You took a deep breath. "You."

"We should discuss this in private," Amon interjected, gently brushing your hand against his. You had been so caught up with telling Amon that you forgot you were in the middle of a crowded gala. Concern crept into the corners of his face. "Do you have a place we can go?"

You nodded and grasped his hand in earnest. The spot you took him to was one of the many balconies that overlooked the palace gardens. The sun had set fully at this point, and waltz music lazily floated out of the great hall. A few revelers who had over-indulged caught the fresh air in the hedges below. You and Amon rested on the cool marble balustrade, momentarily admiring the mingling of crickets, music, distant conversation, and the night air.

"I've been having the dreams as well. All of them involving you in some... capacity. I wasn't sure it was you at first. The dreams were so vague..." Amon kept his gaze fixed on the gardens below.

"Were the dreams... um, did you wake up... well..." you stammered. He looked at you knowingly.

"Yes, a few times," Amon answered. He didn't seem nearly as embarrassed as you. "You suspect oneiromancy is at play?"

"The court oneiromancers determined the dreams are being intentionally created. They're not a coincidence."

"Court oneiromancers?" Amon nearly spat out his drink. "My, you do have everything in this kingdom."

"Yes, we have court oneiromancers, but your surprise is beside the point." You had finally found the mysterious Amon, and you didn't want to waste any time on tangents. "Surely you're just as curious as I? Do you know anything about these dreams?" Amon drained the remainder of his gin in response.

"When I was a child..." He paused and shook his head. "When I was a child, my mother told me folk tales. The standard stuff: damsels in distress, slaying horrific beasts, that sort of thing. But she also told me tales of lovers who met in dreams. She said that was how she and father met."

"Something tells me you don't believe in that."

"When I grew too old for fairy tales, I saw it as her way of helping me keep hope that the one would be out there. With Nobatia falling and no suitors left..." he trailed off, setting his empty glass on the balustrade.

"So what if she's right?"

"That's a rather large 'if,' my prince. She was the only one that believed in that stuff... Aside from an uncle who would tell more dreamers-to-lovers tales, but only after drinking too much boukha, and always with a sarcastic tongue. They're just that: tales."

You felt Amon's cloud of discontent precipitate once more. His words were scathing, but not towards you; they spoke to a painful past and familiarity with disappointment. He saw something hopeful, happy, and promising, then cast it down in order to never feel the pain of losing it. You rarely had such clear insights about people, but with Amon it was different. It was as if you had known him for a long time and learned the language spoken by his brow, posture, and eyes. You knew what you had to do.

"Amon," you sighed, placing a hand on his, "even fairy tales originate from some truth, even if only a little. Don't be afraid to entertain the notion that your mother might be right."

You tried to look him in the eyes, but he cast his gaze down to the gardens below. His quick tongue failed him and silence ensued. His hand had reluctantly surrendered itself to your grasp, resting warm and limp.

"Look at me," You commanded with a firmer tone than expected. Reluctantly, he swiveled towards you and his aquamarine eyes found their way to yours. "Think about what you truly want. Don't be afraid to take it."

He swallowed. After a pause of a few heartbeats, his free hand grasped the back of your head, entwined his fingers in your hair, and pressed your lips to his. Your hand that held his grasped even tighter. The two of you were entwined in your own scandalous waltz. You could feel his hunger just as clearly as you felt his discontent when he parted your lips with his tongue. You reciprocated, catching fleeting impressions of his sharp teeth. He tasted like gin and figs. Short, passionate gasps and moans escaped the two of you and joined the chorus of crickets. You pulled away only to catch your breath.

"Amon," you gasped, his name sweet on your tongue. He looked at you with a bewildered expression and flushed navy cheeks. Neither of you could believe what just happened, yet surprise gave way to familiarity. Kissing Amon made your heart race but your shoulders relax. Being breathless and panting in his embrace was as recognizable to you as Petra's morning wake-up calls, or the smell of the gardens, or the feeling of your bedchamber floor on your bare feet. Déjà rêvé.

"I..." Amon sighed, "I shouldn't. I've had too much gin. I've been foolish." He released you from his arms and took several steps backward. Your jaw hung agape as he jogged inside and disappeared from view. Too shocked to try to catch him, you remained outside and alone on the balcony with only the sound of crickets and distant strings to keep you company. Just as silently and perceptively as a cat, Petra crept from the doorway a short while later.

"I saw Amon run away and came to check on you." She looked at your expression and reciprocated with a downtrodden look of her own. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Probably not." You sighed and buried your face in your elbows until all you could see was the balustrade. You sensed Petra take a few steps towards you.

"What happened?" She asked delicately.

"We kissed, passionately. Then he said he was foolish and ran away," you mumbled into your self-embracing arms. Petra rested a hand on your shoulder.

"Some people just can't handle the fast pace and the pressure at galas like this. I'm sure it wasn't personal."

"I know..." you sighed. To Petra, your attempts at flirting simply failed to land. She didn't see the dreams. She didn't see the look in his eyes. She didn't hear the fear of hope in his voice. There were not enough hours in the night to explain to her the true extent of your sorrows.

"There's always tomorrow, Prince."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tonight is only for the Gala," Petra explained, her tender tone turning slightly optimistic, "anyone attending will be staying at least until tomorrow night for the treaty signing."

"So Amon is still here, then?" you asked, finally pulling your forehead from its resting place on your folded arms.

"He was likely running to the guest wing of the palace, where all the other dignitaries will be. If you truly wish to meet with him again, breakfast tomorrow morning would be an excellent opportunity."

You considered things for a moment. If Amon were to stay one more night, then that was one more dream to share. Tonight, you and Amon would spring awake in bed at the same time after another shared dream, but he would be only a few corridors away.

"Petra, get me an oneiromancer." You commanded.

"An oneiromancer? At this time of night? They're probably attending the gala with the rest of the court."

"Petra, this is important," you said. "I haven't exactly been forthcoming about everything in these recent days, and I'm sorry for that... but I need an oneiromancer before I sleep tonight. If you can do this for me, I promise to explain everything soon."

Petra looked at you silently, deciding whether or not to press you for details now rather than later contingent on your promise. She chose the former, nodding and silently fast-walking inside.

Alone once more on the balcony, you leaned on the balustrade and studied the stars. The moon's halo of illuminated night sky was the same color as Amon's lips. With any luck, you'd be seeing them again soon in tonight's dream.

[draggingthedregs]

Hello! I love your writing so much! Can you write some kanej with Kaz being protective of Inej? If not that’s completely fine :) thank u!

a/n: okay so I always really struggle with “protective Kaz” things because I feel like he knows that she can most definitely take care of herself and he respects her for that. So this is what I came up with to try and meet in the middle. There’s that scene in Six of Crows where Kaz sends Inej to get rid of Rojakke (is that how you spell it? Idk he was in one scene, his name is not the point) and then when they’re back in his office that night he asks like “Did he put up a fight?” and she says “Nothing I couldn’t handle” and he says “Not what I asked” so thats where the idea for this came from, thank you bye. 

word count: 2634

There was something about the floor of the Crow Club that set Kaz at ease.

Its endless cacophony of coins bouncing from table to floor, the spinning of Makkers Wheel, the laughter floating onto the street, and, his personal favorite, the flipping that only accompanied a deck of cards. Somedays he thought he’d be content to shuffle at a table forever.

It was then that Inej pushed through the entryway, shaking off the rain that rarely ceased to pour over the crowded city. She pulled her hood down, her inky hair braided into a long rope laying against her shoulder. Kaz traced every inch of her, as he often did when she entered a room: the slope of her nose, the smile she flashed to the greetings shouted in her direction, the knives strapped to her hips. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head that reminded him he’d also be content to be with her forever.

There were times he hated the things that he would notice, hated how his brain slipped past the innocent intention of watching to a sinister place of touch and consequence. He flipped the thoughts over in his head, studying them from every angle like he would a card trick, trying to mold them into different pictures. But the images froze in place anyway; the feel of her skin against his burned like fire, even in an illusion.

Most of all, he hated that he couldn’t force these delusions into reality, couldn’t touch her how he wanted, couldn’t force the bile down and only feel Inej’s warmth.  

As she approached him, nodding to the private game rooms at the back of the club, giving him a clear view of her, he saw that something was amiss. Scarlet bloomed through her vest and onto her sleeve, trailing down to her thigh. He followed her, shutting the heavy door behind them and turning its complex series of locks. She’s upright. That’s all you should care about. 

“The Exchange was crawling with Stadwatch. Security must be tight since the incident.” 

“Did they see you?”

Inej practically scoffed, leaning her weight against the wooden table. “No. But I’m sure they’ll find someone who fits their bill. You know as well as I do, the council will want this quieted soon.”

Kaz nodded. Two weeks ago, the Exchange had been robbed, and though it was never publicly released, Kaz knew exactly what was stolen. After all, he had all the stocks and shipment papers locked in his safe as they spoke. 

Roeder had been the one to pull off the job originally, this being one of the few things Kaz had required a spider for while she was busy at sea. He had done a mediocre job, but he was sloppy with locks and leaving the place as he’d found it. Going back to the scene of the crime seemed too risky a gamble but when Inej returned, she knew she could scrape it. And Kaz wasn’t going to start doubting the Wraith’s abilities now. 

He flipped through the file she handed him. To anyone else, it may have looked useless, just pages and pages of numbers and times, scratchy handwritten tables filled with nonsense. But to him, and to a mercher with half a whit, this was key to investing. With the talleys and dates in hand, he would know what shipments to bank on and where to place his shares for the next few months. 

“As always, the Wraith pulls through.”

Inej nodded and pulled her hood up once more. “You’re welcome.”

Kaz gave her another once over, slower than intended. “What happened?” He blurted, his voice sounding like a low growl in his throat.  

Inej looked down at herself, brows knitted, studying the blood on her trousers. “Bullet or two from a guard just shooting at shadows.” With her brief summary of events, she took her weight off the table, readying herself for the journey back into the wet.

Kaz felt a sinking in his chest at the thought of her walking away from him, even if it was just to her apartment, and he hated himself for it. Now especially with her covered in blood, he couldn’t stomach the thought of her leaving. Without meaning to, he had taken himself back to before she had left.

It had been Inej’s last night before heading to sea when they had tried to pretend they were normal, that there wasn’t still so much between them. Kaz sat next to her on his bed, bad leg out in front of him, avoiding her gaze. 

“We don’t have to do this at all.”

But he did. Kaz had to prove that he had come further than this. I can best this… 

When she set sail the next morning, the feeling of failure settled deep within him, right beside the feeling that this time, he may never get her back from the sea. 

Now, he couldn’t help but stop her. “Inej-” he began. 

She turned, her hand resting on the doors heavy handle.

He made up the steps between them to stand beside her. Kaz forced himself to give any semblance of explanation, knowing that he’d promised to give her what she deserved and knowing that he was currently failing. “Let me walk with you.”

Inej nodded, dropping her hand as Kaz unlocked the door and opened it for her. He felt awkward, and quite frankly stupid; opening it as if she was some pretty girl that couldn’t handle the difference between whether to push or pull. She strided through anyway and he followed, silently cursing himself and hoping the grimace on his face looked normal for his temperament. Once they’d made it to the street, she slowed to walk beside him. 

At first, neither of them spoke. Then, in her gentle and hushed tone, perhaps to avoid his inevitable questions about her evening, “Am I getting a personal escort through the Barrel?”

Kaz needn’t look down to feel the smile in her voice. “Is that what you’d prefer to call it?”

“It isn’t exactly an evening stroll down the canal, is it?”

“I suppose not.” He cringed at the sound of his own rasp, smashing against the lift of her voice like waves against stone. Though from what he could tell, she didn’t do the same. Inej only shrugged, tugging her hood forward against the drizzle. 

“I only meant that I should feel lucky to get the King of the Barrel to myself for the night.”

Kaz thought he might keel over. “I am a busy man, but I still find time to survey my kingdom.”

Inej only rolled her eyes and kept her gaze straight forward. A moment of silence nestled between them, leaving only the sound off the East Stave hanging in the air. After fighting with himself for what seemed like far too long, his gaze settled atop her.

“Yes?”

Kaz swallowed hard, “Did you miss Ketterdam?” Did you miss me? 

She considered his question, and to him, the silence stretched through the air like a rubber band about to break. 

“I did. More than I thought I would.” Inej finally relented. Her voice had drifted to a somber place, a quiet stillness replacing the humor she’d had minutes before. 

They had turned down a back alley, the darkness consuming them in sore contrast to the dazzling lights of the Stave. Their footsteps echoed in a syncopated rhythm, his awkward gait and cane paired with her near-soundless steps. 

Maybe it was the high of having her back, walking next to him through Ketterdam as they’d done so many times before, but he hadn’t realized the direction they’d been walking. They approached the Slat, its crooked frame jutting out from the foundation at a welcoming tilt. He glanced down to Inej once more, watching as she took in the building, trying to see it through her eyes, as he wished to see much of the world. 

“Is the Captain afraid of her old nest?”

If he had intended it as a jab, she didn’t take it as such. Inej shook her head once, “It just feels like home…” 

She moved before he did, taking a deep breath of the stale air inside as she stepped through the threshold. There was movement, as there always was, but the Slat was quiet this time of night and Kaz was thankful. It meant that, selfishly, he could keep Inej upstairs and to himself for as long as he could come up with things to talk about. Perhaps they’d even sit on his bed and she would allow him to make up for the last time they’d found themselves there. 

Kaz marveled at her as she took the creaky stairs ahead of him, the steps creaking beneath his weight after seemingly not registering her. His eyes once again wandered to the blood stains that covered her. He felt a hair-pin trigger go off in his chest and suddenly, there was anger. 

Stop that. She isn’t yours to save. 

Inej waited for him to open the door, sidestepping as they both now stood on the landing. If Kaz hadn’t just been studying her, he might have missed her change in demeanor and the way she shifted her weight to the wall behind her.  

“Inej.”

“Hm?”

Kaz attempted to even his tone. “How bad are they?” 

“What?”

His voice sounded like stones grinding against one another, “The bullet wounds.”

She shrugged but he could see the stress of the evening in her features. Her limbs seemed heavy and her eyelids fought to open with every blink. With a shove, Kaz unlocked his office door, forcing the warped wood open and, without hesitation, Inej followed him in, taking in the room as she clicked the locks back into place.

He leaned his cane against the makeshift desk and shucked his gloves off as he approached the cabinet beneath his wash basin, digging through its drawers for gauze and shears. Behind him, he heard the familiar creak of his window opening. The smell of rain against the cobblestones wafted toward him. 

“Your window seat has felt neglected. Your crows too.”

“Does that mean you stopped feeding them while I was gone?”

No. They reminded me of you. I couldn’t let another piece of you go. “They’re scavengers. I’m sure they managed.”

It was then that Kaz turned to see her standing by his bed. Inej looked up, her cheeks flushing red like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been. He only walked over, setting the bandages on the thin mattress. “So I don’t have to find a heartrender for you.”

“They really aren’t that bad-”

“You’ve bled through your clothes. They’re bad enough.”

Inej cleared her throat as she began removing layers of knives and clothes. Kaz’s eyes roved over her, the pounding in his chest growing louder. He hated it. 

 Her arms and shoulders were covered in fresh scars, some of them still red and scabbed, and the bruises on her ribs were still deep purple. 

“Slavers don’t give up their cargo easily.” Inej’s voice came out with caution, as if she was waiting to see his reaction. 

His gaze met hers, voice carving into the air like a rusted blade. “Where are they all now?”

“Dead.”

A sense of pride cracked through him as a rare smile settled on his lips. Kaz nodded. “Good.” 

She picked up a strip of bandage, wrapping it around the bullet wound on her bicep, silence filling the space between them. Inej didn’t need to look up to feel the weight of his eyes on her. A flush crept to the tops of her ears. “I didn’t want you to see.”

It was rare for Kaz Brekker to be confused and yet, here he was. 

“I thought you might kill someone. Or start to doubt that I could handle myself.”

“I could never doubt you. Only a fool would.” It was only after he said it that he realized it had been aloud. 

Inej tied off the bandage then glanced down to the blood on her pants.  

“I can-”

“No.” She said, finally making eye contact with him again. “Stay.”

For his sake and hers, Kaz turned his head to avoid staring as she shimmied out of the bloodied fabric. 

She sat on the edge of the bed and poked around for any bullet fragments, the muscles in her thigh tensing, the dried blood on her skin looking black. Inej was just as strong as ever; all her limbs built of corded muscle coated in the lithe grace of an acrobat, just as he remembered. Despite his better judgement, Kaz took a long look at her. 

It’s shame that eats men whole. He could feel it gnawing at him as he attempted to push away the image of her bare thighs against his sheets. 

“Kaz, can you-?” She nodded to the scissors, her hands stuck at an awkward angle around her leg, the apprehension on her face clear. 

He picked them up and took a deep breath before sitting down beside her. When he leaned over, he was careful not to touch her. Her breath stirred the hair on the back of his neck. One turn of his head and their lips would have been inches apart. This reminded him far too much of the hotel washroom; he only hoped it would end better. 

Kaz cut the bandage gently, taking the end from her and tying it, his knuckles grazing against her skin. Panic hit him before anything else, afraid he had overstepped. It took him a moment to realize there was no revulsion roiling through him. 

“Inej-”

“It’s alright… Thank you.”

He nodded, grabbing what was left of the bandages and the shears and placing them on top of his dresser. Then he opened one of his drawers, rummaging through the mess of clothes until he found what he had been looking for. 

Kaz handed her a pair of cotton sleep trousers. “I can’t imagine yours are salvageable.”

Inej smiled, sliding them over her legs. They were huge on her. And though they hadn’t discussed her sleeping arrangements for the evening, it appeared she would be staying there. 

He sat back down, staring at his bare hands; the hands that had just graced her without trouble or hesitation. She reached over, threading her fingers through his, and studied him, watching for the shift. But it never came. 

“Will you lay with me?”

At that, he looked up. 

In front of him was a girl who deserved so much more than Dirtyhands. A girl who made the sea cower and made the sun look dull. A girl who could have done anything she wished in life with ease and grace. And yet- she was sat in his bed, holding his hand, and patiently waiting for the semblances of affection he could provide. 

Kaz felt himself nod. 

She pushed herself back until she was against the wooden headboard. They both moved slowly, carefully placing their limbs so there was no overlap. 

Then, he was laying beside her; both of their heads turned to study each other.

“Thank you.” Inej’s voice nearly a whisper. 

The minutes stretched into hours, and Kaz lay listening to her breathing. I will have you without armor. 

Well after twelve bells, the cadence of sleep seemed to grab hold of him, weighing heavy on his body. As his eyes drifted shut, he hoped that there would be more nights like this: nights with Inej close by his side and stillness in his mind. 

He reached for her hand in the dark and promised he would not let go come morning. He would never let go of her again. 

[teacupfulofstarshine]

LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP CHAPTER 10

PLEASE HEED THE CONTENT WARNINGS!!! this chapter features Evil Scientist Lady and her Fucked Up WorldView a LOT, and there are also some Major Plot Events that involve Violence. i will put a summary in the end notes if you decide at any point that this particular chapter is too much - that's super valid! i will also mention here that no main characters are going to die in this story and no one dies in this chapter either.

huge huge thanks to @flamingfawkes for beta’ing!

CW: extreme disregard for human life, mentioned human and animal cruelty, toxic workplace environment, violence (both imagined and actual, mildly graphic), gun mention, minor blood, death threats, extremely unethical character, unethical science, stalking

chapter 1 // chapter 2 // chapter 3 // chapter 4 // chapter 5 // chapter 6 // chapter 7 // chapter 8 // chapter 9 // read it on ao3!

“This is the same result we’ve gotten the last twenty times -”

“I don’t care, Steven, run it again!”

Steven sighs, punching at the keyboard to run the statistical analysis sequence again. “This is ridiculous! I’ve run this sequence so many times it feels like my eyes are going to bleed. Why can’t we just turn in the results we have and -”

“Because she’ll behead us,” James snaps, “and then she’ll destroy our reputations and our families and they’ll get no severance. I have three young children at home, Steven, I need this money.” Steven softens a little, fingers running smoothly over the keys as he combs the data again. Next to him, James has a computer screen full of frame-by-frame stills of what little data they recovered from the probe before it was destroyed; Penny across the room is surrounded by ancient texts a mile high and at least three laptops.

“Why is she so interested in this, anyway?”

“It’s beyond me. Since when do we question the whims of what we’re told to do?”

Steven squints at the screen, pushing his chair back and rubbing at his eyes. “If I have to stare at these numbers for one more second, my brain is going to explode. I feel like my eyeballs are going to melt out of my skull. I wanna scream.”

James pulls up another image, staring at the blurry image of the merman before him. Steven pushes away from his own screen and squints at James’s. The merman in the photo looks young, not much older than his kid brother, but they don’t know anything about the lifespan of these creatures. He looks confused, squinting at the camera. As James flicks through the stills, the merman transitions from confused to angry to enraged, and then he attacks.

“He’s not happy about the camera.”

“Would you be happy about someone spying on you and your family?” James says, switching to the next still.

“I wouldn’t be happy if I thought someone was doing anything we do in this lab to me or my family.” James elbows Steven, but luckily no one else seems to have heard.

“This lab isn’t the most ethical place I’ve ever worked, but it pays the bills,” James mutters. “And we’re not even in the experimentation lab. We just do data analysis. We’re removed from the situation.”

Are we? Steven wonders. He sees James reach out and touch the framed picture of his daughters, and keeps his mouth shut. He turns back to his computer, watching the little spinning color wheel of his mouse as the program calculates the same numbers again and again. The results come up identical to the previous ones, and Steven clicks “Run Program” again wordlessly.

They work in silence for a while, the three of them, broken only by James’s muttering and the occasional thud of one of Penny’s books and the clicks of keyboards and mice. If they weren’t so reliant on technology, Steven thinks, there would be an enormous corkboard spanning three of the four walls, covered in pushpins and handwriting and red string connecting images. He debates actually building one, if only to increase the levity in the room, but decides against it.

He’s seen people punished or fired or who-knows-what-else for far less, after all.

Instead, after his program tells him for the twenty-third time that his results are the same (and didn’t someone say insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results?), Steven scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and opens the data entry window. Maybe the problem with the results has to do with the entry of the data; did he input something wrong? It’s possible . . .

Here he goes again, he supposes. He stands up, stretches, and leans back to crack some vertebrae. “I’m gonna grab a coffee, take a short screen break, and go back to the beginning. Maybe there’s something in the input that I missed. You want anything?”

James groans, thunking his head against the desk. “I want something with enough caffeine to kill three elephants, please.” Steven nods, looking over at Penny. She shakes her head, and he heads for the shitty coffee machine a few doors down.

Several floors below, a young woman pulls her lab goggles up to rest on top of her head with her perfectly-pinned protocol-compliant bun. “The latest round of tests is completely done, ma’am. I think you’ll find the efficacy . . . striking.”

She takes the clipboard, glossy perfectly-painted nails pinching the sheets of thin paper and flicking between them. “I’m afraid I don’t do so well with the scientific side of things - Kathleen, was it? Explain this to me, would you?”

“Certainly, ma’am. As you know, the kill time for the most effective neurotoxin currently available, tetrodotoxin, varies from thirty minutes to four hours. Average time for symptoms to manifest is seventeen minutes, and from there the symptoms progress through tingling of the lips and tongue, headache, vomiting, muscle weakness, ataxia, et cetera. Death occurs as a result of respiratory or heart failure, and the poison is nearly undetectable if you do not specifically test for it.”

“The untraceability is a plus, but that is far too wide a range of times, and too slow a time even at its fastest.”

“Of course, ma’am, but as far as naturally-occurring marine poisons go - actually, as far as naturally-occurring poisons go, full stop - it is the most effective. Until now, that is.”

“Oh? What are your findings?”

“Which trials would you like to start with, ma’am?”

“The human trials, Kathleen. The only ones that matter. I hardly intend to go around killing mice and hoping that no one traces their deaths to a novel neurotoxin.” She laughs airily, and Kathleen nods along.

“Certainly, ma’am. The most recent data points indicate an average efficacy time of thirteen minutes for our compound neurotoxin, with a full range between nine and seventeen minutes passing before subject death. Subjects began to show symptoms around five minutes, give or take twenty-five seconds.”

“And those symptoms were?”

Kathleen flips through the document. “Seizures, vital organ failure, blindness, painful muscle spasms, suffocation from the inside out.”

She hums, tapping a manicured finger against the report. “Well, Kathleen, that is certainly impressive, especially for a preliminary human subject trial. These results . . . I must say, they are not nearly as disappointing as I anticipated when I came down here.”

“Ma’am?”

“How long have you worked for this company, Kathleen?”

“Almost five years, ma’am, but I’ve always been an assistant. This is my first time as lead researcher and biochemist on a project, ever since you . . . laid off the previous lead researcher.”

“Kathleen, let me be frank. These results are not what I hoped for. The efficacy time and symptom onset times are both far too long for my liking, and the range of efficacy time is too broad. By all accounts, I should consider this a failure.” Kathleen swallows, but remains poised. “However, you’ve managed to shave off a considerable amount of time from the tetrodotoxin readings. The range of symptom onset time is an acceptable breadth, and your results are far beyond anything your predecessor ever accomplished for me. This is truly impressive, all things considered.”

“Thank you, ma’am. How should I proceed?”

“I want the efficacy doubled - tripled - I want it upped by anywhere between four and five hundred percent. I want the pain increased, too. Feel free to increase your requests for test subjects, but get me the results I want. You said the original tetrodotoxin was untraceable?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“Can you keep that feature intact?”

“As of right now, it is intact, ma’am. I will endeavor to keep it so in future experiments.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Welcome to your new position as head of this research division. Don’t let me down.” She holds out a slender hand, and Kathleen takes it, trying not to seem too eager.

“I won’t, ma’am.”

“How soon can you start this experiment up again?”

“The cleaners should be finished by tomorrow morning, ma’am, and I can tweak chemical formulas until then.”

“Excellent.” Her watch beeps, and she lifts it, pursing her bright lips as she examines the message she’s just received. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to. Someone will drop off your master access key for Lab Three within the hour.”

She steps into the elevator and lifts her watch up to her face, swiping through the messages from her secretary. One finger reaches out to press the button for the digital analysis labs floor, and the other taps away at her watch.

When she steps off the elevator, her secretary is waiting. “Ma’am.”

“What do they have for me?”

“Unclear. They said it was something they wanted to report directly to you and you alone, but it seems to be something big.”

“Hopefully it’s a big step in the right direction, or they’ll be taking a big step out of a job.” She relishes in the way the employees she passes all unfailingly flinch and then snap to perfect attention when they hear the sharp echo of her heels against the floor. She lifts her head and walks faster, striking the tiles with her heels like a gavel, sharp and precise against a judge’s desk.

The computer labs are disorganized when she enters, but there is a string of promising-looking numbers on the main display monitor. There is a woman surrounded by books and a man pulling up photos on his computer, and there is a third man standing in front of her like a toy soldier. She focuses on that one.

“I hear you have news for me? Make it swift, and make it good.”

He swallows, hard, and her eyes idly trace the line of his throat. If he disappoints her, perhaps she will drive her heel through it, to make an example of him. That would be far too messy; perhaps his dominant hand will do.

“I have narrowed down the location of the missing net, ma’am. I believe it to have washed up somewhere around these general GPS coordinates.” He fiddles with a remote in his hand, and the image on the screen changes. It shows an aerial satellite view of a secluded strip of beach, framed by rocky cliffs with larger rocks studded out into the open water. “It should have washed up somewhere in this one-point-three-seven-mile strip of beach. The whole area is property of one Doctor Thomas Sanders.”

She snarls. “That man. He won’t let us on that beach willingly until hell freezes over.”

The other man, the one scanning through photo stills and video footage, jumps up, knocking his chair backwards. “I found something!”

She turns towards him, and his excitement freezes and sputters into something much more controlled and terrified. “Show me.” He clicks something and pulls up video footage from one of their surveillance drones, zooming in on a particular patch of ocean along the stretch of Sanders’ beach. Her eyes widen when she sees what he’d noticed - a hump of red-and-white tail arcing above the waves before a pattern of ripples streaks off towards the cliff. He pauses the footage, rewinds it, uses a laser pointer to show an opening concealed in the cliff face.

“There’s some kind of grotto in there, hidden by the cliff. It’s on Sanders’ property, he has to know it’s there. And it looks like the merman from the destroyed drone knows it’s there too. Which means -”

“That must be where he’s keeping them.” Something burns in her chest, brilliant and terrifying and all-encapsulating, like wildfire. “We’ve found them, at long last.”

“What would you have me do?” her secretary asks. “I can arrange for a recovery squad at your earliest possible convenience, ma’am.”

“Assemble the squad, but do not have them move out. They will wait for my orders. When they go, you are to go with them.” Her secretary nods, once, sharp and sure. “Dispatch a crew to Lab One and clear it out. I want it prepped for containment, vivisection, chemical tests - the works. Get at least three tanks set up and one strap-down human table.”

“A human table, ma’am?”

“Yes. We have to deal with Sanders once and for all to ensure that he does not ruin any future experiments.”

“Will we be taking him as well?”

She hums thoughtfully. “No. Pull up the file we have on his known associate?”

A few swift clicks and flicks and a photo appears on the large screen: a young man with brown-and-purple hair, sleeves rolled up, carefully lowering a perfectly viable specimen into the ocean and letting it go, like some kind of fool. “His doctoral student, ma’am. The longest one he’s ever kept - this one has been with him a few years.”

“Excellent. When you raid the lab, take him.”

“Should we kill Sanders?”

“No. Rough him up a little, but leave him alive. Taking his protégé and leaving him alone, helpless to rescue him, will be the highest form of torture for such an insufferable person. The agony will eat him alive until his dying day.”

Her secretary nods, taking the notes down dutifully. The other employees look vaguely horrified, but she pays them no mind. No sacrifice is too great to be made in the name of progress, and anyone who thinks otherwise is a weakling who will never get anywhere in life.

She refuses to be one of those weaklings.

*~*~*~*~*

Logan wakes up confused.

He’s warm, warmer than he thinks he’s ever been in his whole life. When he stirs, he moves farther than he meant to - he must not be underwater. That’s enough to send a jolt of concern through his sleep-addled brain. Why isn’t he underwater? Why was he sleeping if he was above the surface? There’s no way his dad is here, and Roman hates surfacing, where are they? Where is he? But he’s so comfortable . . .

Someone shifts beside him, an arm draping across his waist, and Logan forces his eyes open. He shifts his lower half, confused when two things move instead of one, and there are layers upon layers of thin, flat, soft things wrapping around him. What is happening?

Slowly, slowly, his mind clears, and he remembers the events of last night. He grew legs - he was a human, once, before he was mer - he couldn’t sleep underwater with Dad and Roman - Virgil was teaching him to walk - Virgil put “clothes” on him - Virgil was embarrassed that he didn’t have those “clothes” on him - Virgil took him out of the lab to sleep - Virgil agreed to cuddle him since his pod couldn’t -

Logan feels the strange burning in his face again as he shifts. He can’t see well in this new human form, but when things are close enough to his face they’re relatively clear. And Virgil, still sleeping, is close enough that Logan can smell him - he smells like salt water mixed with something sharp and something sweet and something else that Logan can’t quite identify but finds addicting nonetheless. Sunlight streams in and pools around Virgil’s face, illuminating the tangled mess of hair spread around him and flopping into his face, the small puddle of water leaking out from his open mouth onto the soft thing he’s resting his head on, the way his chest moves slowly with every breath. His arm is wrapped around Logan, pulling him close. Logan thinks he might explode if he focuses on this any more, so he rolls from his side to his back as carefully as he can, not wanting to wake Virgil. Virgil tightens his arm around Logan and mutters something indecipherable in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake.

Rather than focusing on his very confusing feelings for the very pretty man next to him, Logan focuses on what he can see of the room around him. He makes a list in his mind of things that he plans to ask Virgil about later today, including:

1: There are many draws attached to the small, smooth cliffs surrounding them. How do they stay there?

2: There are lots of “clothes” scattered all around the floor, and there were several on the bed, too. Is that normal for humans?

3: Last night, Virgil did something that made the room light up with trapped sunlight! How did he do that?

4: How did Virgil get ice to stay in those big frozen sheets in such a warm place to let the sunlight in?

5: How did Virgil make ice into that weird shape that he filled with water and drank last night?

6: How did Virgil get the water to come into this place?

7: Do all humans have a specific area set aside for sleeping? Logan and his pod usually just sleep wherever they can, but Virgil seems to have this soft slab set aside with all of these soft things to be comfortable and sleep in every night. Is this a Human Thing or strictly a Virgil Thing?

Logan looks out through the sheet of ice that protects Virgil’s area from the outside and gasps. He can’t see well, but there’s a glittering expanse of blue that shifts and moves and oh, is that the ocean?

He’s spent his whole life (well, his whole remembered life, anyways) in the ocean, and he’s seen some truly wondrous things. He travels around the world with his pod, he knows the ocean is big, but seeing it spread out like this is . . . awe-inspiring. Logan has never seen the ocean like this, and now that he has he doesn’t think he can ever not see it like this again. It’s like a perfect sheet of sea-glass, rippling and unbroken but dynamic in a way that he never really gets a sense of when he’s beneath it.

He knows that there are waves, of course. There are smaller swells out on the open ocean, and larger ones when the Second Goddess dips her fingers down from the Upper Ocean and swirls the storms to a thundering burst. There are waves along the shoreline, ones that he frolics in with Roman and batter him against the shoreline. There are waves created when he or his pod members surface. But watching the movement of the ocean from up here is . . .

Even with his imperfect vision, he is completely at a loss for words as he stares at the ocean.

Eventually, Virgil stirs next to him, and Logan turns away from the ocean to stare at him. Virgil is close to him, arms wrapped tightly around him, face pressed against him. Logan’s eyesight is not great, but Virgil is close enough that he can pick out little details of his face. There are brown face scales scattered all over him, but they seem to cluster on his nose and his cheeks. Logan has wanted to touch them for a substantial amount of time, and he can’t stop himself from gently settling the tips of his fingers over Virgil’s cheek.

His face doesn’t feel like Logan was expecting. The scales don’t give texture to his face the way that Logan’s do; the skin is smooth and flat. There are little bumps all over, but the brown scales aren’t raised off the skin like Logan expected. He lets his fingers trail along Virgil’s face. His bone structure seems to be exceedingly similar to Logan’s, at least in regards to his head. Logan’s finger rests gently on the curve of bone under Virgil’s eye, and Virgil exhales warm breath onto his palm.

Logan wonders what it would be like to have this for longer than just his recovery period. He wonders what it would be like to wake up next to Virgil all the time, to get to run his hands over Virgil’s face and arms and chest and examine the differences between their anatomy. He wonders what it would be like to learn to walk without falling over, and he feels a sharp, unexpected twinge in his chest as he realizes that getting better at walking means no more closeness to Virgil.

His chest feels strange, like there’s a school of small fish swarming around and tickling his insides and making him feel all foamy, like the froth churned up by a windswept sea. He feels like he does when he’s underwater - free, weightless, mobile, limited by nothing except his own imagination. He feels unstoppable.

Virgil makes a sudden, sharp inhale, blinking his eyes open slowly. Logan thinks that, perhaps, he might not appreciate being studied unknowingly - he hadn’t appreciated Virgil doing it, before he understood what was happening, when all he knew was the loss of his pod aching like a scraped-out seashell. As Virgil wakes up, Logan shifts, turning his gaze to the rest of the room.

Virgil makes a sleepy grumbling noise, opening one eye. Logan chances another quick glance at him, and when his eye slides open Logan is struck by its beauty. He doesn’t get much of a chance to admire it, however, before Virgil is jolting backwards like Logan’s struck him with lightning. Logan is confused, reaching out and gently touching his shoulder. “Virgil?”

“Wassat?! Wait . . . L’gan?”

“It is me,” Logan says softly. “Are - are you upset with me?”

Virgil yawns, jaw dropping to his chest, revealing a flash of teeth and a soft pink tongue. (Logan wants to lick it. Why does Logan want to lick it? Why is Logan thinking about Virgil’s tongue licking his tongue - why is Logan thinking about Virgil - what in the Seven Oceans is happening to him.) “Wh - no, no, ‘m okay, I just - woke up, forgot I had you with me, got confused about another person in my bed.” Before Logan can start to feel bad, Virgil adds, “S’okay if it’s you, though,” and the foamy, floaty feeling is back.

“Did you sleep well?”

Virgil laughs, low and rumbling, and Logan can feel it in his fingers where he touches Virgil’s skin. “I never sleep well.” He sits up, and the fabric of his pajamas shifts to let Logan see stretches of soft, supple skin that he usually doesn’t. Logan wants to touch it. He very determinedly keeps his hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “Gotta admit, though, last night was . . . better than usual.”

This appears to be the point where Virgil first notices their position - pressed together, arm slung over Logan, basically cuddling the way that Logan normally would with his pod. (No tangle with his pod has ever felt this . . . electric, this charged, this important to Logan before.) His face flares a brilliant red, and he shifts like he wants to move away but -

“I’m sorry,” Virgil says. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No!” Logan blurts out. Virgil blinks at him a little, and maybe he was a little overly enthusiastic, but - “I sleep in a tangle with Dad and Roman all the time. I have extreme difficulty sleeping without contact with someone else. It . . . helped me greatly.”

“Oh,” Virgil says, face turning redder still, smiling shyly. “That - makes me feel better. Thanks, Lo.”

Logan smiles, and Virgil smiles too, reaching up to gently move a piece of hair away from his face. Logan thinks that, as far as deaths go, his chest exploding (which seems to be getting more and more likely every fifteen seconds he spends in Virgil’s presence, only accelerated by all this skin-on-skin contact they’re having right now) seems to be the most pleasurable.

Virgil opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it was is interrupted by a Ping! noise from across the room. “What is that?” Logan asks. Virgil, sadly, untangles himself from Logan and the blankets, sliding out of bed and heading over to one of the other structures in the room (what did he call it last night? Dex?) and picking up a flat glowing rectangle.

“Is everything alright?”

“What? Yeah, yeah, I - Thomas sent me a text, it’s a little weird.”

“What is a text?”

“It’s a kind of human messaging system, it allows us to communicate when we’re far away from each other.”

“Like a pod call?” “Kind of? I’ll explain more later, I promise, I just - I gotta go down to the lab real quick.”

“I’ll come with -”

“No!” Virgil snaps. Logan flinches, and Virgil softens, crossing the room and gently touching his shoulder. “Hey, no, Logan, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just - this message, there’s something off. I think something might be wrong, and I don’t want to put you in any unnecessary danger. Just - wait here, okay? Wait in my room, where it’s safe. It’s probably nothing, he’s probably fine, but on the off chance that he’s not, I want you to stay hidden safely up here.”

Logan isn’t sure why this makes his face heat up slightly, but it does. “Okay. I accept your apology, and I . . . trust you.”

Virgil smiles, soft and heartwarming, and Logan is beginning to give more credence to his “chest explosion is fine, actually” theory. “Wait for me here, okay? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

He leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him, and the foamy feeling in Logan’s chest dissipates a little. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something . . . off. If Logan didn’t know better, he’d think that he was sensing a predator approaching.

But that can’t be right, he isn’t underwater. His danger senses are likely just overreacting to his disappointment at Virgil’s absence.

. . . Right?

*~*~*~*~*

Thomas is beginning to regret letting Roman and Patton (specifically, Roman) out of the large tank before finishing his first coffee of the morning.

“I want some!” Roman complains.

“Do you even know what it is?” Thomas says. Roman pouts sulkily at him.

“. . . No,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. Thomas gives him the deadpan, no-nonsense, I-am-your-direct-superior-take-the-damn-samples-Virgil stare that he has perfected over the past few years. Roman wilts a little more, and Thomas feels slightly bad.

“It’s called coffee,” he says. “It’s a hot drink that lots of people have in the morning. Some people drink it plain, and some people add things to it to change the way it tastes. It helps me wake up more and get focused to start my day, and sometimes I drink it late at night to help keep me awake.”

Roman looks less like a kicked puppy and more like Logan, eyes wide and curious. “I want some!”

Thomas, taking a sip of his own two-seconds-of-cream-five-cubes-of-sugar coffee, nearly spits it out. He looks at Roman, eyes the very sharp, very detachable, very toxic spines covering his body, and says, “No.”

Roman’s demeanor changes entirely, switching from “curious toddler” to “toddler about to throw a temper tantrum” in a heartbeat. “Why not?!”

“Because when people drink coffee without being used to it, sometimes it makes them a little crazy.”

“I’m not crazy!”

“Do I need to recount to you how many times you’ve threatened me and my assistant since we met you?” Thomas says, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not giving you coffee until I know I can trust you not to stab me with your poisonous spines that cover your entire body and can be fired at people.”

Roman pouts more, dropping under the water and letting out a gratingly harmonious string of mer that Thomas is pretty sure translates to Roman bitching about the coffee situation to his dad. Based on the pattern of Patton’s response, he’s pretty sure Patton is laughing at Roman.

More sulky chalkboard-violin music, and then Roman resurfaces grumpily. “Dad agrees with you and says no consuming strange human foods.”

“Did he laugh at you?”

Roman squints suspiciously at him. “You can’t speak our language.”

“Yeah, but I know what it sounds like when a dad laughs at his kid.” Roman, continuing to pout, sinks back into the tank, presumably to sulk some more. Thomas takes another very long sip of coffee that is definitely too hot for his mouth and turns back to his desk.

Virgil should definitely be awake and in the lab at this point. The samples he’s supposed to be analyzing are sitting in their little tubes, each neatly labelled with locations and dates and times and what, specifically, Virgil is supposed to be looking for. Thomas considers going upstairs and waking up Virgil, who’s almost never been late for work in this way, but he decides against it. Virgil is upstairs with Logan, and Thomas knows that there’s something building between them. He’s not sure how advisable that something is, but he trusts Virgil to make his own decisions.

Besides, he could probably use some practice. His water sample analysis skills are pretty rusty, he’s had Virgil doing them for years. “Virgil, you owe me big time for what I’m doing for you.” He carefully shifts the samples over to his own desk, slides his earbuds in, picks up a pipette, and gets to work analyzing the bacterial and algal concentrations for any abnormalities.

Thomas accomplishes about forty-five minutes’ worth of work before Roman interrupts him by flicking water at him and soaking the back of his neck. “Hey!”

“I tried your name, but your little ear bug things were keeping you from hearing me,” Roman says smugly. Thomas, not for the first time, considers retreating to the closet and throwing beakers until he feels better.

“Can I help you?”

“Dad wants to go hunting and bring back breakfast, but we can’t leave without you.”

“Are you not going hunting?”

“I’m going to stay here and observe you,” Roman says.

Thomas blinks. “Do I . . . need observing?”

“How do I know you won’t sell us out to your little human friends the second you get a chance? If I’m here, I can stop you. Plus, what if you do something to Logan while we’re not here to protect him? No, no, I’m staying right where I am and you can’t make me leave.” His spines ripple; Thomas steps closer to a whiteboard in case he needs to duck.

“I’m not going to do that, and I don’t want you to stab me.”

“Still! I’m staying here! Also, Dad’s bigger than me, and he’s a better hunter cause he’s faster and he’s been hunting longer.

“Does he need something to help him carry all those fish?” Thomas asks. Roman opens his mouth like he’s going to say something snarky, pauses, and stops.

“I . . . usually we just eat what we catch when we catch it. We make a pile of prey and take turns guarding it while the other two hunt. Then we make a sacrifice to the Seven Mother Goddesses and eat what’s left.”

After some debate, Thomas is able to fashion a sling of sorts from some waterproof tarps and leftover anchor rope to tie around Patton’s body. “You can put the fish in this pouch and carry them back here. Will you be able to navigate your way back to the grotto?��

“He will,” Roman says. “Dad knows more about the ocean than any human possibly could.” Another discordant song from the tank, chastising, and Roman huffs. “Dad wants me to reassure you that he’ll be fine.”

Patton settles into the mobile tank easily, and Thomas gets him down to the grotto leading towards the sea. “When you come back, let out one of your pod calls and Virgil or I will come and collect you and your catch. Take as much time as you need, okay?”

Patton reaches up and gently pats Thomas’s arm with one large, damp hand, and Thomas takes that to mean an agreement. “Alright, off you go.” There’s a whoosh and a rush of water as it flows from the tank into the grotto in a clean arc, carrying Patton with it. Thomas waits for a moment, letting Patton disappear into the open ocean, before returning to the laboratory.

Roman, for the most part, ignores Thomas. He asks the occasional question, which Thomas tries to answer in a way that he’ll understand, and leans over the edge of his touch tank, eyes guarded. Every time Thomas sneaks a glance, when he thinks Roman isn’t looking, his expression is wide-eyed and wondrous, like Logan’s usually are, but the moment he realizes Thomas is watching him his entire face closes up like a clamshell.

Thomas wonders what it’ll take to get Roman to trust him, trust Virgil, trust any human. Granted, he doesn’t know Roman’s history with humans, but he and Patton are both fairly scarred, and Thomas might not know the whole story but he’d bet a not-insignificant amount of his monthly income that the giant starburst scar taking up the majority of Patton’s chest isn’t the result of a clash with a marine creature.

He works quietly, fielding the occasional question, keeping one ear on the grotto tunnel for Patton’s return. He’s not sure how long he expected Patton to be gone, but he hears movement in the grotto tunnel far sooner than he’d expected.

“Thomas, what’s -”

“Shhhh,” Thomas says. He stands up, pushing away from his desk, but before he can say anything else, there’s a flood of movement coming from the tunnel. Bodies pour into the lab, swift and strong and carrying weapons that they immediately train on Thomas and Roman.

“What is this?” Roman snaps, bristling. He sounds betrayed, like he thinks Thomas is behind this. Thomas picks up a heavy glass beaker, fully prepared to shatter it upside someone’s skull if necessary, but something heavy and hard strikes the back of his skull and he feels his knees crumple. Roman cries out, and Thomas struggles to push himself up. A hand fists itself in his hair and yanks him upright, sharply. Thomas exhales sharply through his teeth, but before he can start struggling, something cool and round rests against the back of his neck, shutting him up and shutting his brain down.

Roman is puffed up like a hedgehog, apparently fully prepared to defend Thomas despite his strong and inherent mistrust. Before he can begin to attack, Thomas hears the click-click-click of shoes on the hard stone floor. Whoever’s holding his head yanks him back again, and he is forced to watch as a woman walks into his laboratory.

(It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke - a sick, horrible, twisted joke.)

She has black heels, black tights, a black pencil skirt, a black blazer, and a blood-red blouse. Her hair is scraped back into a tight bun, pulled so taut it must hurt, and is held in place with a pitch black stick. She carries a - clipboard? tablet? Unclear - held against her chest, and there’s a sleek silver weapon in her right hand.

“The one from the video?” she asks.

“Affirmative, ma’am,” says the person holding Thomas’s head. The woman nods, lifting her weapon, and fires at Roman. Thomas tries to scream a warning, earning himself another painful yank from his captor, but the projectile lodges itself in Roman’s shoulder anyway.

It isn’t a bullet, but something that looks like a small syringe. Roman swats it out of his shoulder, swaying a little, but it doesn’t stop him from swiping at the - mercenary, they must be - who tries to grab him with his elbow spines. The woman frowns, lifts the weapon - some kind of tranquilizer gun? - and fires again.

Roman screams, inhuman and animal, and tears the newest dart from his arm, throwing himself out of his tank and clinging to the nearest mercenary. His teeth tear into the man’s shoulder, spines piercing through his camouflage clothing and flooding him with neurotoxin. The man collapses against the concrete, alive but unconscious, and Roman snarls at the next man as though daring him to approach. He sways, weakened but awake, and bares his teeth.

“Of course,” the woman says, tapping something on her tablet. “His naturally produced neurotoxin must be providing him with some level of natural resistance. Unexpected, but not a limitation.”

It takes three more tranquilizer darts before Roman finally slumps down into his tank, unconscious. The mercenaries look hesitant to approach him, but the woman reaches for her tablet and they scramble to action at once.

“No - no, stop, let him go, he’s not an animal for you to cart off to your lab -” Thomas starts. The man holding him knees him sharply in the back and he cries out, coughing.

They wrap Roman in thick leather bands, roughly shoving his spines flat and binding them against his skin so that he can’t attack them again. The woman nods, once, short and sharp, and they drag Roman away, letting his head bang mercilessly on the ground. Thomas catches a glimpse of a logo - emblazoned on the back of the jackets, on the back of the woman’s tablet, on the side of her tranquilizer gun - and commits it to memory. He’s going to need it, if he gets out of here alive.

“- your phone,” the woman says, and oh, when did she get in front of him.

“My what?”

His mouth runs dry as she places the tranquilizer gun under his chin, barrel pressing against his throat, and tips his chin up. “I said, give me your phone.”

Thomas blinks. “My - the desk. It’s on the desk.”

She sets her tablet down, picks up his phone, and shoves it in his face. “Open it.”

“I - wh -”

“Unlock your phone, Dr. Sanders. Must I repeat myself a third time?” She rolls her eyes. “Doctorates are wasted on people like you.”

Thomas numbly punches in his passcode, and she swipes through to his messages app, frowning before turning the screen towards his face to reveal a message thread with Virgil. “Is this your assistant?”

Thomas glares at her, he’s not going to give her what she wants, he’s not going to just give her Virgil but then the - gun, it must be a gun, what else would they be holding against his neck like this - pushes into him harder, and it’s probably bruising, and he can’t get himself killed here because then he definitely won’t be able to take care of Virgil and -

“Yes,” Thomas says, hating himself for giving in so easily. “What do you -”

She turns away from him, nails clicking against his phone screen as she sends a text message - to Virgil, presumably, and that makes his heart sink like a stone - before dropping it on the floor and stepping on it to shatter it. “I have a message for you.”

“A - what?”

“Did they really hit you that hard, or were you this stupid before we came here?” she says coldly, picking up the tablet again and tapping at the screen. Thomas groans as the man yanks him to his feet, shoving him onto his chair and pulling a roll of duct tape out of one of his multiple pants pockets. He tapes Thomas’s wrists and ankles to the chair, keeping his weapon trained on Thomas’s temple at all times, before pressing it roughly against his head and gripping his hair again.

The woman sets the tablet on his lab table, and the screen flickers to life, and then there’s a woman in front of a dark black backdrop, smiling at him like a cat who’s caught a canary. “Thomas Sanders. How long I’ve waited for this day.”

Thomas recognizes her. He knows he recognizes her. She used to be his classmate, before . . .

His head hurts, so badly that he can barely keep his eyes open, and the memory slips away. “You . . . why are you doing this?”

“Why? Because I am a real scientist, unlike you. You refuse to do what is necessary, what must be done for the progression of the species. The sacrifice of some worthless animals is necessary for humanity to reach its zenith. You would really hinder the entire human race for the preservation of lower life forms?”

“Wh - I -”

“You think that ‘preserving the ecosystem’ and ‘keeping animals alive’ makes you a good scientist, but it makes you weak. You are weak, Thomas Sanders, and if the world was left in the hands of people like you, the human race as we know it would die out in a few centuries. Fortunately, there are people like me, who understand what must be done.”

“Caring about other people and things - it doesn’t - it doesn’t make you weak,” Thomas says, chest heaving, and the woman just laughs.

“One of many logical fallacies to which you subscribe, Thomas. They really gave you a doctorate? Of course caring makes you weak. All emotions make you weak. They corrupt your data and make your experiments worthless. You must be ruthless. You must be willing to do whatever it takes to pursue your goals and achieve the height of success. But no.” She rolls her eyes, face hardening, twirling a pen in her fingers. “You insist on ethics and principles and letting emotions cloud your judgement, and that makes you a failure as a scientist. It makes you weak. Your attachments will be your downfall.”

Thomas’s eyes slide shut, head pounding, and the man behind him yanks at his hair so sharply that he knows some has been ripped out. He forces his eyes open in time to see a smile slide across the woman’s face like a knife, teeth gleaming white as sun-bleached bone.

“You won’t - get away with this,” Thomas manages. He grinds his teeth together and curls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep himself awake. “If you leave me alive -” Thomas, stop talking, why are you reminding her that she has the option to fucking kill you “- I will not rest until I find you. I’ll - you can’t -”

“You’ll what, Thomas? If you call the police, you’ll expose those creatures you’re so intent on protecting to the world. Are you really willing to take that chance?” Before Thomas can even begin formulating a response, she steamrolls him. “It doesn’t matter. Even if you were, I’m going to take some . . . insurance, shall we say.”

“Why not just kill me?” Thomas spits. Excellent idea, Doc, poke the murderous lady with a stick like a god damn hornet’s nest, the tiny Virgil in his brain hisses. Her smile, somehow, only widens, and that’s . . . that can’t be good, can it? Smiles are supposed to be good! They’re supposed to make you happy, but all Thomas feels is creeping dread and pain, so much pain, and -

Yeah. He’s . . . pretty sure he has a concussion.

“Because if I kill you, you get to take the easy way out. Your suffering will end. But unlike you, I don’t put limits on my science. I know how to cause you the maximum amount of pain.”

Thomas eyes the toxin gun, but the on-screen woman just laughs. “Not yet, Thomas. We need something from you, first.”

“You already took Roman,” Thomas says. “What more can you possibly take from me?”

“You named it? You’re even weaker than I thought.”

“He told me his name, he’s not an it, he’s not a thing for you to play with and - and I -”

There’s a strange sinking feeling in Thomas’s chest as the woman onscreen laughs. “I knew you were emotional, Thomas, but I can’t believe this! It looks like I’ll have more hanging over your head than you thought.”

“You -”

“Say, Tommy-boy, have you heard from your precious little assistant recently?”

Thomas’s entire body flushes ice-cold and then white-hot, immediately struggling against his duct tape bindings despite the man tearing at his hair and shoving the gun into his neck and snapping at him to shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up before I do something we’re both gonna regret -

“Don’t you touch him!” Thomas snaps. “If you hurt him, I swear to God -”

“You’re not in a position to be making demands, and if you don’t calm down, I’ll paint your boring little lab bright red.” Thomas freezes, holding his entire body tensed like electricity is running through his blood.

There are footsteps on the stairs. “Doc? I got your text, what’s -”

“Virgil, run!” Thomas chokes. Virgil comes around the corner, holding his phone, staring at the screen in confusion. He looks up, eyes widening in horror as he takes in the scene.

“You know what to do,” the woman onscreen says. The other woman lifts her tranquilizer gun, and Thomas is sure that he’s screaming, his mouth is open and sound is coming out but his blood is rushing through his ears and his heart is pounding like waves against a boat in rough sea and he can’t - he can’t -

Virgil turns to run, but the tranquilizer dart hits in him the back of the neck and he collapses like a sack of bricks. The woman lowers her gun and jerks her head at the two remaining conscious, unoccupied mercenaries, who step forward and grab Virgil.

“Let him go!” Thomas screams, and his throat feels raw and his chest feels raw and his wrists are rubbed raw and his soul feels hollow and raw, like he’s been scraped out with a jagged piece of metal and only an empty shell remains. Virgil’s head lolls against his chest as they drag him down the grotto tunnel, and Thomas struggles and screams and stares after them until Virgil is out of sight.

His face is damp, and his eyes are burning, and he isn’t sure if it’s blood from his head wound or tears or some strange, morbid mixture of both.

“The greatest torture of which I can conceive,” the woman onscreen says, and it takes him a moment to realize that oh, she’s talking to me, “is to leave you alive, knowing that your precious little protégé is with me, and that there is nothing you can do about it.” She leans forward, and any trace of a smile is gone. “If you try to come after me, I will kill him. If you call the authorities, I will kill him. I already found you, Thomas. Don’t think I’m not watching. If I catch so much as a whiff of you planning something, his blood will be on your hands. Do you understand me?”

Thomas, numb and shocked, can’t even respond. “Knock him out and bring the specimens back to me,” the woman onscreen says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t even feel the tranquilizer dart hit his neck, but he welcomes the sweeping darkness.

(Summary: Evil Scientist Lady has been spying on Thomas and she finds the entrance to the grotto where our mer friends have been hiding. She sends her assistant and several armed thugs to invade the lab, they drug Roman with tranquilizers and kidnap him. Thomas gets knocked around a lot and is mocked for being an ethical scientist and caring about people by Evil Scientist Lady and she gloats at him through Evil Facetime before kidnapping Virgil in the same way they did Roman, knocking Thomas unconscious, and leaving him tied to his lab chair. During this whole scene, Patton is out in the open ocean hunting and Logan is safely hidden in Virgil's room.)

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home

Chapter One: Almost Heaven

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

"When this is over, I'm going to be waiting for you. You'd better show up."

Those confident words felt hollow, moot. A disguised plea to the universe that she could accomplish the impossible. A prayer to return to the arms that were home.

That was before the searing burns, the blood, and the pain that struck with each beat of her heart. Oh god, the blood was everywhere. Each blink was a calculated risk as the blood threatened to cloud her vision; it meant having to stop find a clean - clean enough- patch of skin to push the liquid from her eyes. Each moment of pause tempted her body with respite, a siren's call for her failing body to expire.

Shepard had to keep moving.

To keep fighting.

They were waiting for her.

He was waiting for her.

"You'd better show up, Alenko. I'm dying here, don't make me die here." They would have been words if she could manage the strength to speak them. Instead, it became a silent anthem. A memento of strength, hope, anything to make her scraped, bruised, and battered body move against the tide of her fading consciousness.

It kicked back.

Eeeee, high-pitched electric screaming flooded her headspace,  eeeee, her head swam and pulsed. The jerking motions of her head frivolously searching for the illusory flashbang was only damaging to her weakened state and sending her swirling vision into a nauseating torrent of colors and light.

Mary knew she was a corpse walking. There was no way she could keep moving, yet she did. Tripping, stumbling, and blundering her way through the unrecognizable streets and buildings of what she assumed was London. The warmth of the smashed bits of Crucible fueling her away from what was a ticking time bomb.

But she wasn't moving fast enough, and she was too weak, too fragile to continue. A clumsy boot caught the upturned slab of road, and down she went. Crying out as her knees absorbed the blow, her elbows proving to be poor breaks as her form collapsed against the warm concrete. This wasn't right. She wasn't meant to die pathetically watching the blood pool and congeal around from her mouth like a drooling child. She wasn't supposed to be alone. Left without her squad, her friends, Kaidan...her home. She, if anywhere, was meant to die atop the burning Crucible... Dying like a hero, not out like a person forgotten...left behind.

What she would give not to be alone, to have someone's hand to grasp as she slipped away into the beyond.

Where the fuck was Alenko?

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The glow of the blue light was comforting, illuminating but not to the point of brightness. She had succeeded in swallowing the first wave of panic that hit her nervous system, using the time to instead survey the room. It was empty, but there were visible signs of another living in the room- a cot lazily angled at the corner nearest her, the space sectioned off by a small table. Enough room to work with, but intended to give her a little bit of distance without cornering her.

Her armour rested in the opposite corner of the room, cleaned to whatever degree it was worthwhile. The set was junk- most of it bubbled and charred in whatever miracle brought her back to Earth. It was good enough to last another fight or two if it had to. Nothing remained of the color or scores from battles that had marred the pieces into something she recognized. Now, the weapon left on the table was blessedly pristine. Well, besides the old wear and tear left from months of battle. But her faithful Paladin had yet to let her down. The dog tags left at the bedside spiked shame, an emotion Mary was not ready to process.

Her head was tender, but that was the only physical complaint on her list. Outstretching her arm to inspect that area for more injuries and to test her field of vision. It seemed in order, even clearer than she was expecting. To test her theory, her hands explored the planes of her exposed scalp. Not even the most delicate fuzz had resurfaced. Mary bit back a scream willing her apathy to wash over her in a numbing blanket. It was only hair- it would grow back.

"I do apologize for shaving you," The voice interrupted her from the soliloquies that must have lasted much longer than the Commander had realized, "it was terribly singed."

"I had meant to change it for years anyway," the Commander dismissed.

The older woman ignored her remark, taking a seat near her feet, "you're THE Commander Shepard, aren't you?"

"That is a safe assumption," pulling herself to sit upright with her words.

"It's hard to tell without your red hair and that eye can-." the woman stopped, her demeanor turning from happiness to grief quickly, "honestly, it was the dog tags."

Years of well-intended crap through the military had spurred the change in hair color. Rather than being the dumb blonde, she could be the feisty redhead, which she had liked much better. People took her more seriously with red hair, and once she had reached Spectre status, the look had become her signature. None of her crew, even Kaidan, knew the original color of her hair. It was never a huge secret, just something that was now a part of her. Saving the world didn't allow all those little things to come to light. Or time to consider a change in appearance. Even Cereberus had found reason to keep up the ruse.

"I have to ask a favor," the woman's voice wavered, "I used most of my medigel. You're a hero-"

"When you put it like that, how could I say no?" Shepard gently teased.

Saddened beyond belief when the soft clearing of Kaidan's throat did not accompany her uncouth answer. But Mary had caught the slip of a tear from the woman; her eyes took in a deeper study of the room. A teddy bear lying in the middle of the room seemed less and less out of place. The woman's motivations became obvious.

"Well, let me start from the beginning." Or course she would. "After the Reapers attacked Earth, things have not been easy. I was the supply manager for a local hospital, so I knew where all of the medical equipment was. It kept me safe, but at a cost. When I found you, I was meant to deliver medigel to a gang of-" The woman searched for a suitable word.

"Raiders? Thugs? Ruffians?" It wasn't hard to guess.

"Yes, but I saw you. And, and I had to help you. Especially when I saw your tags, you," her voice stuttered into a soft coo, "saved everyone. I couldn't let you..."

"I don't see why you need my help," she stated, peppered with a cross tone the anger an unfamiliar bitter taste in her mouth; it didn't belong here.

"They took my son because I couldn't deliver, and now...now," the woman finished with a flurry of tears.

"How long ago?"

"Two days," the woman sobbed.

"Fuck," Shepard hissed, ambling from her cot, "we have to leave now."

Eyeing her armour then the woman and another pistol shoved haphazardly under the covers of the larger cot. Civilians did not belong in a firefight, but against forces she was unsure of, she had to take any help. Testing the fabric bunched around her arm with a sigh, she looked at the woman.

"Get in my armour, and grab that gun."

The woman balked, looking up to her in the empty and hopeless way. Without another word, Shepard placed the bear within the Mother's arms.

"I'll get you both out."

The march to the Raider hideout was a short one. Easy. Shepard was glad to find that her breathing and movements were unhindered without any unusual stings of pain. The woman following her had also proved adept at following instructions; luckily for them both, the months of lean allowed her to fit into her armour comfortably. A few inquiries later, she found the woman to be the same age as her, and the child was barely eight years old. She lost her husband in the chaos of the Reaper attacks, for all that mattered to the mission presented, but it stopped the woman from dramatics. Shaky emotions did not lead to straight shots.

But even talk of the lady's child soon fell to the side as the hideout loomed closer. Shepard could not shake the feeling of dread that hounded her. This was risky, and her health questions pushed at her, doubts consuming her usually clear battle state. But retreating was not an option, and it was not in her nature to abandon the person who had saved her, even if it was a suicide mission.

Four lookouts taken down silently later had not managed to ease her nerves. The options were down to one of two doors; testing either for locks was pointless; they would be caught at that point. So it would have to be hard and fast. Unfortunately, that was difficult when she was utterly blind to the layout of the room. Where was her son in the room? How many? What kind of fortifications? All crucial questions without answers. With no reliable source to watch her back.

"Look, we have to storm the door. Stay behind me at all times; I can use barriers to shield myself," but now came an essential part; Shepard made sure to look her square in the eyes, "I'm already going in blind; I cannot watch you. So stay on my six. No. Matter. What."

The woman nodded. Mary pat her shoulder, putting on the brightest smile she could manage, "you have my armour, a trusty sidearm- you can do this. Just stay calm."

She slipped the dog tags around the woman's neck.

Shepard moved toward the closest door, carefully placing each step so that a stray piece of rubble or siding would not alert the enemy to their presence. Sidestep, sidestep, sidestep, and the familiar tingling of the energy field pooling around her. The droplet of red absorbing into the fabric covering her chest went unnoticed. Three fingers in the air for five seconds, each finger went down with the space of one second between them.

Luckily, the door was unlocked.

One bullet took down the man watching the door. As that man fell, Shepard blasted into the building, taking a quick tactical appraisal of the building. It was almost pathetic; they were stationed in one large and open room. The child was in the far corner of the chamber, silent and looking glassy-eyed. The other men clustered around the table at the opposite end of the room; well were huddled, they all scattered for their weapon. Shepard's next move would make it difficult for the woman beside her to keep up, but she had no choice in the matter. She had to strike while they were still grouped.

Tendrils of energy snaked at lightning speed through her body, pulling the combined biotic energy into the mass of her chest. Their table was close enough not to merit a full charge at the men who were now her targets. Running would get her there quickly enough. Additionally, her barriers were still full. If she could manage to decimate the men all at once, this would be over without the loss of more thermal clips. She wouldn't need to worry about keeping up a barrier either. It was simple.

Release coiled from her core outwards. It was sweet as any orgasm. Tingling and electrifying in one move, though the heat was quite different. It burned through the Raiders, engulfing each before they could manage to scream. The table was gone, submerged in the same Nova of energy. Shepard slipped to the floor, sated, drained, and head pounding as blood dribbled from her nose.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

"Who's that, mum?"

"Don't be rude," she admonished with another kiss to his forehead, "it's Commander Shepard."

"She's staring at me."

The Commander was the rude figure in the room, and her eyes stopped on the child. Her body seized in fear. The blue eyes and sandy brown hair the visage that had haunted her sleep. Mary's vision turned red, the beacon's first assaulting visions filling her mental space. Her foot retreated, backing herself into the wall, her head suddenly slurring back into a splash of colors.

The silent room then crashed into oblivion. Neither of the entrances barricaded, and the front door remained unlocked. Shepard had enough time to roll out from being on her side -had she laid down?- before the ten more men filed into the room. Each carrying an assault rifle that was primed and loaded. Groggily she moved to her feet, needing the wall as support.

"It's the bitch with the supplies!" shouted the first man to survey the room, "and some friend she dragged along."

He didn't seem to mind the smoldering piles left behind from the corpses of his men. But the next man, taller and burlier than the rest, frowned deeply. His steps were more confident, more decisive.

"'The fuck happened?" The question directed toward the woman who placed herself in front of her son. The struggling Shepard dressed in civilian clothes wasn't on his radar.

The female quaked, unable to speak.

The large man grew tired of her silence. The smoldering bullet hole through her skull glowed as her body fell limp, the body of her son fell in line behind it. Now, Shepard was on his radar.

The female scrapped at the wall, blue energy congealing beneath her fingertips as they dug into the wall. Tears forming in her sky blue eyes. No words, just horror. Mouth clamped shut to suppress any reaction, anything to give her away.

Clip, clip, clip. The man stood before her, studying the shrinking female before him with disdain.

"What do you boys think?" his hand tightened around her neck as he lifted the Commander with ease "think this bleeding freak was responsible?" The still-hot barrel seared into the side of her skull

He would never get an answer; the person he held aloft glowed the last blue he would ever behold. Carrying his folded body with her as she trucked for the gaggle of men that stood across the room. Barriers refilled, and the devastating Nova swallowed each of the bastards into the azure wave of energy. If only it could swallow her too, but it didn't...Fate left her kneeling on the floor, alone again.

But now, she could scream. Alone, she could cry without shame. Blue tendrils wavered from her body. Illuminating the darkening room around her. Each shout fanning the blue flames with renewed vigor. Scorching the remaining biological and flammable material left in the room the scent of burning flesh drowning the room.

Where was the Normandy? Why was she still here? Shepard didn't belong here; Shepard was nothing without her crew. Nothing, pointless, useless. She couldn't even protect these civilians against these simple thugs. That wasn't who Shepard was; she didn't lose. Shepard didn't feel weak or have her ears explode on even the slightest provocation of her biotic powers. She sure as hell did not shudder as the thumping of gunfire surrounded her location.

What was the point of fighting? What could she defend? She couldn't save two civilians, couldn't save an entire galaxy. Shepard had failed. Was a failure.

In yet another cloud of judgment, the door whirred open. Engulfing the entire room in bright daylight blinding Mary from counting the targets coming through the door. It was a rookie mistake, and on top of expending all her energy on a naive temper tantrum, left her with limited options to defend herself.

But why should she?

She was exhausted.

Spent.

Empty.

Alone.

With gumption foreign or encouraged by lack of coherence from bloodloss, Shepard bull-rushed headfirst at the door and the person blocking her exit. The first shot fired over the leader's shoulder, the second absorbed by shielding, and the third went wide as the weapon flew from her grip. The Paladin clattered to a location somewhere behind her. The Commander fell to her knees quickly after it.

"If you had any balls, you'd shoot me now," it was a plea, not a challenge.

The second gentlest set of brown eyes caught her before she wrenched her attention away.

"Get up, Soldier," the graveled voice ordered gently.

Shepard struggled to her feet, completing the order. But the strain of following such a command came at a price. Staggering drunkenly, she collapsed into the hard encasing of his blue and white striped armour.

[hajimes-erect-ahoge]

Postmortem- Chapter 19

The boys and girls go for a fun trip!

ao3

Ouma tossed and turned restlessly in bed, finding himself unable to fall back asleep after his body decided to rudely awaken him for no good reason at all. Insomnia had always been rather common for him during the killing game, and waking up from the simulation did nothing to alleviate this problem. At the very least, not being able to sleep meant that he would be able to avoid whatever nightmares his mind had maliciously decided to subject him to. But after having experienced night after night of fitful slumbers, Ouma’s sleep deprived mind had betrayed him and craved nothing more than a few hours of peaceful shut-eye.

Taking note of how it was half past four in the morning, Ouma belatedly wondered if it was even worth it to try and get any more sleep. Soon enough, alarms would be ringing throughout the entire apartment complex, signaling the start of the day long before the sun had even risen.

The girls had apparently set up a whole entire camping trip for themselves, even going so far as to contact Team Danganronpa for transportation and such. Last night, Tojo had so graciously decided to inform the boys of said trip, asking if they wanted to tag along. Having nothing better to do and nowhere else to go, they accepted, not knowing that it would require them being ready to go this early. But despite the obvious inconvenience to their sleeping schedules, the boys did as they were told, preparing to wake up bright and early.

Not only was Ouma not a fan of waking up so early, but he was not necessarily too fond of the outdoors either. After the “insect meet and greet” during the simulation, he never wanted to see another bug ever again. But unfortunately for him, he didn’t have much say on this matter as it was already decided that everyone would be attending the getaway. Although Ouma could hypothetically refuse to go on said trip, he would be left alone in the apartment complex all by himself for who knows how long… It was a lose-lose situation, but at least by going on the trip he could spend more time with Saihara instead of being bored and lonely.

Ouma allowed himself to recollect the events of the past few weeks, the memories of his first official date with Saihara still fresh in his mind. After they had arrived at the apartment complex, soaking wet and shivering, they couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of what their first date had been. It may have been silly, and nonetheless chaotic, but Ouma wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Saihara felt the same way, enjoying the other boy’s company regardless of how hectic it may be at times. The whirlwind and mystery that was Kokichi Ouma was ever so intriguing to Saihara, luring him in with every word he spoke and every lie he told. He wanted to be the one to uncover that mystery, to understand the reasoning behind Ouma’s each and every action, regardless of how minor or major said action was. But above all, he wanted to protect the other boy from any sadness or harm that might come his way, even if it meant putting himself in danger.

Although they were as far away from danger as they could possibly be, that didn’t eliminate the trauma of being put through a killing game simulation where the excruciating pain of death and losing the ones you care for was as real as ever. Saihara was acutely aware of the fact that Ouma intended on hiding his suffering, smiling through the pain as if nothing was wrong. But he knew better than to believe Ouma’s lies by now, instead offering him a shoulder to cry on in any time of need.

Normally, Ouma wasn’t too fond of the idea of someone being able to see through all of his lies, but he could make an exception for Saihara. In fact, when it came to Saihara, he was actually glad that he could see through a majority of his lies. It led to a playful banter between the two, creating a never-ending game of cat-and-mouse in which both participants were eager to participate. While Saihara’s ability to see through his lies had led to some situations in which he was uncomfortably vulnerable and had to face his emotions, Ouma still found himself craving to be closer and closer to the other boy, slowly taking off his mask of fake smiles and presenting to him his true feelings. The thought of doing so may have been scary, but having Saihara by his side made him feel like he could do anything.

Although he would probably never voice these thoughts aloud, Saihara would be smart enough to eventually figure all of this out, had he not done so already. Not only was he incredibly observant, but his knack for figuring out the truth behind Ouma’s lies led to an unspoken understanding between them; Ouma felt comfortable displaying vulnerability in front of Saihara, and both of them knew this.

Mulling around these thoughts in his head, Ouma decided to rest his eyes for a few moments. It couldn’t hurt to sleep for a little while longer, he supposed…

~~~~~~~~~~

Just as he had settled into a peaceful slumber, the sound of an obnoxiously loud alarm blaring sounded throughout the bedroom. Being a light sleeper, Ouma woke up immediately, cursing the universe for its awful timing. He felt Saihara stir besides him, a surprising feat given how heavy of a sleeper he was. The movement then ceased, Saihara once more curling up under the covers as Ouma observed him, sitting upright.

“You two slept in the same bed again?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Ouma witnessed a groggy-looking Momota eyeing him suspiciously as he made his bed. 

“Duh! It’s easier to kill someone in their sleep, after all!” Ouma tried to sound as chipper as possible, but he couldn’t help the edge of tiredness that crept into his voice as he spoke. “Figures I would have to spell that out to somebody as stupid as you, Momota-chan!”

“Hey, I’m not stupid!” Momota protested, defending himself. “And I’m not an idiot, either! I know you were lying about trying to kill Shuichi just now... Something’s going on between you two and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it!” He asserted his statement confidently, pointing an accusing finger at Ouma.

“Nishishi, good luck with that!” Ouma taunted, sticking his tongue out at Momota.

“What are you two yelling about…?” Saihara spoke quietly, his voice laced with drowsiness as he now sat up in bed and looked at the other two boys. 

There was a slight frown prominent on Saihara’s face, making him look even more adorable than usual when coupled with the fact that his normally tame hair was sticking up in random directions. Realizing he was staring at Saihara just a bit too much, Ouma abruptly looked away. Momota looked away as well, feeling guilty for waking up Saihara in such a rude manner.

“S-Sorry, Shuichi… Didn’t mean to wake you up there…” Momota apologized sheepishly.

Saihara hummed softly, followed by a quick yawn. “It’s okay… I would’ve had to get up sooner or later anyway.” He offered a quick smile in reassurance.

“Well if my sidekick is okay with it then I’m okay with it!” Momota grinned, before glancing at the clock. “We should probably get going soon… Don’t wanna keep the others waiting for too long!”

Saihara nodded in agreement, “Yeah… We better get ready soon, then.”

“Dibs on the bathroom!” Momota declared, running off to go get ready first while Saihara and Ouma got ready to pack their belongings.

At least, that’s what Saihara intended to do before he felt a pair of thin arms wrap around him from behind.

“Ouma-kun…?” Saihara was almost completely out of bed until Ouma pulled him back in, causing him to land on the mattress with a soft thud.

Regaining his bearings, Saihara opened his mouth to chastise Ouma but froze when he saw the look on the other boy’s face.

Rather than wearing an expression of mischief, Ouma’s face was blank as he snuggled up next to Saihara, wasting no time in getting comfortable in bed once more.

“Stay with meeeee…” Ouma mumbled into Saihara’s shoulder, warm breath tickling pale skin.

Saihara absent-mindedly ran his fingers through Ouma’s tousled locks, sighing softly to himself.

“You know I’d much rather stay in bed with you, but we made a promise to the girls and I don’t want to keep them waiting-”

“Then let them wait.” Ouma said firmly, pouting.

Saihara chuckled, peering down at Ouma. “You know we can’t do that…” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I promise I’ll cuddle with you while we’re on the bus.”

Ouma immediately perked up, trying to hide his excitement as he looked up at Saihara with big puppy dog eyes. “Promise?”

“Of course.” Saihara slowly sat up, pulling Ouma up with him. “Now let’s go get ready, okay?”

“Fiiine…” Ouma pretended to pout, but Saihara could still see the warmth dusting his cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~

The bus was already ready and waiting for them outside of the apartment complex, the tired boys and girls slowly approaching from a distance. As they all walked together, the boys unmistakably noticed Chabashira glaring at them, presumably for ruining their original plan of having this be a trip for the girls only.

“Stupid degenerate males…” Chabashira mumbled under her breath, which went unheard by the boys.

Akamatsu approached her, a tentative smile gracing her lips. “Lighten up, Chabashira-san!” She encouraged, though Chabashira’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.

“Nyeh… There’s no use trying to cheer her up when she’s like this…” Yumeno emerged from Chabashira’s other side, weakly reasoning with Akamatsu.

“I-I see…” She frowned, as being unable to remedy the situation disheartened her. Nonetheless, she kept a bright spirit. “Well if there’s anything I can do to help don’t hesitate to ask, alright?” Akamatsu gave a firm smile, more confident in her efforts this time.

Much to her surprise, Chabashira nodded, flashing her a half-smile. “Mhm! Thank you, Akamatsu-san! I apologize for worrying you!”

“No worries!” Akamatsu grinned, feeling satisfied at last. 

After a few more moments of walking, they arrived at and boarded the large bus. The interior of the bus was furnished with fuzzy and comfortable looking cushions, as well as air conditioners lined along the ceiling. It wasn’t particularly hot where they were currently located, but as they drove south the weather would continue to grow warmer, warranting the use of the air conditioners. 

The bus was large enough so that everyone could occupy their own seat if they wanted to, though the students that were romantically involved with one another chose to sit with each other, Ouma and Saihara being no exception. The smaller of the two had practically draped himself over the other, succeeding in flustering him. 

“O-Ouma-kun, cut it out! People are starting to stare…” Saihara pointed out as he noticed Harukawa glaring at them from over Momota’s shoulder. Their eyes locked, and said glare was replaced by a softer expression, presumably one of sympathy for Saihara as he had his chaotic boyfriend to deal with.

“But you promised you would cuddle with me!” Ouma practically wailed, drawing even more attention to them.

“I will! Just… hush. Please. You’re causing a scene.” Saihara whispered, trying to de-escalate the situation.

Wordlessly, Ouma proceeded to give Saihara his personal space back, even if it was only a little bit.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next few hours passed by at a decent pace, most people opting to sleep to pass the time. Despite claiming that he would never fall asleep and miss out on snuggling with his beloved, Ouma dozed off soon enough, though Saihara didn’t mind. But as they began to approach their destination, Ouma awoke, half-heartedly chastising Saihara for letting him break his promise. 

Currently, the two were enjoying the peaceful silence that existed on the bus before the chaos of what this trip entailed would erupt. Saihara pulled out his phone, trying to check the weather in their location after wondering how hot it would be where they were. Unfortunately for him, the weather app wouldn’t load due to poor connection.

“Want me to try?” Ouma offered, taking out his phone as well. Without waiting for an answer, he went ahead and opened up the weather app on his own phone.

“Wait… What was that?” Saihara asked confusedly.

“Hmm? What was what?” Ouma responded, pausing his movements.

Saihara pressed the home button on Ouma’s phone, scrolling past the apps so that he could get a clear view of his lock screen.

“Your lock screen…” Saihara wondered aloud, “What is that?”

Noticing the puzzled expression on Saihara’s face, Ouma immediately burst out laughing.

“It’s a meme, Saihara-chan!” Ouma explained, though the perplexed look on Saihara’s face persisted.

“A meme?” Saihara repeated.

“Oh my god…” Ouma replied in awe, “Don’t tell me that you don’t know what a meme is!”

“I, uh… Sorry?” Saihara chuckled lightly, apologizing nonetheless.

After making a bold declaration to help Saihara become “more cultured”, Ouma spent the next few minutes showing him a variety of memes to broaden his understanding of the term. Although Saihara couldn’t say that he understood them, he had to admit that Ouma’s tenacity was admirable.

Looking out the windows of the vehicle, Saihara noticed that the area they were in was densely packed with trees and sparsely populated with other people. Suddenly the bus drove into a large lot, coming to a stop after parking. After being nudged by Amami, a tired Akamatsu stood up and announced to everyone that they had arrived at their destination. A collective groan from a majority of the bus signaled the group’s displeasure at having to wake up from their naps, but they otherwise cooperated. Gathering up their belongings, they one by one stepped off the bus and into the unwelcoming heat.

Uncomfortable with the unusually hot weather, Ouma began fanning himself rapidly with his free hand in a feeble attempt to fend off some of the heat. Though it did help to cool him down momentarily, the long term benefits were nonexistent, especially as he began to walk and carry his bag with him.

Observing his surroundings, Ouma noticed that the area seemed notably empty, almost as if they were in the middle of nowhere. It was a mystery how the girls even managed to find this place. As the bus began to drive away, the reality that they would be stuck here in the overwhelming heat practically indefinitely was beginning to settle in.

“Saihara-chaaan…” Ouma complained loudly, grabbing the attention of a few others around him as well. “It’s too hot… I can’t go on anymore…” While it was true that he was being dramatic, there was a hint of truth in his words as his pace began to slow down, leaving him trailing slightly behind Saihara and the others.

Saihara gave a fond smile, mildly amused by Ouma’s theatrics. “Here.” He pulled a water bottle out from the side of his bag and handed it to him. “Make sure you stay hydrated. Our campsite should be nearby, so you can rest soon.”

“You want me to drink water?” He gave a disgusted look, but accepted the drink regardless. “Who do you think I am?” After taking a quick sip, he handed it back to Saihara. “I would never drink something as plain and boring as water.”

“Right…” Playfully rolling his eyes, Saihara accepted the water bottle and placed it back in his bag. “Just try to keep going a little bit more, okay?” He gave Ouma a soft yet encouraging look, a gentle expression that was only reserved for him dressed on his face.

“Yup! I feel totally better now that Saihara-chan took care of me! What a doting boyfriend!” Ouma exclaimed, causing Saihara to flush bright red as well as attracting Momota’s attention.

“What are you yelling about, Ouma?” Momota questioned suspiciously before noticing Saihara’s flushed face, causing him to worry. “Woah, Shuichi, your face is really red! Do you need some water or something?”

Saihara stole a glance at Ouma, who was smiling innocently while he was being fussed over by Momota. He sighed.

“I’ll be fine…”

~~~~~~~~~~

A few moments later they arrived at their designated campsite, taking the time to set up their tents and set down their belongings. The tents were large enough to fit two or three people, allowing everyone to keep the same sleeping arrangements that they maintained back at their apartments. Naturally, Ouma slipped off to go explore rather than helping to set up the tents, given that physical effort, or effort in general, was not necessarily something he enjoyed.

He didn’t stray too far from the campsite, keeping it vaguely in his sight to ensure that he did not get lost. Aside from the obvious fact that there were many trees, bushes and rivers, Ouma unfortunately noticed that there were a lot of bugs. A quick shiver ran up his spine as he noticed a particularly large spider crawling dangerously close to him on the side of a tree, loosely triggering his fight or flight response as he jumped away. 

Ouma had never liked bugs, plain and simple. Especially not after the “insect meet and greet” during the simulation. Although it had been his idea in the first place, he never actually intended to get trapped in Gokuhara’s lab with a plethora of bugs, ultimately causing him to go unconscious. Shaking off the unpleasant memories and deciding that he had explored enough, Ouma turned to return to the campsite when he bumped into something tall and solid.

That’s weird… I would’ve remembered if there was a tree right behind me.

Rubbing his head and blinking wearily, Ouma hardly registered what was right in front of him.

“Gon- I’m so sorry!” Gokuhara’s voice sounded from in front of him, distinct and unmistakable. “Is Ouma-kun okay?!”

“Gonta…?” Ouma lifted his head to look at Gokuhara, but all he registered was a fuzzy image of said boy. “I’m fine… Geez, what were you even doing there anyway?” 

“I saw Ouma-kun looking at bug friend and wanted to join! Ouma-kun really does love bugs!” Gokuhara stated excitedly, eyes sparkling.

“Uh, sure… That’s one way to put it.” Ouma grimaced, trying but failing to fake a smile. “So I’m guessing you came out here to look for bugs?”

A flash of sadness flickered across Gokuhara’s face, brief yet still tangible. 

“Gonta was told his memories were fake…” He stared at the ground, expression faraway and unreadable. “But bugs make Gonta so happy! And-”

“Yeah, yeah, big guy. I didn’t ask for a sob story.” Ouma cut him off, dismissing his emotions. He knew where this conversation was going; One thing would lead to another and before they knew it they would be pouring out their emotions to one another, which was certainly not a conversation he wanted to have. Being semi-honest around Saihara was enough, but Gokuhara too? Ouma wasn’t sure he could handle that as well.

Not after what he did to him.

No, he didn’t deserve a happy ending with Gokuhara. Having Saihara accept him and forgive him was enough, he couldn’t burden another human being with his true intentions and emotions.

“Hello? Ouma-kun?” Gokuhara’s surprisingly gentle voice brought him back to reality, Ouma not even realizing that he spaced out.

“Well, that’s enough nature for me today! Guess I’d better head back now! See ya, Gonta!” Ouma tried excusing himself, but found himself being ignored as Gokuhara stared off into the distance with a determined expression on his face. “...Gonta?”

Much to Ouma’s surprise, Gokuhara took off into the woods, most likely running after a bug of some sort. He contemplated whether or not to leave him, but his worry got the better of him and he decided to chase after Gokuhara and bring him back to the campsite.

After running for much longer than he thought he would have to, Ouma finally found Gokuhara, who had the palms of his hands cupped together and was intently observing whatever he was holding. Just as Ouma was about to speak, a red dragonfly fluttered out of Gokuhara’s hands who, rather than giving chase, said his goodbyes to his new friend.

“Oh, Ouma-kun! You came!” Gokuhara cheered excitedly. “Did you see-”

“Yes, I saw your new bug friend.” Ouma stated after catching his breath. “Come on, let’s…”

Ouma cut himself off this time, staring into the expanse of the area around them. He must’ve ran farther than he thought, having found himself on the edge of the woods. Looking past the last few trees and bushes, he saw...

“Ouma-kun? Is everything okay?” Gokuhara tried to grab his attention, to no avail.

Snapping out of his daze, Ouma turned his attention back to Gokuhara, who was anxiously hovering over him. Rather than responding, he simply smiled to himself.

This trip was about to get a whole lot better.

[ancientwastedlores]

The Support System

SUMMARY: The Avengers have managed to collect all the infinity stones across the universe, and are currently keeping them in far corners of the world, only for research and to see if they can improve the planet and its people. Reader is a researcher with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, as well as a field agent. Loki is currently serving time for his actions in New York City in 2012.

A/N: You can find the same fic on A03, if you prefer that. Let me know if you like this and I’ll keep posting more :) 

Chapter: 1/?

Warnings: N/A

Audience: general. 

_______________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 1: 

‘So we’re close!?’

‘Absolutely, we just have to crack it and baby’s gonna sing’ Tony smiles. ‘I’m good for a drink right about now’.

‘Me too’ you take off your safety goggles and place them on the your immaculately organized workspace. ‘Bruce?’

‘Yeah, I’ll join you’ he waves one hand in the air as he stares at the Reality Gem.

You and Tony leave the lab and head to the bar. ‘Beer?’ you ask, handing him a bottle. He takes it, you get yourself a can, and sit down on the couch.

‘How’s it going with Nat?’ he asks.

‘Great, we expect to be ready in a month to carry out the extraction’.

‘I can’t wait’ Tony’s eyes gleam like an excited child’s. ‘We’ve been tracking these guys for a year now, the tech they’ve managed to get their hands on is insane’.

‘Okay, I get why you want it…’

‘Research purposes, of course!’

‘Of course…’ you grin, knowing that research is never ALL Stark wants shiny new toys for, ‘but I do want to remind you that you did promise me and Natasha a whole day of playing with them before you break them apart’.

‘In a contained, safe environment’

‘Yes. I’m just reminding you because you do get excited’.

Tony chuckles and takes a swig from beer. ‘Next month can’t get here soon enough. But you sure you’re ready?’

‘Oh absolutely. You’ve been tracking them for a year, and we’ve been training for a year. Ask me anything’.

‘How do you hold the Chitauri M7 Blaster?’

You stand up, set your beer down on the table and position your right leg before your left, then stretch out your right arm while tucking your left wrist under your right elbow and having your fingers wiggle from underneath. It looks ridiculous without the weapon, so Tony laughs. You laugh too and sit back down.

It’s been a year and three months since you were recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. You were originally a member of Maria Hill’s team, but three months later, after Tony Stark found some papers you wrote in secret about the sentience of all the Infinity Stones, as well as your records of correspondence with Doctor Strange, he decided your talents were better put to use in his lab with himself and Bruce Banner. Not wanting to abandon your role as a field agent, Tony offered you an apprenticeship with Natasha Romanova, which you gladly accepted.

Tony teased you for being taller than most of the agents and Avengers initially, until Thor showed up and stole your thunder, pun intended. You have broad shoulders, stand at 5’ 12”, and have jet black hair till your shoulders, which you mostly keep open, because you like how it frames your face. You love that people find you intimidating and hardly talk to you, when the truth is you’re the total opposite, a fact only known by Tony and a few Avengers.

‘Who else are you planning to send for the extraction?’ you ask.

‘You and Nat, of course. Then Clint. Thor might be able to help with the handling of the alien tech, so him. Couple of other S.H.I.E.L.D agents led by Hill’.

You smile at the thought of getting to meet Maria Hill again. She was your first mentor, and taught you nearly everything you know about fighting.

‘What about Loki?’ you ask.

‘I thought of it and decided against it. This is a sensitive operation, and surrounded by all those weapons, if he gets any ideas, you’ll all be at risk’.

‘I’m sure he won’t, he’s been doing well. But it’s your call’ you finish your beer. ‘Back to work?’

xx

After spending another six hours at the lab with Tony and Bruce, you three finally call it a day and head back to your rooms. After getting to yours, you take a long shower, strings of theories on how you could crack the reality stone running through your head. You decide to get another drink, a cocktail perhaps, before curling up with some research papers Doctor Strange sent over.

You walk over to the bar in the residence wing of the tower, sure that it would be empty at this time on a weekday. Just before you reach the entrance, though, you hear two people fight.

‘…it was irresponsible and childish, and you could have gotten them killed!’ Thor’s voice booms. You decide to listen. ‘If I hadn’t taken it from her hand, she would have died anyway!’ Loki responded. ‘You let ME handle it then’. ‘Right, because I can never do anything right, can I, brother?’

Silence. ‘Just let me handle it next time. You do not involve yourself unless expressly asked’. Thor storms out from the other side of the bar, leaving Loki alone. Your own experiences with being grossly misunderstood makes you feel for Loki. You walk into the bar.  

Loki doesn’t notice until you get close. ‘What do you want’ he asks, tired.

You go closer and envelope him in a tight hug. Shocked, Loki freezes. ‘What are you doing’ he whispers, fake annoyance in his tone.

‘Nothing’ you pull back. ‘I came to make myself a drink, do you want one?’ ‘No’ he said defiantly. You shrug and go behind the bar to get some cranberry juice. ‘Yes’ he says, in a softer tone. You smile.

You proceed to make yourselves a vodka cranberry. You would normally make it in a regular glass, but because you think Loki needs cheering up, you pour it in a Martini cocktail glass with an unnecessary amount of umbrellas to make him laugh. You manage to get a small smile as you slide his drink across the bar.

‘Thank you’ he says.

You take a sip of your own drink. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

His silence is answer enough, and you know not to push. ‘No worries’ you say. ‘How’s the drink? Want another?’

He nods. You make him another one while sipping from your glass.

‘I’ve been in the tower a while’ he says finally. ‘Yes, I know’. ‘I’m still looked at with nothing but suspicion’. You sigh. ‘I know. They’re only afraid’. ‘I’ve been painfully patient. I just don’t have anybody on my side to vouch for me’. ‘Oh’ is that it you think. He just needs a P.R. agent. You chuckle at the thought. ‘Is that funny?’ he asks. ‘No, I just thought of a thing. But I can do it’. ‘Do what?’ ‘Vouch for you. Be your uh… image manager. Whatever’.

Loki narrows his eyes at you. Even though he’s known you for about a year, this is the first time you’ve actually spoken to him. He can’t understand why you would help him.

‘Alright’ he says. He finishes the second drink as well. You ask if he wants another, and he just holds his glass out to you. ‘Something stronger this time?’

xx

About six drinks later, Loki has a good buzz going, and you are not even close to tipsy. You roll your eyes at him, cursing your high capacity for alcohol, but deciding you’ve had enough of it, you tell Loki you’re off to bed and you’ll see him in the morning.

‘Let me walk you to your room’ he offers. You accept.

xx

You absolutely love your room; an entire section of the room is just glass, overlooking the city of New York. It gets hot during the days, but it looks magical at night. Once you’ve reached your room, you stretch, take off all your clothes, and get under your blankets. It’s quite late, so you decide to keep the research papers Strange sent over for the morning.

xx

A few hours later, just as you feel like you might fall asleep, you hear a knock on the door. You groan and reach for your phone to check the time. 3:35 AM.

‘Who is it?’ you call out. ‘Loki’

You know for a fact he has never felt comfortable enough to go to anyone’s room at 3:30 in the morning in the Tower.

‘One sec’ you call out, hopping out of bed to retrieve your shirt and a pair of shorts. You dive back under the covers and yell ‘Come in!’.

Loki looks like he has sobered up, and smells like he just took a shower. He shuts the door softly and makes his way to your bed.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask.

He sits on the corner of your bed, next to your feet, so far that he looks supremely uncomfortable.

‘You can sit normally, you know. I won’t get offended’.

He obliges by placing himself further towards the centre of the bed, while still maintaining his corner. ‘Thank you’.

‘What’s wrong?’ ‘I couldn’t sleep, I just wanted to talk. I hope I didn’t wake you’. ‘You didn’t’ you say, ‘What did you want to talk about?’ ‘I-‘ he hesitates, ‘Well. I- I wasn’t in control in New York’. ‘Uhuh…’ ‘I was made to do it. I know that’s a lame excuse but it’s true. Thanos found me when I got lost and he… tortured me. But I can’t tell anybody that because they wouldn’t listen’. ‘Who’s Thanos?’ you ask.

Loki proceeds to tell you about the Mad Titan who killed his own people, his thirst for power over the entire universe, his obsession with the Goddess of Death, and his children. You listen in stunned silence. Thanos’ children inflicted unmentionable torture on Loki when he fell from the Bifrost.

As Loki recounts these events, tears start to fall, and he is visibly shaking. You scoot closer to him and hold his hands. ‘It’s alright’.

He stops to sniff, and catch his breath. ‘Do you want to go on?’ you ask.

‘Yes please’.

You don’t let go of his hands for the remainder of his story.

Once it looks like he has finished, you hand him a few tissues from your nightstand. He wipes his face clean and hands them back to you. You turn to throw them.

‘Why are you listening to me?’ he asks. ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t’ you say simply.  ‘It’s only the decent thing to do’. ‘No one else seems to think so’ he says bitterly. ‘Like I said, they’re scared’ you say. ‘Why aren’t you, then?’

You shrug. He looks at you. Your room is dark, but some light from the city spills into the room, so he gets a good look at your features. They only look at him with kindness. No fear. ‘Seriously. Why aren’t you afraid of me? What happened to you?’  

You quickly look away. ‘Nothing like that. I just don’t scare easy’.

He says nothing. A few minutes pass in silence. You stifle a yawn. The watch says 4:45 AM. You’ve got a long day at the lab, and then with Natasha, and then at the lab again. You need to catch at least a little sleep.

‘Listen…’ you look back at him. ‘Do you want to sleep here, next to me?’

He widens his eyes in surprise. ‘You’d do that for me?’

‘Yeah’ you say, not really seeing the big deal. You move to the right side of the bed and pat the left as if to indicate that he may lay down there. He moves up to the pillow and lays his head on it, then settles the rest of his body down. You feel the bed dip.

[riceccakes]

Earth, Wind, and Coffee: Chapter Two Analysis

chapter one analysis

welcome back to another installment !! idk if many people are reading this, but i enjoy analyzing my writing so i’m gonna keep doing it :) let’s get started, shall we?

some fun stuff before we start!

the first scene i wrote for this story was the dock scene

usually, when i write, i kind of just start with whatever is the first thing that comes to mind. i’d had the bulk of the story outline in my head, not written yet, but i knew i wanted this reveal about the red lotus attack. so i started with it and wrote as far as i could before deciding i should start the beginning of the fic. most of the original content is there, with some stuff added on, but i took a turn from my dialogue as it didn’t fit the narrative of the story anymore (well get to this point in a later chapter analysis, don’t worry)

not me being heavily inspired by LOVE WITCH by bisexualyoda

around the time that i started this fic and was really writing for it, i found this story on ao3 and literally read whatever chapters were out at that time in a day. it was a story that also influenced me to write in asami’s pov, as a majority of the story is from hers. (this isn’t the only reason tho, but bisexualyoda is a writing god and what else could i do but try to honor them?) it’s a stellar korrasami fic that you should read if you haven’t yet and if you haven’t yet, what are you doing, please go enjoy that masterpiece

and into the chapter we shall go:

i kinda thought it was cool to play off this idea of a barista who can’t sleep but it’s not because of the coffee like you’d expect. 

now, being a diehard korrasami fan, i knew i wanted to apply this to my girls. and, i knew from the get-go i wanted korrasami to meet as if it were more book four, where korra has gone through something really terrible and asami is a really good friend who’s there for her. so i thought it might be cool to put the two together and korra is a barista who can’t sleep. then it was getting to what exactly the trauma was that korra experienced. i didn’t want anything as severe as what korra went through in the series (our poor girl was wrongfully put through the wringer for four seasons) but i wanted something that would stick with her and still haunt her, even after a period of time. my favorite book is book three and i loved the red lotus antagonists, so i played around with their concept and turned it into what’s in the story. i was really pleased when i came up with this and only made some minor changes (i had originally explicitly given korra insomnia. i decided to change this and keep it more ambiguous because i didn’t want to inaccurately describe insomnia and somehow offend anyone who does experience it, i hate doing that) and then i was set to really start the fic.

more about povs:

so, when i first started writing this fic, the idea of multiple povs was an option. in the end, i chose only asami, for a number of reasons, but mostly for one in particular

just like asami, i wanted you guys to gradually learn about korra’s situation. sure, i could’ve went through korra’s pov and been all secret secret about it, but something about that idea doesn’t sit well with me. i liked the idea of gradual connection and in turn concern. i sprinkled some little stuff here and there, to hint that something’s up, but i feel like that’s the hook for you lil fishies to grasp onto. even in that very dock scene, i don’t give it to you right away; i dance around it, just like korra does by talking about tenzin and the temple and i mention the water and korra’s jacket and anything but the reason why korra’s called asami at 2 in the morning to come see her. this kind of tension, this kind of urgency to know what’s going on, i just don’t think would’ve been achieved had i had alternating povs.

something i really love about this chapter is how the first section and third section ends

Makeshift Boardrooms ends with korra being a complete angel and going above and beyond for asami and this presentation:

Asami is speechless. Inside, the tables and chairs have been set up as if it’s a long boardroom, fit with the donuts in the center of the table no one can ever reach. At the far end, a projector screen is set up and a loading screen is displayed on it. Asami stares at the girl, unsure of how to convey how appreciative she is for the gesture.

“Korra…”

“I know,” she quickly speaks up, her fingers behind her back fidgeting even faster, “it’s a lot, but I thought you should get the best kind of practice! And, we hosted a movie night here a while back, I wasn’t sure if Tenzin left all the equipment here but I found it all in one of the cabinets in his office and I,” she’s looking at the ground now, “is it all right?”

“All right?” Asami questions, truly confused as to how Korra could say such a thing. She reaches out, slowly, gently, placing her hand on Korra. The girl’s hands fall to her sides, Asami’s fingertips slowly linger down from the bundled fabric of Korra’s rolled up sleeve to her forearm.

now, A Turn of Events ends like how we know:

Asami falls back onto the couch, ill prepared for the unexpected burst. Korra continues huffing, gasping for air, clutching at her chest and running a hand through her hair. Asami reaches out again and that’s when Korra flinches again. She starts to sob.

“Korra…”

“Get out!”

Asami sits, staring. She isn’t sure if she heard right or not. Korra begins shaking, sobbing inconsolably. Asami just wants to reach out.

“Get. Out!”

Asami grabs her things and rushes towards the door, taking one final glance behind her shoulder. Korra’s hands cover her face, her body flinches and shakes, her sobs ring loudly in Asami’s ears. 

In between each desperate gasp for air, she can hear Korra whisper, “Please, please, stop, stop, please, stop, please.”

Asami feels her heart sink and she opens the door to leave.

i’ve bolded what i love most. it was actually unintentional, i’d only noticed after i finished the chapter and was reading through to edit, but it’s kind of beautiful, bittersweet even. there are parallels here, some less noticeable than others, but parallels nonetheless. the lingering of korra’s name is direct and the events after are strikingly different but in a way connected. in Makeshift Boardrooms, after the mention of her name, korra is sputtering word after word. in A Turn of Events, after the mention of her name, korra only says two words. it’s two sides of the same coin, showing how korra is unfortunately spiraling out and losing control of what’s going on with her. typing it out is kind of hurting me, seeing how korra’s in pain, but im the author and i know what happens later so i shouldn’t worry too much.

now getting onto asami in this section, still, the lingering of korra’s name is the most noticeable parallel. but, in Makeshift Boardroom, after korra responds, asami reassures the girl with physical touch, she’s able to reach out to her. in A Turn of Events, after korra responds, asami doesn’t react, she doesn’t know how to. korra’s in front of her, clearly in pain, and she just yelled at asami, and still asami just wants to reach out to her. once again, unintentional that this happened, but sometimes it’s the unexpected things that turn out for the best. the diction i have here, in repeating the word reach, i think it just further drives home how heartbreaking this chapter’s turned out to be. (shout out to the section title, cause things really did take a turn here) it had all seemed so good, korra was opening up to asami, they were getting closer, and then all of a sudden BAM korra has a panic attack and in a moment of utter fear, she pushes away asami. i know i put angst in the ao3 tags, but now going over it as the author, i see my angst has really gone above and beyond, but hey, i really liked how this chapter turned out

honorable mentions:

in LOVE WITCH, asami and kuvira are basically besties and i loved the idea of their friendship and i wanted to have a go at it myself! finding kuvira’s place in the story, however, was a lil tough to navigate, but when i came up with the bodyguard idea, i really liked it. i hope you guys do too :))

idk if you guys noticed but outside formal fic/writing settings, i pretty much only type in lowercase. however, i do type in complete sentences and the only abbreviation i really use is idk so don’t mind me lowkey projecting onto korra here. anyways, i know most phones have the default setting for texts to be first word already uppercase. i have mine turned off but figured korra would have hers on cause 1) she prefers it this way and 2) even if she wanted to turn it off, she doesn’t know how to. plus, i liked the idea of her enjoying emoticons better than emojis. i love emojis but i always do a lil sideways smiley ( :) ) and to me it’s super cute and i’m sure korra would see it the same way

the end of this chapter is not what i had first intended! truth be told, i didn’t know what exactly was going to happen at the end of the chapter, but i knew what would happen after it, i just needed a bridge. in my og timeline, i had a couple different options: the one i almost went through with was asami suggesting they move into together (which is admittedly super soon and super fast so like, it would scare off korra), another was something intimate that would still scare korra off (this one wasn’t too elaborated on, perhaps a forehead touch, or super close faces, idk. obviously this doesn’t happen, but it had been in consideration), i’d actually even considered something physical, but that was quickly cut off the list, as that is NOT how i wanted this story to go. anyways, because of how this chapter ended, the whole rest of the story changed and i couldn’t be happier.

anything i would’ve wanted to change?

im still super self conscious about the length but at the same time, also not, idk how to describe it. anyways, i think what i actually would’ve liked is keeping something from the Home Life section i took out. when i first wrote it, asami actually had a desk mate and he was flamboyant and sassy and i loved him. looking back now, i would’ve loved to have kept him and the scene with him, but i took it out cause i was scared the chapter was too long. after reading everyone’s comments though, about how they don’t care how long chapters are/longer chapters are better, i gave myself some more slack with the last chapters. his name was ryuichi, rip ryuichi

surprise epilogue is out now too, so enjoy the rest of the fic! if you have any questions, feel free to ask :)))

[harringtonheartache]

Daybreak | Part Two

Part Three 

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Lab Escapee! Reader?

Summary: Part two of this fic. A less eventful chapter but a necessary one! Next part will be super fun n’ cute (-:

Word Count: 2,900+

Warning(s): Cussing

A/N: Here ya go! P.S. When I described Steve’s room I took from what little we saw of it in S1 + added some details of my own. I included the The Smiths poster because their debut album came out around the time of ST (1984) and I love their music & would like to think Steve would enjoy it too. & yes Queen and Joy Division are based on my own music taste as well.

“Okay, so this is my room,” he told her as he welcomed her into his bedroom with grand exclamation. “You can have my bed, I don’t mind the floor,” he said as he gathered a spare pillow and blanket from his closet. They were folded nicely, the work of his mother most likely. Disregardful of their neat composure, he tossed the bedding to the floor. She stared at her proposed sleeping arrangement for the night. His bed was double in size compared to what she was used to, presumably offering greater comfort as well. “I promise the sheets are clean,” he spoke up at her apparent reluctance. Her head moved swiftly in his direction, and he stood with a look of utmost sincerity. “Okay,” she told him. She wanted to thank him again, but did not allow herself when his attention fell from her and he went about setting up his own bed for the night.

She climbed on top of the surrendered piece of furniture, feeling the cushioned fabric beneath her as she did so. Her assumptions were correct, it was much nicer than her bunk at the lab.

“So tomorrow I have to go to school,” Steve said, bringing up a topic of conversation that needed discussing before they could sleep.

“School?”

“Yeah, it’s where people go to learn. I have to leave at 7 in the morning, and you can’t come with me, but I will be back by 3.” The panic returned. As much as she thought herself someone to take comfort in solitude, she knew herself someone to fear such a thing in unfamiliar environments.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be back. You can sleep the entire time I’m gone if you want, I won’t be that long. But you have to stay in this room. My mom will be home and she can’t know you’re here, remember?”

There were too many holes in the plan. “What if she comes upstairs?” Upstairs was supposed to be her hideaway.

“Um,” Steve returned to a place of deep consideration and planning. “Here,” he said. He moved the upper half of his body forward, partially abandoning his makeshift bed to reach underneath the one 009 sat upon. His hands emerged with a few belongings: a sweatshirt, one shoe, and an old backpack. He tossed these forgotten items in the direction of his closet, although they fell short of full entry.

“If you hear anyone come upstairs, hide under here,” he spoke again, confidence in his own scheme restored.

She gave him an inquisitive look. “Under the bed?” she questioned.

“Yes. I would tell you to hide in the closet but if she comes into my room she is probably putting clothes away in there. So, if you hear anything just go under the bed. There’s lots of room, it’s not that bad, and you probably won’t even have to. My mom doesn’t come in my room that much.” That much. To her, that sounded like a game of chance she didn’t care to participate in, but she complied nonetheless as she was grateful for anywhere to hide.

“Okay, under the bed.”

A procedure ready to be followed, spoken and memorized through one conversation.

“Oh, shit,” Steve exclaimed softly, mostly to himself. Standing from his place on the floor, he moved to find the door handle. With a small click, he locked it. The girl watched this action as he performed it much to her consternation. He began to settle himself again but was not able to completely do so without noticing her concern. “Oh, I-,” he started, “I’m not locking you in, I just don’t want my parents walking in here while we’re asleep. You can just turn that small lock on the knob to the right and it will unlock.” He explained this, his tone benevolent. She was appreciative of this clarification, and filed his thoughtful instructions away in her head for possible future reference. A smile was offered in response.  

A few minutes passed, the lights no longer illuminating the entire room. Steve’s thoughtful nature did not end with the door lock however, as he left his desk lamp on to rid the girl of any worries pure darkness may have brought. They laid in their respective beds, 009 tucked under Steve’s own comforter that smelled pleasantly of him. It was a strange occurrence for her - sleeping in a bed that smelled of someone else. The scent became comforting; it served as a reminder that she was not sleeping in the same bed she had been in all of one night ago. She was not at the lab. “Hey, Steve?” she was ready to give him the thank-you she intended to give him earlier. He didn’t pause long before offering her a small hmm? to let her know he was listening, but long enough to take recognition of her first use of his name.  

“Thank you”.

---

“Shit, where the hell- Are you kidding me I just- shit.” Steve’s thoughts dropped out of his mouth, loudly enough to wake up 009. She sat up quickly, a small gasp leaving her mouth; a gasp she hoped Steve didn’t hear once she realized where she was. Terror was still engraved into her mind, and it would take more than one night of sleeping safely for her to rid herself of this feeling. It had become her daily ritual to fear whomever she would face first thing in the morning.

“Oh, hey. Sorry I didn’t mean to wake you up. Have you seen my- what the hell am I saying no you haven’t seen my backp- wait it’s in the car. Right?” He now spoke with a whisper to his tone. As opposed to last night, they were not entirely alone anymore. His parents were now home, and he couldn’t be heard talking to a person they weren’t supposed to know was there.

“Hey yesterday - in the car - did you happen to see a backpack in there?” She blinked a few times in substitution for a response. She had not yet fully returned to Steve’s bedroom from her state of sleep, or from her morning delusion that landed her momentarily in the lab. “I- I don’t know,” She now responded, but her answer did not help him any more than her silence had.

“Shit, well, I hope it’s in there.” He gave up on his bedroom search and now passed his attention to the task of putting on his shoes. “I’ll be back in a few hours, by 3:00, okay? There's a clock on my nightstand so you will know what time it is. And uh, remember your hiding spot if you hear anyone coming upstairs.” He told her these things with quickness to his words. She heard every one though, and chose to say “okay,” when she realized he was focused on tying his shoes and would not see her nod her head ‘yes’.

He now stood from the place he had been crouching on the floor. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” He seemed averse to leaving her sitting neatly atop his bed. For a second he pondered who would be more questioning: his mother after finding her in his bedroom, or Hawkins High’s staff and students if they saw her following him through a day of school like a service dog. While the second option allowed him to stay by her side, number one presented itself as the best choice if she were to be discovered. This time she nodded to his farewell, an addition of her own voice leaving a “goodbye” at the gesture’s tail end. He smiled at her, a comforting gesture. Opening the door, he slid his body between the small area of room he left open for his departure. He did not even chance fully opening the door, for someone could be in the hallway. Her responsive smile faded as the door drew closed, and she sat unmoving where he had left her.

While he had originally told her that she could sleep the entire time he was away, she now thought that to be a bad idea since the conversation of someone walking in on her. Why couldn’t she just lock the door? She guessed it would arise too many questions, or just be entered anyway (using a key) without the repellent of a sleeping boy behind it. His family was polite enough not to disturb a resting person. The idea of family sat at the top of her mind, asking her who she could claim to be her own. She refused to answer that question, even to her own brain, recognizing the truth was not a single person. Instead she glanced to his nightstand, where his promised clock sat. 7:09 it read. She thought of getting up to explore his bedroom, the concept of privacy something she was without experience with, but told herself that she shouldn’t move. Moving produced sound, and she didn’t want to have to retreat to the underside of the bed she laid upon.

She settled on exploring with her eyes. His room was simple, the bed she sat upon was the centerpiece. The walls were covered with a white plaid wallpaper, and the curtains that hung in front of the window were patterned to match. The sun was already poking through the blinds, but she did not wish to close the curtains and mask the pale light. On the wall to her left was a poster that read The Smiths. Centered underneath it was a dresser, various items scattered across the top - a hair comb, a few tapes with names like Queen and Joy Division scribbled with slanted writing across the front, and a silver stereo to play said tapes on. She pulled the comforter up to her nose and sank a little - making sure that she could still see the gap under the door that provided half an inch of sight into the hallway. That half inch was going to be watched carefully, as if it could really give her significant insight as to what was going on through to the other side of it. She knew that if someone were to walk in right now, she would be fully visible, but tucked under the covers she still felt safer. Maybe part of it was that reassuring scent of the comforter.

---

2:32. The lock was still climbing to 3, but was now only 28 minutes away. Having abandoned the heat of the covers, the hiding girl who had remained in Steve’s bedroom all day sat cross-legged where she had slept that night. Twenty-eight minutes left, meaning that seven hours and thirty-two minutes had passed where she had not been disturbed. A soft beat: feet on carpeted stairs. A sound perhaps easy to miss if you were not waiting to hear it all day. Number nine heard it, and moved from her place on his bed for the first time that day. She pressed herself onto the floor quickly, using her hands to push herself under the bedskirt of the mattress frame. The sound came to a stop, soon replaced by the noise of a creaking door. She swore the door had not been that loud when Steve had left his morning. Becoming suddenly aware of her breathe, she began to hold it in her lungs. She doesn’t come into my room that much. Steve’s promise was now disproven, or perhaps today was the occurrence that had prohibited him from telling her that his mother did not come into his room at all.

Her hands were pressed to the floor in front of her, sure to be imprinted with marks of the carpet’s texture when she drew them away. She heard another door slide open - the closet. She mentally thanked Steve for choosing her hiding spot with consideration. How long would his mother be? The underside of a bed was no place to stay for the remaining 28 minutes. Perhaps it was closer to 25 now. From under the bed, she scooted backwards until her feet touched the wall. She wanted to be as far away as possible from the woman who threatened her discovery. Her discovery and likely return to the lab. More footsteps were heard now, but these were quick and heavy, someone besides his mom. They entered the room with haste, and the sound of the door hitting the back of Steve’s bedroom wall made 009 flinch. Was it his dad, was he home too? Under the bed, the girl closed her eyes. She had already stopped breathing and hoped that eliminating her sense of sight would somehow eliminate theirs too. A voice broke from the panicked entry. “Mom, hey! What-a- what are you doing?” It was Steve. Home 24 minutes early.

“I was just putting some stuff from downstairs back in your room, why? Is everything okay?” the voice without a face questioned. “Yeah! Yeah everything’s fine, I just have this uh-” Steve stumbled over his own words, trying to spit them out quickly so that he could check the underneath of his bed for the person he worried greatly about. The room looked just how he had left it, aside from her absence. For a second he questioned whether she was under the bed or gone completely. “I have this project I have to finish for tomorrow and I really need to hurry.” A weak lie, he would admit that, but one fitting of a teenager, and one his mother would eat up without question. “Okay, I’ll get out of your hair,” she told him. With that last sentence, the soft beat of her steps resumed as she left the room. The door closed again - most likely Steve’s doing considering the amount of force recognizably used to do so. 009 did not move from under the bed, even with her confident suspicion that he was now the only person besides her in the room. “Nine?” he asked in a whisper, a whisper even softer than the one he had utilized this morning. He bent down, lifting the bedskirt a little too rapidly for her comfort. She flinched again. He sighed. “Oh thank fuck, are you okay?” She turned her head to him, meeting his eye with a look of unease. “It’s safe now,” he told her. He reached out a hand, offering her removal from her place of concealment. She took it; an act of trust in the person who eliminated the threat. She was pulled from the narrow opening beneath the bed frame, her feet leaving their place against the wall. Now she was able to stand, and let out her own sigh once she did.

“I’m so sorry, I came home as soon as possible. The traffic in the parking lot was just really bad and- I’m sorry I really didn’t think she would come up here.” He finished his hurried apology, getting it out quickly as if she would retreat back into her place of hiding if he were not fast enough. He turned around to pick up the plate he had abandoned atop his set of drawers during his panic. “Here, I brought you another sandwich,” he told her. The sound of glass leaving a wooden surface rang in the air as he lifted it to give to her. He smiled at her, a look of sincere apology. Her own face dropped the slightly hostile expression and picked up a smile of her own. “Thank you,” she said.

They both sat on his bed now, herself tearing the sandwich into smaller bites and him offering her conversation after hours of silence and seclusion. His explanation of his day fell to a conclusion. Hearing of a normal teenager’s life was both compelling and saddening to Nine. “Do you want to go out?” he decided to present her with a question. “Like to the store? We can buy you some things. You know, like necessities. Your own toothbrush, deodorant, things like that?” An afternoon out of his bedroom, appealing at first thought, but dangerous after a second. “What if someone sees me? They’re probably looking for me, it’s too unsafe,” she reminded him. It was like he had forgotten she was a fugitive. His expression abandoned delight and met dissatisfaction. “Shit,” his response was simple. They sat for another moment, her fingers fiddling with the crust of the wheat bread. “Wait,” he told her. He returned to the place where his mother had been earlier, peering into his closet. He removed from inside a hat, one with a thick brim. “You can wear this! I also have a pair of sunglasses in my car, they will cover your face. Plus you will be in my clothes so nobody will recognize you, right?” His tone was hopeful again. A promise he couldn’t make, but one he was confident in.

She pondered his proposal. It was not the best, certainly, but it was also one that her strong desire to leave the house made hard to shoot down. A hat and sunglasses. Was that all it would really take to keep her safe? Her eyes looked over the hat, studying the object she considered putting her complete faith in to protect her identity. Her eyes then traveled to Steve’s face. It wore a look of both longing and optimism. It made her trust him and his stupid plan a little bit more. “Okay,” she spoke up. “Let’s go.” The underside of her teeth met her bottom lip and she pulled it in to present him with a close-mouthed smile. He returned one, and added a laugh. He took a few paces forward, and extended his hand that held the hat. He watched her face, careful to only make contact if she was comfortable. Gently, he placed the hat on top of her head and smiled down at her. “I don’t even recognize you,” he told her jokingly.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 38 Review: Of Zombies and Men

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

Damn, Jacques is hot in that scene! There. I just had to say that before starting this review.

Hello and welcome again to my Garden of Evil, which I have once again been neglecting. Long story short: the past month has been both terrifying (for what should be obvious reasons) and very, very busy, and I’ve been spending more of my free time offline than usual focusing on things like starting vegetables for my real-life garden. I don’t foresee things getting better for at least another month, so most likely either I won’t be very active or my muse will be more active than ever. If the latter, it may mean more reviews or it may mean more silliness like the Desmond Hall personality quiz from earlier this week. We shall see.

But, for right now, shall we jump into our exploration of Episode 38?

Wait! Quito didn’t leave the chandelier hanging on the table before!

The table (post-séance) from Episode 36, for comparison.

Another night has passed on Maljardin (as indicated by Jean Paul Desmond's change in clothing) and now someone has hung the chandelier on the side of the broken séance table where it wasn't in either of the previous two episodes. "Keeping this here as a souvenir, Jean Paul?" the Reverend Matthew Dawson, who is still wearing the same outfit as two episodes ago, asks.

"No, Reverend," Jean Paul corrects him, but forgets to tell him who put the chandelier back on the table and why. Instead, he tells him that there will be another séance.

Matt accuses him of playing with their lives and he responds with what sounds like a veiled threat: "Come now, Reverend, this is no game. Surely, superstitions and fears are not going to blacken your learned convictions. All of our days are numbered." Yes, Jean Paul's in pissy passive-aggressive mode and he will remain there for most of the next three weeks. This is one of the reasons why I prefer Jacques Eloi des Mondes. He may be THE DEVIL and he certainly has his own nasty, passive-aggressive side, but he doesn't go around glowering like his descendant and he takes himself less seriously. His death threats are also way funnier than Jean Paul’s. On top of that, he has that stunning cape that he once wore to the main island, which I miss horribly. I can’t see Jean Paul moping around on Maljardin while wearing that gorgeous number, which is a pity because it looked so good on him.

Just noticed while re-watching the episode that Matt has a pompadour now. I'm going to go ahead and guess the reason based on evidence from Episode 7: he's trying to level with the groovy swingers and keep up with what's happenin', but he's too square to realize the hairstyle he's adopted in his efforts to be happenin' is ten years out of date. (I’m sure I used at least two of these outdated slang terms incorrectly. Forgive me.)

Jean Paul lying to cover up Jacques’ attempted murder. Also, a pretty shot of Fox-C’s eyes!

To no viewers’ surprise, Jean Paul is planning on holding another séance, and another, and another, until he finally establishes contact with his late wife Erica. This angers Matt, who has been a loose cannon since Episode 35 and is due to fire again soon. “You forget the medium said death points only to me!” the lovesick, grieving billionaire shouts and storms away before Matt gets another chance to air his grievances against him.

We next see him in the crypt, telling Quito to have the table and the chandelier repaired ASAP. And then he gets a moment alone with Erica’s cryonics capsule and he says this interesting, cryptic aside:

Is he only saying that because of Jacques’ frequent possessions, or does he have another reason to mistrust himself? Lines like this one make me think that maybe Dan’s suspicions are correct and he did murder Erica.

Matt grows bored waiting for Jean Paul to return, so he visits Alison in the lab. Wearing a stylish blue labcoat, she is reading through Dr. Menkin’s notes on her sister Erica and confides in Matt about her despair that she has found so few of them.

Alison and Matt in the lab.

Their conversation in this scene is quite interesting. First, she reveals that Dr. Menkin has been researching cellular reconstruction and that, using his notes (especially the missing parts), it might actually be possible to bring Erica back to life. This means that there’s a chance that it was reasonable from an in-universe scientific standpoint--if still somewhat ethically questionable--for Jean Paul to freeze Erica.

Second, she denies Matt’s accusation that Jean Paul is treating them like chattel, replying, "What you forget is his love for Erica, his need for her is what drives him, not purposeful harm to others." Has she developed Stockholm Syndrome towards Jacques/Jean Paul during her time on the island? This line makes me wonder.

Their conversation drifts to Vangie’s accident, which reminds Alison to check on her! They find Vangie in the Great Hall, walking down the stairs in her Conjure Woman robes, her arms stretched out before her in standard zombie fashion. Because she isn’t watching where she’s going and is just staring blankly, Alison guides her down the stairs and onto the couch to prevent any further injuries. At the end of the scene, Quito comes to check on her and lets out a silent scream before covering his face: most likely as a subtle cue to new audience members that the silent servant in the earlier scene in the crypt is, like Vangie, a zombie.

Alison guiding Vangie to the couch.

But can we really compare Vangie’s state to Quito’s? In book canon, Quito was one of Jacques’ slaves, whom he killed and then had resurrected to punish Raxl for disobedience. The show canon never states how Quito became a zombie, but we do know that he is undead based on his lack of a pulse in Episode 33 and Jean Paul’s reference to “a soulless corpse” in Episode 16. Vangie, in contrast, is still alive, but behaves like a zombie (allegedly) because of a brain injury caused by the crashing chandelier. Oddly enough, her body language and behavior are more in line with a stereotypical Hollywood zombie than Quito, which makes me wonder how the hell she was able to put her Conjure Woman robes back on while in a cataleptic trance. (I bet it’s just another continuity error, like the chandelier hanging off the side of the table.)

There’s a brief scene here where Matt opens one of the cabinet drawers in the lab and pulls out one of Alison’s scalpels. I don’t understand why she doesn’t keep that drawer locked on such a dangerous island.

In his and Raxl’s bedroom, Quito mixes Vangie a potion using herbs from the island to attempt to bring her out of her catatonic state. He tastes the potion and nods as though to say, "Yes, it tastes right.” Even so, it doesn't appear to have any effect on him after he tastes it, which is strange. I don’t know how to interpret this scene. It could mean anything from “the antidote only works on living people” to “the antidote only works on people who were turned into zombies the way Vangie was (and Quito was not)” to “Quito drank this same potion years ago, and that’s why he can move around, think, and feel and isn’t stuck in a catatonic state like Vangie.”

The ambiguity makes this yet another unexplained plot point in a show overflowing with them, thanks to the change in writers and producer. I want to give Robert Costello and the team of writers who wrapped up Maljardin the benefit of the doubt and say that perhaps they ignored this plot hole because Ian Martin’s notes were partially missing like Dr. Menkin’s, but most of the evidence suggests that they consciously chose to go in a different direction than the one that Martin originally intended. We know that, from Episode 30 onward, executive meddling forced him to change and rearrange events in his episodes. There is that one line from Episode 54 that reminds me of what I believe were his original intended revelations about Erica, but I suspect that I’m over-analyzing a line for which Cornelius Crane probably intended a different, less unusual interpretation than mine.

Anyway, while Quito is downstairs, Jean Paul and Jacques have this amusing exchange:

Jean Paul: "You were the disrupting influence at that séance." Jacques: "I? Do I resemble a part of the chandelier that came crashing down?"

I think you can guess where this leads. Jacques possesses him, and this time the resulting scene is the most deliciously evil one we’ve seen yet of his character:

Just after possession, zombie Vangie identifies Jacques as Lucifer, and he confirms this. Since the first episode, we have heard Raxl say repeatedly that Jacques Eloi des Mondes was THE DEVIL, but at last we have confirmation that Ian Martin’s Jacques is, even after the beginning of executive meddling.

“Devil he is. Devil he will remain till I can exorcise and destroy him,” she adds, still in a trance and still with her eyes fixed forward.

“But aren’t you finding him too powerful for all of us?” Jacques replies.

“In the end, it is we who will be too strong for him.”

“But you are already losing all the battles.” Jacques smirks and leans closer to Vangie, as my heart--and the hearts of half the original audience--skips a beat. “Look at you now, Vangie. Look at you now, able to talk only with me because, like Quito, you are living in his...half-world.” (Does this mean that Quito can speak to him, too, when they are alone and Jacques allows it?) “Who put you there?”

“Fear not. He cannot kill me. My death is ordained.”

“He hasn’t killed you,” Jacques grins. “Who knows? Maybe in your present state, you will be able to reach Erica.”

“I didn’t want to reach her for myself, but for you, Jean Paul.” (Why does she identify him as Jean Paul now, when she called him Lucifer a minute ago? Jacques hasn’t de-possessed Jean Paul yet.)

Quietly, Alison and Matt enter undetected, as she continues. “The demon Jacques Eloi des Mondes, his evil was at the table. It was his alien presence that destroyed the séance.”

She lies back down on the couch, Jacques yells her name and grabs her, and Alison breaks her silence. “Jean Paul!” she shouts, rushing over to Vangie. “Leave her be!” Jacques demands that she bring her out of the trance, but Alison says that she doesn’t know how. He shoots down her suggestion that she take her to the mainland for treatment.

“It’s mystifying to hear her talk as though you were that man, an ancestor three hundred years dead,” Matt comments, pointing to Jacques’ portrait.

“The islanders are very superstitious with strange fancies,” Jacques gaslights him. “You’re not joining that group, are you, Reverend?”

“I may join them, too,” says Alison.

“Perhaps you all need therapy, or some other kind of treatment,” Jacques says as the camera zooms into his face. He starts off with a fairly neutral Jean Paul expression--he’s been getting better at imitating his descendant--but then widens his eyes in that way only Jacques does. It's not quite Bissits Face™, but it is a very Jacques expression nonetheless.

After the commercial break, Matt asks for some clarification as to what he meant by treatment. “Relief of tension, as at a séance,” he responds with a smile.

Another argument about séances is about to erupt when Quito walks up holding a cup of his herbal remedy. Jacques identifies this as “a pinch of hope, a dash of witchcraft, a hint of prayer, as harmless as Quito himself is.” Surprisingly, despite knowing that this will take Vangie out of her trance, he lets Alison serve it to her.

When Vangie recovers, she, too, insists--also surprisingly--that they have another séance. “It’s Jean Paul Desmond himself who risks all,” she tells Matt when he accuses her of endangering the guests’ lives. Alison has Matt take her upstairs to rest while she heads to the lab to grab a tranquilizer.

Meanwhile, in the lab...

A secret door behind the cabinet opens and Jacques comes out, carrying more of Dr. Menkin’s notes. When he hears Alison’s footsteps, he shuts the door (but not all the way--oops!) and leaves them on the table. After a brief conversation about Vangie, he leaves through the lab’s main entrance and Alison flips excitedly through the newly discovered notes.

My favorite shot of Alison from this scene.

The Lost Episode summary for this episode from The Newport Daily News mentions the secret door--indicating that it appeared in the original script for the episode--but also that Vangie knows about it and that Jacques will leave her alone during the second séance if she keeps it secret. Another version of the summary from the Minneapolis Star (November 5, 1969) says that the hidden door leads to “a secret passageway,” begging the question of where Jacques has hidden the notes. It must be somewhere between the Great Hall and the lab, but where?

You know, I’m surprised that, for all Raxl and Quito’s searching for the conjure doll and the silver pin and Alison, Dan, and Matt’s searching for the missing cyanide, they haven’t found more of the château’s secret rooms and passages. It’s just as inexplicable as how Jacques still doesn’t know the location of the Temple of the Serpent after three hundred years, hours of spying on people in the crypt, and that failed investigation of it with Holly last episode--and the Temple’s entrance isn’t even well-hidden! On a show set on an absurdly cold tropical island with anachronistic period costumes, 20-year-olds who look 30 but get turned away from the bar without being carded, white Incas, a white voodoo priest and priestesses, and a man with an IQ of 187 knowingly placing a glass table beneath a loose chandelier--and that’s only listing what we’ve seen so far--this stretches my willing suspension of disbelief more than anything else.

Right at the end of the episode, we learn from Jacques that Jean Paul’s will to resist him has become stronger, making possession of him more difficult:

Does Jean Paul’s stronger will explain all the headache faces?

Coming up next: A piece of the Conjure Man’s message reminds Raxl of Jacques’ pirate ship, which gives us the perfect opportunity to explore Jacques’ former career.

{<- Previous: Episode 37   ||   Next: Episode 39 ->}

[spartanguard]

sick of love (1/3)

Summary: If Emma’s not careful, she just might bump into her soulmate. Physically. And while she might like the idea of what comes with that—an almost psychic connection whenever they make skin contact—she’d rather not deal with the awful withdrawal sickness that can come when they inevitably leave her; she’s got a son, so she doesn’t have time for that. So she keeps herself covered and thinks she’ll be okay. Until she meets Killian, who does the same thing. Will their barriers protect them, or just hurt them more?

CS Soulmates AU | Rated M | 5.8k | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | AO3

A/N: This story was inspired by a tumblr post imagining a different kind of soulmate AU; I got inspired and ran with the idea. (original post can be found here.) Thank you to the organizers of @cssns for putting on this great event again!! Also to @sherlockianwhovian for making the INCREDIBLE art that goes with this! (and to @optomisticgirl for looking it over!)

The train slipped into the station, coming to an easy stop at the platform where Emma waited. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass window as the door opened in front of her, and adjusted her hair accordingly, making sure her long blonde tresses hung over her shoulders and framed her face just so—but not so much that she was completely covered; she wasn’t Cousin Itt.

People began to stream out of the car, moving on either side of where Emma stood, not unlike water flowing around a rock in a river. She held her breath in an attempt to make herself smaller, in hopes that would make it harder for anyone to bump into her. There was a slight jostle to her leather-covered elbow, but thankfully, that was all. Soon, the last tourist had left the car, on their way to whatever pretentious bar was in this particular Boston neighborhood; Emma didn’t know and didn’t care, and was headed the opposite direction—her suburban apartment after a long day of fruitless work.

Emma shuffled onto the train and slumped into a seat, pulling her jacket just a bit tighter around her as she tried her best to melt into the hard molded plastic. The more she could hide or shrink, the better; the train was always packed this time of day, making it all too easy to get bumped or shoved into the next person, so the fact that she’d gotten a seat was perfect—even better, it was on the end, so there was only one seat next to her. Because if there was one thing Emma Swan hated, it was being touched.

Actually, that was a lie—she had loved it, once upon a time. But God, she’d been so naive.

The train quickly filled up. Emma tensed when someone sat next to her, but the suited businessman seemed more interested in his phone, and just as keen not to touch her. Even in a society that placed a high value on physical contact, there were still those who shied away from it, at least with strangers. Emma, though, did her best to keep away from everyone.

If her phone had more than 10% battery, she’d have her nose buried in it like half the other people on the train. Like her neighbor apparently knew, that was also a good way to ward off any unwanted contact. But given it’s mostly-dead status, and a desire to leave that little bit there in case Henry called, she’d have to content herself with people watching; hell, maybe she’d find the skip who’d gotten away from her earlier.

It was mostly people heading home from work, likely about to enjoy the balmy early summer evening on balconies or patios; if they threw a glance her way, they’d probably think the way she was dressed for late fall was insane—not many people wore turtlenecked sweaters, jeans, and knee-high boots in July, even in Boston. She’d gotten used to the self-imposed swelter by now, though.

But no one had eyes for her, thankfully, least of all the couple standing in front of her. They stood side by side, one hand each on the overhead rail and the other holding their partner’s. They had soft, happy grins on their faces and it almost looked as though they were having a conversation with just their eyes—and they most likely were. Because that was what happened when you found your soulmate.

She shivered involuntarily, despite the heat and her unseasonable dress. Gah, she hated that word: soulmate. Because, of course, the universe had picked that one perfect person for everyone. You didn’t have any choice in the matter; that’s just how it was. Great if you find them; sucks if you don’t—and even worse if you lose them.

As a kid, it had been a pipe dream for a touch-starved orphan like Emma had been. Everyone grew up knowing the stories: that when you found your soulmate, physical touch created an almost psychic connection with them. Thoughts, feelings, even dreams could be shared through skin, and it only got more intense the longer the relationship lasted.

And she thought she’d had that, once. Now? She’d sworn it off; there were more important things to worry about.

She blinked her eyes and looked away from the couple, lest she get too far down Memory Lane to turn back. She focused on the view of the city flying by outside the windows, the familiar landmarks telling her she was close to her stop. Each building was one tick in the countdown until she could get off and head home, where central AC, her son, and an ice cold beer were waiting.

Finally, the train slowed down and came to a creaking stop at her station. She waited a bit for more people to exit the car, including the annoyingly adorable couple (something she was all too familiar with in her own life), and headed back out into the temperate air.

And then she saw her skip, in the mass of people heading out of the station. Guess home would have to wait; good thing she saved her phone battery.

She took off at a sprint, waiting to shout the douchebag’s name until he had no time to react before she was on top of him, bringing him to the ground and pinning him there without an ounce of skin contact. If this asshole was her soulmate, she didn’t want to know.

(Or to know if anyone was anymore.)

A few hours later, she finally slumped into her apartment and sighed in the blessedly cold air. Then she sniffed; was that pizza?

“I ordered from Regina Pizzeria; hope you didn’t mind,” Henry shouted from the kitchen.

“Did you tip?” she asked, tugging on the zippers of her boots and stepping out of them.

“Of course; I’m not an animal.”

She snorted; he’d definitely inherited her sense of humor. “Good.” Her stomach was growling, but she needed to at least get out of her jacket before she did anything about it. It clung to her in an unpleasant manner as she peeled it off, the sleeves turning inside out as they clung to her clammy skin; she just hung it up that way, letting the sweaty lining air out.

Henry already had plates set out at their kitchen island-slash-dining table. “Thanks, kid,” she said as she walked past him to the fridge, pausing to ruffle his dark brown hair. “And sorry again.”

“It happens,” he said with a shrug. She winced at that, despite the chilled air blowing from the fridge as she grabbed her beer; she hated that he was so used to her inconsistent work hours, but was so proud of him for being self-reliant. She still wasn’t sure how she’d been blessed with such a fantastic kid, but that was why she did what she did—not just her job, but protecting herself. She couldn’t make sure Henry grew up safe and loved if she was too caught up in her own shit.

“Is your homework done?” she asked as she took a seat on what had become designated as her bar chair at the counter. 

“Yup,” he answered, opening the box; plain pepperoni—their favorite. 

“Show me after we eat.”

“I know,” he groaned, rolling his eyes a bit, and grabbed a slice. Every now and then, there were moments like that where Emma was reminded that her 11-year-old was growing up fast. But for the most part, he was still her little boy: smart, funny, and with the biggest heart she’d ever met. She wished his dad could see him.

Like they did every night, they talked about their days, but mostly Henry’s—she loved to hear about what he was learning and the things he did with his friends. No one had ever taken interest in her life, academic or otherwise, until she wound up with the Nolans, and she vowed a long time ago to make sure Henry always had an attentive parent. 

“Avery had to go home at lunch; he got sick. It was gross, like you could see his—“

“Ugh, no—not while I’m eating!” (Lest she forget, Henry was definitely an 11-year-old boy.)

Henry sighed but plowed on. “Anyways, they sent him home and said he probably had a stomach bug, but he thinks it’s something else. He thinks he has lovesickness.” 

Emma froze for a second, but not too long in case Henry noticed. He knew she had issues with soulmates and she tried her hardest not to pass them onto him. But lovesickness—that was something of a trigger word. 

See, that was the other side to having a soulmate: if you went too long without physical contact with them, you got sick. Not just heartsick or lonely—physically ill. After a few weeks without touching your supposed true love, you started to develop flu-like symptoms that progressively got worse—the point of near immobility—until either you came back in contact with them or cycled all the way through it, your body mended but your soul a bit bruised.

It wasn’t uncommon to see notices in the “missed connections” section of Craigslist for people experiencing symptoms after a rare brush with their intended. Morbidly, it was also typical for old couples to follow each other in death, not being able to survive through the lovesickness that accompanied the loss of their soulmate after decades together. 

She was pretty sure she’d been through it. Most people were confident in that distinction, but Emma still didn’t know, because lovesickness looked and felt an awful lot like morning sickness. 

For the upteenth time that day, Emma shook her head, trying to clear away the ghosts of the past. “He doesn’t have it; you guys are too young.” The one perk to this whole cosmic system was that it couldn’t happen until after puberty. 

“I dunno; he was pretty confident about it. Said he kissed Violet on the playground last week so he’s probably taken.”

Emma chuckled. “It doesn’t happen that fast. He’ll be fine. But maybe watch what you eat at school, okay?”

“Okay. Can I bring pizza tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

The rest of their nightly routine went per usual: Emma looking over his homework, forcing him to take a shower before she took one too, then watching an episode of Stranger Things before he went to bed. 

Maybe he was getting too old for it, but she still tucked him each night. “Love you, Mom,” he murmured, already half asleep. 

“Love you, too, kid,” she replied, placing a kiss on his forehead. Even if she shied away from that stuff herself, she never wanted Henry to miss out on those little endearments she never had. 

She took one last look at him before leaving his room. He was getting so big, and looking more and more like his dad every day; but when he was asleep, he still looked like the baby she’d once rocked in her arms. 

So that was why she protected herself. That was why she cut off physical contact as much as possible with anyone else. That was why she didn’t want to risk her heart like that again. Sure, she craved that kind of intimacy sometimes, but she’d made her peace that it a while ago. No lovers, no soulmates, just a few friends. Nothing that could potentially take her away from being the best mom Henry could have.

At least, that’s what she’d been telling herself for 11 years. She didn’t want to believe anything else, even though she was keenly aware of the heartbreak that lay under everything. 

She retired to her room and flopped down on her big, empty bed, falling asleep eventually. 

And if she dreamed that there was someone to share that bed with...well, she’d talk it up to her brain being weird. 

She didn’t do soulmates. 

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

“Seriously?”

“Oh, come on, Emma; it’ll be fine. You can play nice for one night.”

Emma sighed into the phone. Her sister-in-law, Snow—the living, breathing embodiment of peace, hope, and love—had a long track record of trying to surreptitiously shove eligible singletons Emma’s way. She was understanding about Emma’s avoidance of relationships and physical contact, and the need to put Henry first, but only to a point. By no means did she think that romantic love was the key to true happiness, but she herself had found her fairytale true love and its accompanying bliss; shouldn’t everyone experience that?

“Debatable.” And apparently, Emma would be subject to Snow’s fledgling matchmaking yet again at their weekly dinner. “What’s this guy’s deal?” 

“Oh, you know how David picks up strays.” They shared a giggle at that; it was true—not only did David work at an animal shelter, but he had a tendency to pick up wayward humans as well, Emma being a prime example. She was 15 when the Nolans legally adopted her. “But Killian is—well, he’s like you.”

Both Emma’s curiosity and hackles rose. “What does that mean?”

“It means he’s not looking for a soulmate, either. So it’s not a setup or anything.”

“Uh-huh.” She’d heard that one before.

“It’s not!”

“Why do I feel like this is some sort of reverse psychology thing?”

There was a pause. “Was it really that obvious?”

Emma sighed again, chuckling slightly. “You know I know when you’re lying.”

“I know, I know. But you’re still coming, right?”

“Yes, of course.” One random guy wasn’t enough to put Emma off their tradition. Her only other option would be to sit at home by herself on a Friday while Henry was at a sleepover, and she wasn’t that lame, even if she was a 28-year-old single mother who hadn’t really socialized in over 11 years.

“Okay, good. See you and your wine in a few hours! Bye!”

Maybe someday, Emma would be able to soak up some of the effervescent optimism that her sister-in-law constantly bubbled. But today wasn’t that day.

Because now Emma had to pick a new outfit, and she was unusually annoyed. Given the muggy heat, she was going to let herself wear shorts and a tank top; David and Snow were the only people, outside of Henry, that Emma could let her guard down around, physically or otherwise. People only had one soulmate so there was no risk at contact there when David and Snow were each other’s, and even less so with David being her brother, even if not biologically; the universe may be a dick sometimes but at least it wasn’t gross.

But if someone else was going to be there, she’d have to wrap back up. These were the moments she wondered if it was worth it, keeping herself protected—if she died of heatstroke, it wouldn’t matter either way. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have normal human interactions with people, and it might not be so bad to go on a date or two—some kind of adult activity. David and Snow were proof that it wasn’t all bad, even if it was sickly sweet sometimes; she had more than a few moments of jealousy ever since they met, way back in high school.

But then the past would rear its head and she’d remember why she put herself through this. No, she was better off without.

She sighed and sadly pulled off the cute sleeveless blouse she was wearing. She didn’t usually do wear something so girly and was kind of looking forward to it. Although...the red flowers in it did match her jacket...

Giving it a shot, she tugged on a long-sleeved shirt, then slipped the blouse back on. The layered look was still a thing, right? And the blue background on the blouse matched her jeggings. It worked. She paused a bit to admire her reflection, then started to head out, grabbing her jacket and the wine from the kitchen before slipping on her gloves and heading out.

The AC in her old yellow Bug was cranked all the way up as she made the 20-minute trip to her brother’s house, tucked away in one of the nicer, if small, neighborhoods. She pulled into the driveway of their little bungalow and immediately groaned when she saw the car already parked there: an unfamiliar old Chevy muscle car that screamed “douchebag”.

Her mind’s eye was already conjuring the image of some alpha male gym rat, or worse, some preppy rich kid who was a third cousin of the Kennedys and made sure you knew it. She started bracing herself for a less-than-enjoyable evening in the mad dash between her car and the front door, lest she melt before getting inside.

But there was no one in the front room when she let herself in. “Hello?” she called out, carefully making her way through the house; crap, what if this guy had killed them or something? Thank goodness Henry wasn’t here. She started glancing around for blunt objects to use as weapons, until she remembered she had a full bottle of wine in hand; it’d be a waste of booze, but it’d do the job.

“Out here!” came Snow’s voice through the door to the back yard. Emma relaxed a little, knowing they were alive, but still didn’t let her guard down; that wasn’t something she did easily. 

Although, looking back, maybe if she had relaxed a little, she wouldn’t have been so tense and focused on her family’s well-being that she skipped the last step down to the patio, making her lose her footing, drop the wine, and fall—into unfamiliar arms.

Her hair fell over her face in a curtain, both protecting her from and blinding her to whoever had caught her. But the jacket she could feel under her gloves wasn’t something David would wear this time of year, and those definitely weren’t her brother’s boots or skinny jeans.

“Woah there, lass—you alright?”

And that really wasn’t David’s English accent.

Instinctively, she let go of his (admittedly firm) biceps and fell backwards, definitely sticking her hand in the shattered glass of the bottle—she could feel it cut through her glove to her palm—but putting a good amount of distance between her and this Killian guy.

She hissed at the cut, and quickly brushed her hair aside with the other hand to inspect the damage. The glove was wrecked, but she couldn’t tell what of the red stuff on her hand was blood and what was wine.

Shade fell on her as David and Snow hovered, but the stranger was the only one who intervened. “Let me see,” he said, and rached for her forearm.

“It’s fine,” Emma tossed back, more out of habit than anything. It certainly stung, but her biggest worry was that she’d have an uncovered hand.

“Your hand is cut. Let me see,” the man demanded, his tone just commanding enough to jolt her. Who the hell did he think he was?

Before she could protest again, he grabbed her wrist and tugged it toward him—with another gloved hand. That was...unexpected. She finally dared to look at him, but all she could see was a mess of dark hair and a strong nose as he inspected her palm.

“It’s not that deep, thankfully,” he assessed, and even from this angle, she could see his thick brows furrowing in study. “But we should still clean it up.”

And then he looked up at her, and all her desire to tell this cocky asshole off was put on hold. Because she was staring into what were probably the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, and that tender a gaze should not belong to someone she’d literally just fallen onto. He should be mad, shouldn’t he? Wasn’t that usually what happened? But, if she was reading this correctly, he was worried...about her?

Did she hit her head, too? What the hell was going on?

She just blinked and gaped at him, until David stepped in front of her to help pull her up. She didn’t shy away from his touch, or the hug he gave her once she was upright. “I’ll clean up the bottle; you let Killian take care of you.”

“Okay,” she mumbled back, and followed Killian back into the house. It wasn’t until they were in the upstairs bathroom that she came out of her fog—more specifically, when he was pouring rubbing alcohol on her cuts. “Ah—what the hell?”

“I tried to warn you,” he replied curtly, then lightly dabbed at the mess with a hand towel. She noticed that he hadn’t taken his own gloves off yet, despite somehow managing to get her trashed one off without her noticing.

“‘S okay,” she muttered. He was almost clinical as he cleaned the (mostly wine) mess from her hand and applied ointment, though it didn’t escape her notice that one hand was noticeably stiffer than the other.

“Alright, I’m gonna wrap it up, but I might need your help; this requires a bit more dexterity than this thing can offer,” he explained, holding up the stiff hand.

“It’s a fake?”

“Aye; a good one, but not perfect.” Part of her wanted to ask, but she swallowed down her untoward curiosity.

They passed the roll of gauze between the two of them until her palm was covered, but she gave him a surreptitious once-over while they worked: he too was dressed in an unseasonable black leather jacket, the jeans she’d noticed earlier, and a navy oxford shirt with the collar popped, buttoned to his neck.

“Aren’t you hot?” she asked as he secured the end of the bandage; it was a tight wrap, but not constricting, making her wonder where he learned first aid.

He just smirked, which cut a dimple into the gingery scruff that covered his sharp jaw. “Does that mean you find me attractive, love?” he tossed back as he cleaned up the tiny mess they’d made.

She huffed; maybe she was right about her first assessment of this guy—what kind of cocky jerk said that? (Even if it was true.) “Not what I said. It was a question; not a statement.”

He put the bandage wrapper in the trash and then gathered the soiled towel. “I’d explain it, but I think you already know the answer.” His eyes traveled down her body much like she’d just done to him, then intensely met her gaze, an expressive eyebrow arched almost in challenge.

Something about him made her squirm, but she couldn’t tell if it was in a good or bad way yet. Or if maybe she really was sweating to death in this outfit. 

He stepped toward her, and she sucked in a breath, instinctively moving away from him. “It’s alright,” he assured her, holding his hands up where she could see them as he continued toward the bathroom door. “Just going to toss this and head back outside.”

If the manner of dress weren’t enough, the fact that he was able to read her reaction definitely confirmed the fact: he was trying to avoid touch as much as possible, too.

“Yeah,” she answered, trying (and failing) to play it cool. “Uh, thanks.”

“My pleasure,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, then turned and headed out of sight.

She sighed once he left. What the hell had just happened? What kind of guy just cleans wounds for people he doesn’t know, especially one who apparently held the same no-touching policy? 

And why did she let him? She was no stranger to cleaning up her own injuries—at least, the ones that didn’t require a trip to the ER. She was a mom, for god’s sake; she was usually the one fixing boo-boos.

She took a deep breath and let it out, trying to shake some of these weird nerves off. Then actually shook—her head, hands, arms, whole body. It helped, but she still felt a bit off-tilt. And she didn’t even have any wine to help her deal with it. Fuck.

But she couldn’t hide in the half-bath forever, so she fixed her hair in the mirror and then headed back to the yard. Killian was already there, seated under the umbrella at the patio table nursing a beer. Dave was manning the grill while Snow picked up the bottle shards.

“Hey, let me help—” Emma tried to intervene, but Snow brushed her off. 

“It’s fine; I don’t want you to get cut again. Just grab a drink and have a seat.”

Even though she couldn’t see Snow’s face, Emma was pretty sure it had a self-satisfied smirk on it. They’d probably just reenacted some romance novel trope and she could see another one about to play out—and Snow knew it.

Emma grabbed a beer from the cooler by the grill, making sure to quickly tease Dave on his mediocre grilling skills, and then turned her attention to the table. The smart thing for her would be to sit opposite Killian, keeping the full table and umbrella pole between them. But that would force Snow and David to sit opposite as well, and it was kind of an unspoken rule that they never did that; it made it too hard for one to grab the other’s hand and mentally share some piece of gossip or inside joke.

So Emma took her seat next to Killian, but made sure the chair was a respectable distance away from his. It was a little awkward at first, because he seemed just as (not) interested in conversation as she was, but there was still a heaviness to the air that had nothing to do with the humidity.

“Um, thanks again,” she started, not knowing how else to break the unsteady silence.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, brushing it off with another sip of his beer. Whatever softness she’d seen earlier was back in hiding; she couldn’t really judge him for it when that was her usual MO.

It got quiet again, until David started yelling and jumping away from the flames shooting up from the grill.

“Fuck!” “Bloody hell!” they shouted at the same time. 

David was fanning it with a potholder when Snow rushed to his side. “What the heck are you doing?” she chastised, then jumped forward and turned down the heat. “Are you trying to show off, you pyromaniac?”

The pair at the table snorted as Snow continued to lecture him about grill safety, even if they couldn’t hear half of it; the look on her face as she held tight to David’s forearm and stared him down said everything.

“Are they always like this?” Killian asked, his tone lighter than it had been a minute ago.

“Oh my god, always. And it’s been like this for 12 years.”

“Damn.”

Snow stormed off inside while David slunk back to the grill and pulled the steaks off of it.

“And they’re really soulmates?” Killian wondered, though she couldn’t tell if it was rhetorical or not.

“Yup,” was all she answered, and took another sip of beer.

Killian just hummed and stared at the condensation rings from his bottle on the glass-top table. There was something dark and faraway in his gaze; part of her knew it wasn’t her business, but a weird part of her wanted to cheer him up.

“Would you believe that those two are trying to set us up?” she said quietly and conspiratorially.

“Huh?” He looked up, blinking; it took a moment for his eyes to refocus on her. “Oh, aye; I had a suspicion.”

She wasn’t sure if she should be offended or relieved at his indifference. “Yeah, they tend to do that. So, you might wanna get used to it.”

He took another long sip. “David knows my feelings on that matter; I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

Emma snorted again. “Dude, I’m his sister. He knows exactly why I’m not interested in anything and that still hasn’t stopped them.”

“And why is that?”

“I—” She cut herself almost immediately, because she was just about to spill her life story to this guy who she’d met literally half an hour ago. She didn’t even like thinking about all that, let alone discussing it. So why was she so ready to spill all her beans? “I don’t really like talking about it,” she finally said, in a small voice.

“I know the feeling,” he answered, just as somberly. “Cheers to tragic backstories?” He extended his arm to her, bottle leaning forward in invitation to a toast.

“Cheers,” she said back, clinking the glasses together (but holding back a bit in case of another shatter). 

Typically, the idea of meeting someone with as much emotional baggage as she carried sounded exhausting; but with Killian, she couldn’t help but be curious. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to shun the idea of soulmates, but it was rare to go to the lengths that she and Killian were going to. She heard the tuts and saw the pitying stares from people as she went about her day, especially this time of year when it was so obvious. And she was usually good about not letting it get to her—all she had to do was see Henry’s face to remind her why she did it. She’d never met anyone else who did, though, and wondered a bit at what Killian’s reasons were.

But, as she reminded herself, she’d just met the guy; it was hardly appropriate to pry when she wasn’t about to reveal anything herself. Thankfully, Snow arrived at the table at that moment with a tray covered in food, and they dug into the meal, maintaining a casual level of chat the whole time. It turned out that David met Killian while he was out for a run; David was the crazy type to go out at dawn, so when he ran into someone else doing that, it took his notice and they bonded almost immediately. That wasn’t a rare thing in David’s life, but based on the bashful expression on Killian’s face, she could tell it was for him. 

After dinner had been cleared away and the pie brought out, Snow declared, “Oh, this was so nice. I’m so glad you were able to come, Killian.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, milady; thanks for the hospitality.”

“Oh, don't mention it,” she waved off. “I just wish he could have met Henry, too!”

“Who’s Henry?”

“My son,” Emma interjected. Who would probably also try to pull Killian into their family sphere; he was a lot like her brother in that regard. “He’s at a friend’s tonight, but this is our weekly tradition.”

“I’m not intruding, am I?” He seemed worried all of a sudden.

“No,” the other three were quick to assure him. “Besides,” Snow continued, “it seems like you're fitting right in. You two seemed to be getting on well,” she added with a wink.

“Too much, Snow,” David muttered beside her, focusing on clearing dishes.

“What? I’m just saying—”

Gently, David placed his hand over hers and found her gaze. It was pretty obvious again to imagine the private conversation they were having, but it still made Emma feel like she was invading their privacy, so she went back to picking at her pie crust. A glance at Killian saw him doing the same.

After a long awkward silence that the couple was completely unaware of, David removed his hand and started gathering plates. “Well, I mean what I said,” Snow continued, albeit a bit less forcefully. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

“I appreciate that,” he said softly, blushing a bit if she wasn’t mistaken—it was hard to tell in the shade of the umbrella if it was that, or just overheating. “I’ll be sure to bring better beer next time, too; is this really what you Yanks consider good ale?”

“I heard that!” David shouted from the open kitchen window.

“‘Yanks’?” Emma teased. “You sound like you just got off the boat from England.”

“I did,” he quickly replied. “In fact, it’s still docked in the harbour.”

“It’s been—what, a month?” Snow added.

“About that, yeah,” he confirmed. “And I still haven’t managed to find anything better than barley water to drink.” He glanced down at the label of his beer. “Sam Adams? Sounds like a ponce.”

“Mm, those are fighting words around here,” Emma threw back with a grin; she hardly even noticed how fast, or how easy it was, to slip into banter with him. “And I think we already know who won that war.”

“Yeah, but we got the good beer, so it’s probably a draw.”

It was kind of amazing how quickly they fell into casual conversation, especially when she usually hated insincere smalltalk. Killian was funny and charming, and despite the apparently short time they’d known each other, always had a ready quip for David. It was kind of adorable seeing the way his eyes sparkled and the fine lines next to them crinkled as he laughed.

Wait, what? Admitting he was attractive was one thing—not like anyone could argue against it—but...being endeared to him? That was a whole other level of nope she didn’t want to deal with.

But then he told another joke and that concern was put back on the backburner.

Eventually, the evening wrapped up, and Killian cited work as a reason for leaving early. She kind of felt bad—ever since she’d mentioned the weekly tradition thing, she could see an uneasiness in his eyes that told her he felt like he was trespassing; she knew it because it was how she felt in most of the actual family homes she’d been in growing up, and for a long while at the Nolans, even after the ink dried on the adoption forms. 

“I hope he didn’t feel like he had to leave,” Snow said, echoing Emma’s thoughts, while the two of them were doing the dishes—with no more threat lurking, Emma had removed her other glove and her jacket, finally feeling a bit cooler. “He’s still so new here, and I don’t think he’s had time to make many friends yet.”

Part of Emma wanted to protest on his behalf—she still remembered being so overwhelmed by the Nolans initial drive to introduce her to anyone and everyone; even to this day, she only maintained a few good friendships and only a handful of casual ones. If Killian was as skittish or uncomfortable in that regard as she was, he wouldn’t want to be paraded in front of half the city.

But she also knew how good it was to find that kind of connection and support with someone like she had with Snow; they were close even before the discovery of her and David’s soulmate status. Emma didn’t doubt he had friends back in England, but having someone stateside would no doubt make the transition easier; it definitely would have as a kid.

“Well, at least he’s got us,” she finally answered. 

Friends. She could totally do friends.

Right?

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

thanks for reading! Hope you stick around for the next couple chapters!

tagging some peeps: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @fergus80 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @pirateherokillian @bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @killianmesmalls @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @stubble-sandwich​ @killian-whump​ @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @idristardis

[aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaoldretired]

I would like to hear about the punny girl

hnng thank you

i present you: kanon fukuda the ultimate filmmaker. do you get the pun?

kanon is my best girl. her backstory isn’t anything too like. angsty bc i know some can be angsty but her’s isn’t supposed to be about that. she grew up as the only child in a middle-class family with two parents who were confused by her hobbies and love of film but very supportive. also they grow to feel bad they gave her the name kanon bc all the jokes but it’s ok she kinda likes it kinda hates it. she actually got into filmmaking because she had an older cousin who acted as a sibling figure, and they would make home movies together. kanon would throw herself into her movies and kept producing and producing as fast as she could. eventually, she started entering them in both national and international youth film competitions and began winning titles. it’s at this point when she was scouted and started making professional short films. she had just finished working on her first feature-length film, which early reviews were calling her magnum opus to date, and exciting work from an up-and-coming filmmaker. 

the reason why kanon chose to attend hopes peak is that her older cousin died in the tragedy. she doesn’t know they died. she just knows they went to school and never came back, and the family keeps it hush-hush. besides the promise of success, she mostly wants to find out what happened - she assumes it was a bad accent or suicide but oop! additionally, kanon chose to attend because her feature film is to release to the public soon, and she wants to be occupied during this time to take her mind off of the reception. 

while kanon’s family backstory is pretty angst-free besides the missing cousin, kanon is still suffering p bad. she is diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. but! (unlike p much every other character in the series, it seems) she treats her mental health through medication and regular therapy (until she’s trapped at school). she’s very open about her struggle with mental health and enthusiastically tries to get better. 

as a director, she specializes in dark comedy, parody, and farce. she likes irony, and can always see the twisted humor in a situation, no matter how dire. this issss about where you might start seeing her fatal flaw. 

kanon thoroughly subscribes to the idea that comedy is born from tragedy, and that the rawest types of humor come from pain. she is known for going off her medication during the production of films and making a martyr of herself, taking pride in her horrible sleeping and eating schedule for her art. basically, every film student i’ve ever met. 

she enters the killing game very upbeat. when she finds out the truth, she is very defiant, confident in their ability to escape. she is constantly cracking jokes about the situation and observational humor, and her ideas during the trial are generally very….original. she is known for monologuing and speaking in paragraphs. during trials, she creates elaborate example situations that might seem like they’re unrelated or inconsequential but morally always tie back in. queen of the non-sequitur. early game free time events/island mode would mostly be about movies and genre, with the occasional mention about working hard to be healthy again.

she’s pretty friendly with monokume, subscribing to the philosophy that if you’re kind to him, he’s more likely to do what she wants. she’s often the student who will ask monokume clarifying questions on school policy or for access to supplies. for example, i like to think she asks monokume to provide another student needed insulin. when monokume initially refuses, she goes into a tangential scenario where if this student dies, then isn’t monokume the culprit? he’d have to be executed for harming a student. and what’s this? monokume has been harmed? the person who harmed monokume must be punished. and go round and round in a helpless circle while the students figure out a way to escape. at this point, monokume provides the insulin.

 however, after watching the first punishment, she begins to be filled with a deep despair. she is already dispositioned for despair, given her incredibly unhealthy habits regarding her mental illness and success, but she tries to resist. she remains upbeat, but after the first punishment, her dialogue takes a sharp turn towards dark comedy and macabre. from this moment on, she’s also a lot more skittish and easily startled.

after the first trial on, she will always make a point for thanking the group for being a good group of friends and making the time in hopes peak as tolerable as possible, in case they end up choosing the wrong blackened and all get executed. at the third trial, she follows this speech up with, “but if i die, you are all fucking idiots, way to let me down.”

most of her dialogue is biting, and despite the horror and despair she is filled with after every murder and execution, she can still find ways to crack a twisted joke. occasionally she will have a moment of clarity where she is candid about her feelings. 

- one free time event could feature her talking about her feelings towards actions speak louder than words. her example is couples who say they’re dark and twisted like bonnie and clyde, but really they’re two losers into bdsm. if they’d just say they’re two losers into bdsm, she could respect them. she then explains how the statements of personality are more to convince themselves than anyone else. towards the end, she laughs to herself and explains how she totally screwed herself over because Kanon prides herself in her sense of humor, but if she ever says it aloud, she’s not funny.

- another free time event could be explaining her relationship with death. she’s not afraid of it, but she wants to die on her own terms. she admits to never seeing herself growing old, and that’s she’ll probably be a part of the 27 club if she keeps on the path of a celebrity. 

her condition keeps devolving as the game progresses. more dialogue can include wondering why she is still alive and trying to cover it as a twisted sick joke. she stays upbeat, but as time goes on, you can see she’s slowly getting tired and beaten down. she’s also starting to take pride in her unhealthy lack of sleep, eating, or bathing. 

it’s after the third execution does she actually show a true moment of despair. after the execution and the classmates are silently riding in the elevator back, she announces how she does not plan to live through the game. she does not see any possible reality where she will escape hopes peak. she does, however, make it clear that she will be dying on her own terms. she gives her blessing to the group that anyone can try to kill her, but be aware she won’t go down without a fight.

her free time events are filled with more raw emotion and despair with tinges of humor instead of humor with tinges of despair. 

- she elaborates on what she meant in the elevator as to die by her own hands. she does not want to kill a classmate because she knows her disposition could never handle the trial, let alone the killing part. but she also doesn’t want to die by her classmates without a fight. and she doesn’t want to commit suicide because she has too much pride while also being too much of a coward…

- she explains how this story could be a great script, really, if it weren’t all so real. this generation’s battle royale. she actually gives kudos to the design of each punishment and admits they are inspiring if she ever wanted to do a genre flip and become a psych thriller director.

- just. asking why she isn’t dead yet. why not her? why not?

i want her to be a pretty late game survivor because i think it’s impactful to show her fall into despair, which she uses to harm herself instead of others mostly. it is also after chapter three you truly get to see her martyrdom come out. she has slowly shifted from less of a friend and more towards an antagonistic role, not because she’s a threat, but because she’s literally so full of despair.

anyways. you see her talking to monokume while the rest of the group arrives. before the fourth trial, she does her normal thanking of her classmates and pulls the protag over to thank them personally for the good times and making it the best they could. the protagonist is suspicious of this behavior and wonders if she might be guilty, but the evidence points she is not. the class correctly votes for the blackened. while everyone is waiting for monokume to go forward in the punishment, they’re confused by the delay. monokume is fuming, and it’s revealed. there’s a miscount. one student purposefully chose not to vote, which is a punishable act. the student? kanon.

she always insisted she would die, and she would die on her own terms. she had created a narrative in her head where if she dies a martyr, she will always be remembered lovingly by her fans before any unfortunate career downfall. the director ahead of her time, and gone too soon. she became obsessed with this narrative around chapter three, and the third execution sealed the deal. by the time of the trial, she figured out she could die a death fit for a star while also dying on her terms if she willingly triggered a punishment. 

ive kind offfffff figured out what her last speech could be before her punishment? she explains how “comedy is derived from pain, right? and if i intend on being the greatest director of my time, i need to go through the most suffering. i was born to die a martyr, i was just hoping one of you would do the hard part. but since no one has the balls, you can all suffer with me. see you in hell shitheads” she then asks monokume if her cousin who attended here, were they killed or executed? (was it kill or be killed?) monokume thinks for a second and responds. she smiles and says, that’s all she needed to know. gives a wink to the protag and flicks everyone off as the collar yoinks her off to her death. 

punishment would probably be something with “light camera action” or “ready steady shoot” and be a LITERAL pun on the camera shoot. bc, she’s shot. alternatively, if i were to decide that instead of a generic dead body in the tragedy, she could be related to an actual main game character pref someone who was executed, she could have to play that part in the execution and die the same death, but this time with like. monokume film crew everywhere and actual monokume in the director’s chair with a beret. either is a fun idea.

____________________________________________________________________

i’m a film major, and her character is heavily based on the kind of students and filmmakers i see and work with. there really are people like this who believe suffering for art truly makes them better than others and will purposefully put themselves through psychological torment. additionally, i wanted to see a more realistic portrayal of mental illness and show a character who (at one point at least) treats and is trying to maintain health. in the end, kanon is a narcist who lets her ego get in the way of her wellbeing and success. 

also, kanon’s outfit is so stupid she has strawberry blond hair in a bob with like a widow’s peak, silvery-blue eyes, and wears a big flowy short sleeved button-up shirt, and olive-colored shorts. she has a big pair of aviators she wears tucked in the collar of her shirt, statement earrings, a pop watch, and lots of rings. and she is def not straight ut it’s not like she’s pursuing romance she’s pursuing death

[hutchhitched]

The Vintage Joshifer Series: End of Love—Chapter 19

End of Love by hutchhitched

A kazillion years ago, I started posting this story. I never intended for it to drag on this long in between updates, but life happens and so does writer’s block. I know there’s little readership in the Joshifer fandom anymore, but I needed to finish it. If you’re still around to read it, thank you. If you want to dive in, I’d appreciate it. You definitely don’t have to be a Joshifer fan to read it since Josh and Jen’s characters are historical actors and not versions of their modern selves.

Historical events in this chapter include the following:

Richard Nixon won the presidential election of 1968. He triumphed over Vice President Humphrey and third party candidate George Wallace, who famously defended segregation at the University of Alabama earlier in the decade. Nixon won by appealing to the Silent Majority, those who believed the radicalism of the 1960s had gone too far. During his presidency he worked to build a national Republican Party after it all but disappeared during the Great Depression during the 1930s. Nixon called this the Southern Strategy (downplaying civil rights by rejecting the GOP’s original stance of the anti-slavery party in 1860, when Lincoln won the election).

After winning the election, Nixon did stop further troop deployments to Vietnam and reduced the numbers already there. Instead, he instituted a bombing campaign of the Vietnam and neighboring Laos and Cambodia. This was called Vietnamization.

 Chicago, Illinois, November 1968

 “Hutch, what’s good?”

 “Andre, my man. It’s been too long.” Josh clapped his friend on the back and welcomed him into headquarters. Volunteers buzzed around them, and Josh reminded himself that spending time with a good friend in from out of town for a day was just as important as working to support the Democratic candidate for president—even though Josh was almost positive his party was going to lose the election.

 Nothing had been the same since Bobby died. The Kennedy magic was gone. Instead of the former Attorney General being the nominee, the current VP who was tainted by LBJ’s Americanization strategy in Vietnam would likely lose to Nixon. If that happened, and it almost certainly would, he knew the positive changes in civil rights and economic equality would disappear with when the GOP took power. It was beyond comprehension, but election day loomed in two days. Two days until the world fell apart.

 “Let’s grab lunch,” Andre suggested. When Josh hesitated, he offered, “My treat.”

 Reluctantly, Josh agreed, and they headed down the street to a local diner he and his friends had frequented during the campaign season. He settled into the booth and stared across the table at his friend. It had been too long. Since that night with the two girls. Before he admitted how much he cared about Jennifer. When he hadn’t sold out.

 “Fucking Nixon,” his friend swore, and Josh grinned. Leave it to Andre to put everything in the bluntest format possible.

 “What the fuck is ‘the silent majority’ anyway?” Josh asked with a roll of his eyes. “Too fucking scared to speak up for what’s right? Racist a majority of the time?”

 Josh was sick to death of Nixon’s campaign strategy—catering to what he termed the “Silent Majority,” a group the Republican candidate insisted comprised the bulk of American society and were sick of the protests in the country. Nixon argued conservatives who were okay with the status quo were the majority in the nation and only radicals demanded change from the government in treatment of women and minorities. It wasn’t true, but a lot of people bought it. Josh just assumed that meant most people were god damned stupid.

 No matter how hard he and other activists worked to right wrongs and get real democracy to win out against conservative assholes, they were met with GOP rhetoric that villainized the very people he’d marched with, who’d sat next to him in jail, who burned their draft cards along with him in unheard protests against American presence in Vietnam.

 Of course, the New Left had grown more radical, pushed for more change and faster, dropped out, doped up, and raged against Johnson’s administration. The problem was he and the other activists had worked and fought and hoped for real change, and the administration and rest of the nation was dragging its collective feet. Josh’s question was why hadn’t more people sought to right the wrongs he and so many of this friends saw as glaring inequalities that only weakened the state of the nation rather than strengthening it. It was time. It was past time, and he was getting really antsy.

 “So, how have you been? Really?” Andre asked. “The last time I saw you, you were hightailing it out of bed with two women in New Haven and coming here to get your girl. Seems like different priorities.”

 Josh shook his head and tried to work his mind around his friend’s words. He’d been feeling unsettled for a long while, but the conflict between him and Jennifer had been growing since the protests in August and her trip to Atlantic City to cover the pageant. He’d considered leaving while she was gone, but he couldn’t quite make himself slink away like a coward. He still had work to do in Chicago, and he loved his…whatever she was to him. They’d been living together for months, but he hated labels. She hadn’t pushed, and he’d been grateful for her willingness to let it go.

 But this election would change everything. He knew it, and he also knew he was biding his time.

 “I don’t know, man. It’s such a bad scene right now. Since Bobby and King and ’Nam and everything, this country’s a bomb.”

 “But you’re a good cat, Josh. You’re making things better.”

 Josh laughed and smiled ruefully. “Am I? It seems to me I’m getting laid a lot by a doll who works for the man instead of the people.”

 “Do you love her?”

 “I…” Josh paused and swallowed hard. He did. That wasn’t in question but admitting it was another thing completely. “She’s fab. She is.”

 “But?”

 “I should be doing more,” he admitted. “I don’t know what, but I keep feeling like I should bug out and work somewhere else. Or dropout all together. Go live with the beautiful people and leave everything behind. Get high and blitzed and commune with nature.”

 Andre took a bite of his burger and shrugged. “Sounds like heaven to me, man, but I don’t think you’d be happy that way. You’re going steady, right?”

 “I’m not sure—”

 “Hutch. Man. You’ve been shacked up with her for months. You’re not sleeping with anyone else. Tune in. You’re together, and you’ve been head over heels for her since college. Wake up,” Andre said, exasperated.

 Josh sat silently for several minutes as he processed the information. No one had forced him to face what was happening until now, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Jen left him the night of his graduation. Maybe he’d never really forgiven her for that. Perhaps that’s why escaping was always in the back of his mind, to punish her for hurting him so much. Or, it was also possible that he really wasn’t comfortable in such a position. He’d always been restless, always been someone who pushed the boundaries, and falling in love with Jennifer, who came from privilege and affluence, didn’t seem like it fit. None of this was fair to her, but that didn’t change how he felt.

 “Maybe I am,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure it’s enough.”

 “Then be up front with her once you figure it out. You both deserve that.”

 “After the election,” Josh breathed. “After Tuesday.”

 “By then we’ll know if the world’s ending or not.”

 “Right on.”

 ****

 The world ended. Josh sat on the couch in Jen’s apartment as the sun set and the room darkened around him. He’d chosen to watch by himself, unsure how he’d feel when Nixon and Spiro Agnew were declared winners and all the gains over the past eight years would be overturned in a matter of time. Jen was at work, covering local reaction to the election results, and he’d intentionally not watched with his activist friends. Hippies were either remarkably anti-political or flying high, and he needed to be lucid and engaged for this.

 Election results rolled in one after another, and none of it was good for the Democrats. Texas went blue, but the West went red. Big time. George Wallace stole the South for the Dixiecrats, who couldn’t reconcile themselves to JFK or LBJ’s Democratic party of Civil Rights but weren’t on board with the GOP either. A hundred years prior, Republicans were the party of Lincoln and “freed” the slaves.

 “People are fucking stupid,” Josh spat into the emptiness. “Racist fucks. God bless Texas for sticking it out.”

 One by one the states reported, and his hope for the future of his country sunk lower with each call for Nixon. At least there was hope for a pullout in Vietnam. That was big, but would that be enough to make up for what would happen domestically? If Johnson had been able to focus on his Great Society instead of getting caught up in Southeast Asia, things could have been so different.

 “Fuck the Cold War. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

 When Nixon got 270 votes, Josh lit up a joint and took a long, hard drag. He stared at the TV, the electoral map, the celebration in California at Nixon’s headquarters, the concession speech by Humphrey. His muscles relaxed, his mind wandered, and he turned off the part of him that cared. He started drinking next, and he was blitzed by the time Jen returned. She looked at him, her face a mask of concern mixed with a hint of fear, and he knew she dreaded what he already knew he’d have to do soon. He couldn’t stay. He just couldn’t. He already couldn’t breathe, and the election wasn’t even official yet.

 Jennifer curled up on his lap, and he let her undress him. He couldn’t move. His limbs weighed a million pounds apiece, and he couldn’t feel anything except despair. She kissed him, and he responded, but he didn’t feel anything.

 “Josh?”

 He heard his name, but she was a million miles away from him. Her voice was barely audible, and her face swam in his vision. He wanted to leave, to getaway, to run. He must have vocalized his desperation because Jen raised her hand so he could see her palm. Four sugar cubes lay there, and he breathed a prayer of thanks as he put one on his tongue.

 Josh had tripped before, but none of the other acid he’d taken had given him quite the same effect. The apartment bent and sparkled as the drug spread through his system. Jen’s eyes shone beams of sunlight, and he swore rainbows spilled out of her mouth and ears. He tried to swallow them, his mouth against hers, his fingers wrapped in liquid gold that flowed from her temples and past her shoulders. He was warm and flying and soaring above the earth, and he felt nothing except his skin against hers.

 Every nerve ending was on fire, and her fingers against his chest created bright purple sparks that exploded into golden stars. She straddled him and rocked against him, and he idly wondered why. His lap was warm and damp. His mouth swallowed the diamonds on her chest, hard and cutting against his tongue. Jen’s head fell back, and he realized the diamonds were tits. He bit down hard on her nipple, and she screamed. It sounded like a folk song, a call for peace and justice.

 She grew louder, and he sang with her. Her name fell from his lips, a litany of what was right with the world and everything that was dreadfully wrong. He needed her, and he had to escape. Tears streamed down his face and they glistened from her eyelashes. He palmed her ass and counted the contractions as she milked his cock. They were fucking, he realized. It felt like he was flying, but instead, he was shoving her onto the floor, bending her in half, and rutting against her.

 The floor underneath him shook and exploded into fiery heat. A vice gripped his cock. A melody of praise. Flashing lights. Unicorns flew by his head. His dad walked toward him, out of his wheelchair. His grandfather waved hi, even though he’d died several years ago. Josh wondered if he was going crazy, but he didn’t really care.

 Josh sat up, and Jen lay in a heap on the floor. His right hand jacked his dick mindlessly. It was wet and sticky, just like the puddle beneath his girlfriend. That’s what she was, he admitted. It was easier in his altered state, easier to accept the truth that they were together. She was radiant, skin glowing, as she watched his hand get faster and faster.

 When she spoke, it was in a foreign language. Urdu, maybe, or ancient Greek. Whatever it was made complete sense to him.

 “Jerk it, baby.”

 She reached over and took his cock from him, and he realized he was the one talking, not her.

 “I don’t know Urdu,” he slurred.

 “I do,” she said before swallowing him.

 Her cheeks hallowed out, and he fucked her mouth hard. He was crying, and she joined him as he thrust down her throat.

 “Did I hurt you?” he asked, although he was still inside her. He should have asked if he was hurting her because he hadn’t stopped. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to go.

 He had to. He had to. He had to. He had to.

 His body split in two. Part of him drifted up to the ceiling and danced there on happy feet. The other sank into the floor in a puddle of melted wax. Streaks of cream-colored icing decorated Jen’s face, and he leaned over to lick her cheek clean. It wasn’t sweet enough. Needed more sugar.

 They had two more cubes. One on his tongue. One on hers. They stumbled to the bedroom. He flew around the room, his wings flapping, circling and swooping and riding the currents. He landed on the bed. The lights went out. She was on top. She was on his face. He was in her mouth. Waterfalls. Waves. Giggles and jokes and mapping body parts with tongues and fingers and marking each other with bands of dried moisture.

 Hours and minutes and seconds and days and decades and centuries passed. No time passed at all, and then a curtain pulled behind his eyes, and he slept.

 ****

 The next morning dawned with a throbbing headache, aching limbs, and a broken heart. He opened his eyes, and he instantly regretted losing control so badly the night before. Their bed was destroyed. The sheets were filthy, striped with evidence of multiple orgasms. The room stunk like sex and piss. His mouth tasted as if something had died inside, and he wanted to murder someone when he saw Jen curled into herself.

 Josh hadn’t been in control of himself last night, and he was scared to death he’d hurt her. She didn’t warrant that. She deserved better than him. She should be lavished with only the best. He’d always been less than he wanted for her.

 He vowed to do better.

 ****

 On Inauguration Day, he wasn’t doing better. January 20 came and went, and Josh had spiraled into a mess. High every day, he’d fallen into a cycle of depression and spent more days on his friend’s couches than doing anything even remotely productive. He was twenty-five and hated what he’d become. He had a brief moment of clarity on New Year’s Eve when he was convinced 1969 would be a good year, but then Nixon took office.

 The new president catered to racist southerners and turned a blind eye to FBI stings targeting the Black Panthers. Riots broke out, more men came home in body bags, and women raged. Jen stayed busy at work, while he tuned out. He avoided his family and Jackson’s. He barely talked to Jen. He was a mess, and he knew it.

 A few weeks after the inauguration, Nixon announced a reduction of American troops in Vietnam, and his younger brother called him from Stanford where he was enrolled in his first year of grad school.

 “The son of a bitch did it,” his brother said when Josh answered the phone.

 Josh blinked rapidly and attempted to ground himself. He was high, as usual, and he found he needed to concentrate inordinately hard to understand what the words his brother spoke meant.

 “Did what?” he garbled and slid down the wall to sit on the kitchen floor.

 “Nixon. He’s pulling us out of ’Nam. We’re safe.”

 “Safe?” he asked. “Safe from what?”

 “What’s wrong with you, man? Are you tripping?”

 “Not today,” Josh sighed and grinned dopily at the wall. “Maybe tomorrow. Definitely was yesterday.”

 Connor grunted in frustration and snarled into the phone, “Have you been paying attention to what’s happening? We’re not going to Vietnam. No more new troops. A pullback of boots on the ground. They’re calling it Vietnamization.”

 “Yay, America…” Josh drawled and waved his finger in the air in celebration.

 “Come to Cali, man. I’ll help you get straight.”

 “Why bother?” Josh asked. “It’s all going to hell anyway.”

 “Just come,” his brother insisted. “I don’t know what’s happened to you, but you’re not the big brother I know. You wanted to save the world, not wallow.”

 “We lost. As soon as Bobby died, it was over.”

 “If you’re not here in four days, I’m coming to get you,” Connor threatened. “Mom and Dad don’t need to know about this, but I’ll tell them if I have to.”

 “Don’t tell them,” Josh entreated. “Dad can’t take the stress. I’ll be there.”

 “Four days.”

 Josh replaced the receiver and looked around the apartment. There were so many good things about his relationship with Jennifer. He’d loved her for a very long time, but he wasn’t where he needed to be—physically or mentally. He wasn’t an undergrad anymore, and he wasn’t doing anything to help the world. He was dragging her down, and the last thing he wanted to do was make life worse for her. Whether or not he liked it, Nixon was the president for the foreseeable future. Josh needed a change of scenery, and his kid brother was a genius. If anyone could help him get back on track, it was Connor.

 With a breaking heart, he entered the bedroom, grabbed a rucksack and started packing. He shoved his clothes into the bag but was careful to leave some of his things that Jen loved to wear when they were alone in their apartment. He grabbed a few books—his dog-eared copies of The Catcher in the Rye, Howl, and On the Road—and his toothbrush. He shuffled through a stack of papers and found his draft card, which he shoved in his front pocket. Once he got to Palo Alto, he and Connor could burn them together in celebration. When he had everything he needed, he grabbed a pencil and a notepad and wrote Jen a note.

 Dear Jen,

 I know you’ve been expecting this for a while, but I didn’t mean to leave while you were at work. I know I have to, though, or I won’t be able to walk away. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Berkeley, but I was too stubborn and terrified to admit it. You’ve always had the same fire as me, even if it’s been directed somewhere else than mine. I’ve lost myself. I’ve got to find the spark again. You deserve that. You’ve always been better than me. You shouldn’t settle for someone broken. Right now, I am. When I’m fixed, I’ll let you know. I love you. Don’t ever doubt that. You’ve been the best part of me for a very long time. I’m so sorry.

 Always, Josh

 He was crying by the time he finished writing. He’d put this off for so long because he wasn’t strong enough to leave, but Connor’s phone call had woken something in him he hadn’t been able to find for ages. He’d call her in a few months—once he had himself together again. He wouldn’t leave her without any word, the way she had with him. He wondered for a second if he was punishing her because of what she’d done, but leaving her was much more of a penalty for him than it was for her.

 He swiped at the note he wrote her, and the tear that had fallen smeared his name. He was already fading in this place. All that was left was to walk out the door.

 Just as he turned to go, he noticed a picture of her peeking out from the corner of her desk. Her long hair was down and falling over her shoulders in blonde waves. She wore a white, high-collared lace dress that made her look like an angel. He tucked the image in his wallet and grabbed his bag before slipping through the door and locking it.

 He was to the bus station within ten minutes and halfway across the state before she found the note. He was almost to California before she stopped crying.

[mobius-prime]

78. Sonic the Hedgehog #50/Sonic Super Special #6 - Director’s Cut

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Endgame Part 4 of 4 (For Whom the Bell Tolls!)

Writers: Ken Penders, Michael Gallagher, Karl Bollers, and Kent Taylor Pencils: Patrick Spaziante, Manny Galan, Nelson Ortega, Sam Maxwell, Dave Manak, Ken Penders, and Art Mawhinney Colors: Karl Bollers

Oh, yeah! I told you this was a landmark issue! Not only was it the big 5-0, but this issue was in fact rewritten and touched up some time later by Penders himself, into a "Director's Cut" printed in one of the series' Super Special issues! Hence why two issues are listed in this slot, and two covers shown. They got absolutely everyone on board for this one, because remember, they were uncertain if this would be the comic's final issue, so makes sense to go out with a bang, right? I consider the revised version to be "true" canon, since it fixes some issues to align with later continuity as well as expanding on some things that were poorly explained in the original, but for the sake of the analysis I decided to read both side by side and comment on the differences. Some changes are simply minor dialogue alterations and recoloring of certain panels, while others are massive additions and rewrites of entire sections. Let's do it to it!

The original's intro page is once again a recap of previous events, while the Director's Cut contains an opening statement from Penders expressing his excitement to be able to go back and perfect the original story. Say what you will, but I agree, the revision is far better, and I have to give him credit and recognize that yeah, him getting to do something like this for one of his stories really is a treat, both for the writer and for any fans reading it.

We open with a flashback. Julian (referred to as "son of Ivo" in the original and "of the house of Ivo" in the Director's Cut) is running through a swampy landscape, attempting to escape his pursuers, an indistinct bunch of shadows firing lasers at him. He falls into water and passes out, with his pursuers losing track of him… and two spiny figures find him facedown in the mud.

That’s right, Sonic's uncle and father were the ones originally responsible for finding ol' Julian and bringing him back to the king. Jules' kind heart wins out over Charles' more suspicious tendencies, noting that "his kind" - Overlanders, as he calls them - have apparently done some pretty awful things in the past. Well this is all very interesting stuff, isn't it? After all, the comics never went into Robotnik and Snively's species before now. The entire planet has always been shown to be populated with anthropomorphic animals, and yet these two random humans stick out like a sore thumb. Guess we're finally getting some information on how exactly that came to be.

The king gives Julian shelter after Julian reveals how much he knows about his own people, and thus quickly finds himself appointed King Acorn's warlord, commanding his troops in a battle against the Overlanders. How fascinating! Apparently the kingdom, shortly before Julian's coup, was locked in a different war, the Great War (which I think has been mentioned once or twice before now but never elaborated on), which is how Julian rose to power so quickly.

Anyway, all of this turns out to be a dream that Robotnik is experiencing while he sleeps in some kind of weird upright pod. I guess he's just too crazy for normal beds. In the original, swatbots merely wake him up to go about his day, but the Director's Cut elaborates on what exactly his morning entails. Apparently, the swatbots have captured an Overlander for him, and the poor victim's awaiting some "tests."

So wherever these Overlanders are residing (considering we've only ever seen Mobians so far), they knew Julian, but believed him to be dead, and they're familiar with the terrifying figure of "Robotnik." Robotnik is merely mildly amused at the Overlander's confusion and terror, and tests some kind of beam on him, causing him to disintegrate and disappear… oh, boy.

Back on the Floating Island, things begin to break into a fight again, only for Dulcy to get fed up and break things up.

Oh, so now not only can dragons sense truth, but they can't even lie themselves? Again with the eleventh hour superpowers, Kenders! With Dulcy's testimony, Geoffrey is finally convinced of Sonic's innocence, having really no choice, and together they make haste back to Knothole, where the situation has gotten dire. Everyone has been rounded up by swatbots and are being shuffled along to be roboticized. Tails and Rotor make an attempt to sneak away, but no dice with Drago overseeing operations.

In the original, we get a quick cutaway for one page where Crocbot is called by Robotnik and reports that he's dealing with a sudden prison uprising, but the Director's Cut gives us a lot more detail. Somehow, Bunnie and Antoine have gotten free of their collars and detonated Antoine's from a safe distance, making their guard think they've all been obliterated. (How this all went down is actually explained in a future issue - none of these escape from Downunda sequences were included in the original, so a later issue actually went out of its way to explain the whole thing. As a result, even though some detail is revealed here in the Director's Cut about the escape, there are still some blanks waiting to be filled in further on.) The freed prisoners soon find the other three members of the Downunda Freedom Fighters, and they head to the loading docks where Crocbot is overseeing the transport of the ore to Robotropolis. The Downunda Freedom Fighters cause a distraction, ready to get some much-needed payback on Crocbot, while Bunnie and Antoine make their way onto one of the shipping airbuses headed back to their own continent.

Meanwhile, Sonic, Knuckles, and Geoffrey and all his troops have arrived at Knothole, and well, cheers love, the cavalry's here!

While Drago attempts to make his getaway, the Director's Cut cuts away for one page to show Bunnie and Antoine stumbling upon a very interesting video log on board their airbus, in which Robotnik happily rambles on about his new "Ultimate Annihilator, " with which he intends to erase Knothole from existence entirely, followed by conquering the rest of the world unopposed.

Sonic pursues Drago, and in the original, he's knocked out not very far from the commotion by a rock thrown by an angry Hershey. However, the Director's Cut goes a little further. She lures him in by flirting, telling him that "What girl wouldn't want a winner…"

She basically straight up attempts to murder his ass in a screaming rage, which honestly, I don't blame her for one bit. She does indeed end up knocking him out with the rock, at which point Sonic arrives to observe the scene. She sobs and reveals her part in Sally's supposed death, to which Sonic merely replies that she shouldn't blame herself, because "we were all duped." While by now Bunnie and Antoine have arrived on scene (and thus so has the ore Robotnik needs to complete his Ultimate Annihilator), Sonic races toward his final destination - Robotnik himself.

He barely even stops to kick Snively out of his way, with Snively apparently quite determined to stop him from reaching his destination. Hey, what's up Snively? Didn't you want your uncle's plans to fail?

From here, I'll basically just be using the Director's Cut, since the ending sequence was so drastically changed for the better that the original isn't even worth our time. Sonic runs into Antoine and Bunnie in the halls, where they inform him of their plan to attempt to detonate Robotnik's weapon before it can fire. Sonic races to buy them time, but as the pair reach the cannon…

There's still a chance! That was only the initial activation! Come on Sonic, you can get there in time! He races into Robotnik's room with seconds on the clock…

Unfortunately, sometimes, even Sonic's speed isn't enough.

I feel like if there was any moment that Sonic would have let out a precision F-bomb, it would be now. First this kid lost his girlfriend, then everyone he ever loved was wiped out in an instant. Damn, dude…

Things aren't over, though. Bunnie and Antoine plant their bomb anyway, and as Sonic races for Robotnik, an alert announces a catastrophic system crash, with the Annihilator set to explode and hit the war room directly - right where Sonic and Robotnik are standing. Both stand facing each other. Surprisingly, Robotnik isn't even angry. He merely states that he's gotten to see his plans finally come to fruition, and that the only thing he wants now before he dies is to finally kill his most hated nemesis.

And so, as the Annihilator fires, they fight - and the explosion hits them.

We get a full blank white page after this. Just empty nothingness.

Then, a hand shattering through. A torso. Somehow, incredibly, Sonic is alive, and has broken back through oblivion to collapse in the rubble of the war room. As he loses consciousness, voices call out, noticing him and racing to get him immediate medical attention.

He wakes up several hours later in bed, and to his shock, Dr. Quack is there - as well as Rotor. He's in Knothole. Knothole! The Ultimate Annihilator did indeed hit the village, but it didn't destroy it as monitors seemed to indicate - rather, strangely, it catapulted the place three hours into the future, in its own little pocket zone. New zones have begun to emerge all over Mobius as a result of the Annihilator's explosion, in fact. Dr. Quack explains how this happened - as it turns out, Snively was indeed plotting his treachery from the beginning of this adventure, and Robotnik was so caught up in his success that he had no idea. Dr. Quack had watched, as he looked after the crystallized king in captivity, as Snively had made his own little "adjustments" to the Annihilator - causing it to target only the organic matter of Robotnik himself, leaving the rest of the inhabitants of the world unharmed.

And, oh, right, almost forgot. Sally's alive.

Sonic races out of the medical ward to see her, finding her memorial "coffin" in a field, lying undisturbed. He opens it and kisses her cheek, quietly begging her to come back, admitting that he loves her. And her eyes open. The original merely moves on to the final page from here, but in the Director's Cut, we finally get what we shippers have been waiting for this whole time - the Big Damn Kiss.

*wipes tear from eye* And that's it! We've reached the end of Endgame, and thus the end of the comic! Well it's been a wild ride, everyone, but I guess we're - wait, what? There's more? 289 issues more, you say? Well, I guess it's a relief the comic didn’t end here after all! There're so many more loose ends to tie up and explore, new worlds to see… and a new era of the comic to enter!

Seriously though guys, let's hear it for this arc. I know some people who dislike it, but I honestly love it - I think it's one of the most epic, pulse-pounding, action-packed stories so far, and it's really the arc that finally took the comic from still hanging onto its goofy, episodic roots into something really special. Next issue, we enter the third era of the comics, where we get to see everyone explore a freed world, and an end to the war that's plagued them for eleven years. Our Brave New World awaits!

[thegoldendice]

Love Is A Battlefield

Fandom - American Horror Story 1984

Pairing - Xavier Plympton/Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - Suicide, Violence, Mental Heath Issues, Sexual Content, Language, Religious Content

Chapter - 10/12

Read on - ao3, ff.net

Fic Summary - The year is 1984. You're a poor student living alone in L.A., plagued by your problematic relationships with a false friend and a disturbed ex. You meet Xavier Plympton, an aerobics instructor with a dark past, at the gym where you’ve taken a reception job. You quickly develop feelings for him, and you learn to your relief that he likes you too. Soon a deadly series of events befall you and the people in your life. Overwhelmed by tragedy and with your blossoming romance cut short, you are left a wreck. Six years later you discover that while Xavier is dead, he hasn’t quite departed. You soon realise that if you are to be with him and finally achieve true peace and happiness, you must take your own life and become a Camp Redwood ghost.

Chapter Summary - You grudgingly leave camp for a short time so you can buy the supplies that will help you facilitate your change to permanent Redwood resident.

“Did I ever tell you how much I like your earring?”

“No.” Xavier's voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Did I ever tell you how much I like your face?”

You blush, turning your head to nuzzle into the hand that Xavier has raised. His fingers rest on your jaw, his thumb traces the line of your smile.

“I will understand, if you don't come back—“

“I'm coming back, Xavier.” You interrupt, trying to suppress the exasperation you feel, knowing that Xavier can't help but doubt you even now.

The wooden sign that denotes the entrance to the camp creaks above your head. The morning sun already splits the ground and a bead of sweat trickles down your spine. You try desperately to muster the strength to turn and walk away from your love. Knowing that you will see him again soon doesn't help. He has been wholly responsible for bringing joy and meaning back into your life, and to leave him, even just for a few hours, feels torturous. The trees murmur around you, singing songs you don't understand. Xavier lowers his hand.

“Go.”

You have no response, unable to acknowledge the finality of saying goodbye. You look into Xavier's eyes. Tears fill them, matching your own. You smile and turn, walking quickly.

“Hurry back!” He calls, voice breaking a little.

You look back over your shoulder, making sure to appear happy. You give him one last smile, nod, and then face forward in order to run to your car, tears flowing freely at last.

~

It was far easier than you thought it would be to sell the car. It's a piece of crap, but the first dealership you happened upon in the first town you came to deigned to take it for a hundred bucks. You could have shopped around, but you were desperate to complete your tasks and get back to the camp. You assumed that $100 would be enough to buy your supplies, plus a few little extras - a couple of new items of clothing for Xavier and Montana and second-hand copies of your favourite books. Your original plan was to also procure a cheap TV and VCR, and some tapes of movies that have come out in recent years. You know for a fact that Xavier would get a kick out of the Ghostbusters sequel, but you just don't have the time or the funds. You can always describe the movie to him.

After a successful thrifting trip, you head to a drugstore. You have no idea if there are limits to the amount of non-prescription drugs a person can buy. It's one of the things you neglected to find out about during your past forays into suicide planning. You always just assumed you would be at home when the time came, and have access to your mom's drug cabinet. You have decided to visit several drugstores, just to be safe. You have to run back into the final one, having almost forgotten the antihistamines that will ensure your stomach doesn't try to rid itself of the other pills you intend to take. Your final purchase is alcohol. Your hand quivers slightly as you reach to pick up a bottle of vodka. It feels very real now, but you don't doubt that you are doing the right thing. You think of Xavier and it fortifies you. You've had to use the last of the money you brought to L.A with you, as the cash from the sale of your car ran out quicker than you thought it would. Hitch-hiking back to Redwood won't be fun, but what else can you do?

Sitting at the side of the road back out to the woods, backpack stuffed with supplies, your mind drifts to last night when Xavier took you, upon your request, to see Ramirez. You watched from the far corner of the dank, gloomy cabin that held his trapped soul. Faint wisps of black smoke surrounded his dead body as he came back to life. He wasn't given a chance to talk before Montana stabbed him in the heart with a kitchen knife.

“You're lucky I've lost my taste for killing.” She'd smirked at you. “It used to get much messier than this, right baby?”

Trevor had grinned at her in response, causing you to shiver slightly. You'd left then, heading back to the cabin you'd been sharing with Xavier, not feeling entirely convinced that Montana had in fact lost her love of gruesome killings. Xavier had followed you at a slight distance, only speaking when you were both back at the cabin, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“Are you okay?” He asked, concerned.

You nodded.

“I don't like the thought of you killing. I know he's evil. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it. It's more the thought of you relishing in taking a life.”

Xavier was silent for a minute, considering.

“It was a distraction, I guess. I thought I had nothing else to be here for. I won't deny that I enjoyed it. I was so bitter Y/n. I tried so hard, at the end, to be good. I saved fucking Margaret all for her to kill me anyway.”

“I know.” You responded sadly, reaching for Xavier's hand. “It's over now. You have me. It may not be much but I hope that me being here will help.”

Xavier took a deep breath, squeezing your hand.

“It’s everything. Please don't ever doubt that. Obviously, I still have to take my turn killing him, I swore a pact, but it's just a chore to me now.”

“Maybe I will get to a point where I will be able to help you or at least keep you company?” You offered, timidly.

Xavier raised your hand to his lips and kissed it. “No pressure.”

You are pulled out of your daydream when a car draws up alongside you. A middle-aged woman with a kind expression rolls down her window and asks you where you are headed.

Time to go home.

~

You spot Xavier before he catches sight of you. You are touched that he waited right where you left him. He's sitting against the low wooden fence at the side of the road, drawing swirls in the dirt with his favourite knife. He'd be difficult to miss, the neon, mesh vest that only he would wear catching the eye a mile off. The sight of him sends a thrill of delight through you. You don't think you'll ever stop finding him beautiful. He looks up, hearing your approach, and rises with a wide grin spread across his face.

“Told you I'd be back.” You say as you approach, trying not to run and dive on him.

You are not given the chance to speak again, as Xavier promptly wraps you in his arms, covering your face with kisses the moment you pass under the Camp Redwood sign. He presses his lips hungrily against your own, and before you know it you are swept off of your feet.

“You're not seriously planning to carry me back to the camp are you!?” Your voice is full of incredulous laughter.

“Shut up.” Xavier grumbles, before kissing you again.

You allow yourself to be carried all the way to your cabin, where your joyous reunion lasts for several glorious hours.

Notes: I left Y/n’s favourite books unnamed and open to interpretation.

Please note, the next chapter will include the actual suicide, I don’t plan on being overly descriptive but please avoid if you think it will bother you.

[darylwillfightnatureforcarol]

Imprisoned Chapter 12

Description: Originally intended this to be the last chapter, but I'm planning an epilogue. It will be set a year after the events of the story.

Imprisoned

Their ride was quiet, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. They were both exhausted by the events of the night. Every so often Carol would look at him to smile sleepily. She was going to crash hard as soon as she got a pillow under her. He only hoped the revelations she had made to him won’t have changed in the morning. She seemed to be sure that wouldn’t be the case, so he had no option other than to believe her.

They didn’t encounter any walkers along their way, thankfully. They could have handled them, but they were both too tired to have to deal with the dead.

Upon their arrival to Alexandria, they were quickly allowed entry. They rode in, parking the horses just inside the gates. A stable hand came to fetch them, and Daryl thanked him before returning to Carol’s side.

She stood looking anxious with her bag slung over her shoulder. She was looking around wildly, taking in all the changes that had been made over the years.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked her in concern.

She gave him a weak smile and shifted her weight on the spot.

“I’m okay, just been a while, you know?”

Daryl nodded in understanding. She hadn’t been back to Alexandria since she had run away six years ago.

“Come on,” he said with a nod of his head.

She fell into step with him, still glancing around every so often.

“You guys have done a lot,” she commented as they came to a stop outside of a house. Namely, the house he shared with Michonne, Judith, and RJ.

He paused to look around himself, unable to view the place with the same wonder she was. He had lived here too long. He shrugged.

“We all did our part.”

Carol nodded and looked at the house they stood in front of.

“Is this your place?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yeah, I guess. Been staying here. It’s really Michonne’s place and Judith and RJ’s,” Daryl explained, while chewing his lip. He didn’t really think of the place as his home. It was just where he slept right now. He had learned many times that homes could be lost as quick as they were found. Better not to get attached to a place.

Carol followed him up the stairs and in the front door. He didn’t hear any sign of life so everyone must be in bed already. Not a strange thing considering how late it was.

Daryl paused at the stairs. One set ascended and one descended to his little basement room.

“Uh, there’s a spare room up there. Don’t know if the bed’s made up or anything, but there’s probably some blankets in there you could use.”

Carol frowned as he rambled.

“Where do you sleep?” she questioned with tired eyes.

“Uh, downstairs in the basement,” Daryl answered stupidly with a furrowed brow.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother for you or anything, but I was hoping…” Carol trailed off, wringing her hands.

“What do you want?” he asked, cutting off her tirade.

“Can I stay with you?” she asked in a small voice. She looked like she was bracing herself for rejection.

“’Course. Come on,” he answered, feeling his face grow warm.

They headed downstairs and came to the simple door of his room. He opened it and indicated with his head for her to go ahead.

He jumped when he heard Carol makes a noise like a squeak. He followed into the room, looking for the sign of her distress. He relaxed immediately, seeing Dog jumping all over her, trying to lick her face. To her credit, she was laughing and petting the exuberant dog’s head and ears.

“C’mon, get off of her,” he commanded the mutt, wrapping his arms under Dog’s legs and pulling him away from Carol. Dog whimpered but pulled away from him to settle on the couch.

“He’s okay. He’s just excited,” Carol defended as she smiled fondly at Dog, who was panting happily.

Daryl just grunted in response, moving to the table to ditch his bow. He had left it on the cart at the Ball, with reluctance.

“This is nice. Very you,” Carol teased with a smirk as she looked around his small room.

He scoffed at her and pulled the jacket, that Aaron had made him wear, off. He tossed it on the back of the couch carelessly.

“Well, there’s the bed. Make yourself at home. I’m going to shower,” Daryl said to her, pointing out the unused bed on the opposite side of the room. He preferred the couch. It was easier to get up and go at short notice.

“Need some company?” she teased with a raised eyebrow.

Daryl’s face blushed red as it always did when she teased him. He huffed at her and shook his head.

“Stop!” he protested with a groan.

This set her off into her usual giggles.

He grabbed up a change of clothes and disappeared into his tiny bathroom.

--

He had showered longer than normal, enjoying the hot water soothing his tired muscles. Trying not to think about the woman who would be sharing his room. That was a normal thing. Trying not to think about Carol while he was in the shower. He found it disrespectful to her to think of her in such a way, but he could guiltily admit that he had slipped a few times. Every time had left him feeling a deep shame.

He was extra gleeful to rid himself of the uncomfortable clothes Aaron had forced on him. He tossed them to the floor of the bathroom, uncaring what happened to them. Aaron would be too hungover to give a shit in the morning anyway.

He donned a pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless t shirt. He didn’t wear these often. He mostly would sleep in his clothes, so he was prepared in case he needed to leave quickly. Tonight, he caved and decided to relax a little. Carol was here and everything felt right in the world, at least for now.

He re-entered his room, seeking her out with his eyes. He smiled as he saw her curled in a little ball on the bed. At first glance he figured she must have fallen asleep, but as he took more steps into the room, she sat up a little to look at him. She grinned at him as she looked him up and down. He blushed for what must be the millionth time tonight.

“Wow, and here I thought the shower was your sworn enemy,” she quipped.

“Shut up,” he muttered shyly as he shuffled over to the bed to sit on the edge. He looked at her and she had resettled down on the bed, looking at him from her place on the pillow. She smiled again.

“You look cute like this. Fresh out of the shower.”

“Stop,” he scoffed his usual response to her teasing.

“I mean it,” she reaffirmed with a softer look in her eyes. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He just looked down, feeling his face burn.

He heard her yawn and he smirked as he turned to look at her again. She tried to cover it up uselessly. She gave him a sheepish look.

“Think it’s time for bed for you,” Daryl mused as he watched as she struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Not tired,” she tried to say but it was ruined by another yawn. She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Fine, maybe a little tired.”

Daryl snorted at her childishness.

“Get some sleep. We can talk in the morning,” Daryl said, and he stood, ready to leave to head to the couch. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

“Where are you going?” she asked with a pout. Daryl stared blankly for a beat before recovering.

“To sleep on the couch.”

Carol frowned and tugged him forward. He stumbled a little, in his tiredness, catching himself with his hands in the edge of the bed.

“Stay with me?” she begged in a small voice. She hadn’t relinquished his hand and she had begun tracing patterns over it.

What else could he say?

“Alright,” he agreed, and she released his hand so he could get into the bed on the other side. His heart was thudding loudly in his ears and he felt stupid for being so nervous. They were only going to sleep. It wasn’t the first time he had slept beside Carol. But those other times, they had been surrounded by other members of their group. This was the first time where it was just them.

Daryl lay on his back, looking at the ceiling. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her for some reason. He figured it was the nerves that were going haywire inside of him. He felt and heard the blankets ruffle as she moved closer.

“Daryl,” her voice came from close to his face. He turned his head and there she was, almost nose to nose with him.

“Yeah?” he prompted, looking into her eyes. Hers flickered up and down a few times and after a minute he realised, with a shock, that she was looking at his mouth.

“Will you kiss me?” she asked in a child-like voice, full of vulnerability. Daryl swallowed heavy, feeling like his heart had leapt up into his throat to choke him.

“You sure you want that?” he couldn’t help asking. He kept expecting her to tell him that all her earlier confessions were blown out of proportion and she didn’t really want him. She licked her lips, once again looking between his own lips and his eyes.

“Yeah, I really do,” she said in a firm voice, looking completely sound of mind, despite her intoxication.

Daryl tried swallowing again and found he didn’t choke like he expected. He wet his lips, feeling himself shake. He looked down at her lips, noting how soft they looked. He closed the minute distance between them and brought their lips together gently.

It was barely a brush, but she sighed with a tiny smile. He pulled back a little to look at her, wanting to see her eyes, to know he hadn’t fucked it up. She looked happy, that was a good sign. Her hand came forward and brushed the damp hair from his forehead. She leaned in and kissed him this time, firmer in her touch. She coaxed his lips open with her own and brushed her tongue against his. He groaned deep in his throat and immediately felt embarrassed for the unwanted sound.

As much as he wanted her to never stop kissing him, he knew he needed to stop this. He pulled back reluctantly, hearing her sigh with disappointment. He gave her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I know, you want to make sure I mean it,” Carol said with an understanding, but sad smile. “Just know that you better make it up to me when I feel exactly the same in the morning.”

She said the last with a sing song in her voice and Daryl chuckled at her.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll see.”

Carol yawned again and snuggled down into her pillow, facing him.

“Goodnight,” she mumbled, her eyes struggling to stay open. Daryl smiled at her.

“G’night.”

--

When Daryl opened his eyes groggily, taking in the bright sun that seeped through the curtains, he frowned. Why was he in the bed? He never slept in the bed. He started to sit up but quickly stopped.

There was a weight on his chest, holding him down. He looked down and saw the top of a head of silver. He sucked in a breath. Carol was laying on him! When did this happen?

Daryl lay stiffly, not wanting to wake her. For one thing she needed the rest, but also, he had no idea what to say to her. For all he knew, her confessions from the night before could have been nothing but an alcohol fuelled misunderstanding. That would tear him apart.

Maybe it would be better if he escaped now while she was asleep. That would give him time to think and her time to come to terms with her regrets of what happened. There was no way she could have really meant to kiss him.

He started to shift out from under her, trying not to jostle her as much as possible. He froze when she groaned and curled further into his chest. He held his breath, hoping she was just adjusting her position in her sleep.

“Daryl?” he heard a sleepy voice call. He winced. Of course, she was awake.

“Yeah?” he responded gruffly, feeling his nerves building up inside him.

“Do you have any painkillers?” she groaned, and he couldn’t help the laugh that burst from him. Her words succeeded in breaking through the tension he felt.

“Gonna have to let me up,” Daryl told her with humour in his voice.

“Mm, no, I like you being here,” she protested, and he felt her soft hair brush the underneath of his chin.

“Well, I can’t get ‘em with my mind.”

Carol sighed and then rolled aside. He immediately missed the weight of her on top of him. He pulled back the covers and started to get up, but he was held up by her hand on his wrist. He looked at her in question.

“Make sure you hurry back,” she ordered with a little smirk. She released him, and he was thankful for the moment to breathe.

As he took the steps required to reach the table where most of his stuff sat, he thought on her behaviour this morning. So far, it seemed like nothing had changed. She was still acting like she had before they had gone to sleep. Did that mean it wasn’t all due to the alcohol? He retrieved a bottle of aspirin and then grabbed a glass and headed to the bathroom to fill it up.

He moved quickly back to the bed and handed her the bottle and glass of water. She smiled as she took them from him, proceeding to open the bottle and shake out two pills. She swallowed them and chased them down with the water.

“Thank you.”

Daryl just nodded in response and sat on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t look at her again. He was waiting for her to say it. Waiting for her to tell him to forget about everything that had happened last night. That it was a mistake.

“Daryl,” she said in a coaxing voice. He steeled himself and turned to face her. She was giving him a little smile with an unreadable look in her eyes.

“I think you owe me something…” she trailed off, her smile widening.

Daryl frowned at her, not getting what she was talking about at first. Then it clicked. She had made a bargain with him that if she felt the same in the morning, he owed her a kiss.

“You really mean it? All of it?” he couldn’t help asking. Her expression softened and her smile was more sincere.

“I really mean it. I want you.”

Daryl had no idea where it came from, but suddenly there was no space between them, and he was kissing her with everything he had. He didn’t know if he made the move or she did, but he didn’t care right now. All he cared about was feeling her lips against his own and feeling her respond to his kisses with as much fervour and desperation.