#I still cry when listening to certain Low Roar songs

[leodoodlesstuff]

your true thoughts

they can’t be heard

they’re too beautiful for words

[e-jaegerenthusiast]

U&I; bully!megumi

warnings/tw; smut, orgasm denial, oral (both f and m receiving), unprotected sex, cockwarming, slight degrading, overstimulation, squirting, slapping, creampie, stomach bulge, slight blood, fluff towards the end (sheesh that’s a lot💀)

(all characters are of age)

bully characters event w/ @angedelouvre <3

summary; you always tried to understand him, what you didn’t know was that he was obsessed with you, not knowing how to show his love.

w.c; 5.0k

(based on the song U&I by the neighbourhood)

there were many occasions where people would call you naive. your small group of friends, your parents, even strangers of all sorts. they called you naive because they knew you had a choice.

they knew you could just report him to your teachers, school council or, principal even. they knew you were holding back. many times you felt shame, embarrassment, sheer humiliation. the venom in his voice would tug at your heartstrings and threaten to poison you. but you knew you were already poisened.

you asked yourself the reason to being quite. especially the times when he would hurt your feelings to the point you would think of reporting him. it would be a thought shimmering around your head, circling until you felt dizzy to the brim, tears threatening to spill. but you wouldn’t cry. you knew you were stronger than that, you knew you could handle it. you had enough practice thanks to your family anyway.

your problem was that, you were too understanding.

too empathic. your heart felt bad for the boy. you had done your research on him. knew that his mother was dead. knew that she probably died due to the not-so obvious criminal acts of his dad.

his dad was threatening. you only saw him once or twice at school, on rare occasions it was that he would drop his son off with his black heavy-duty ram. as if he couldn’t get any more intimidating, he had a scar across his lips, frown on his face, bored look in his eyes, thick muscles and veins gripping the steering wheel.

your eyes would dart to megumi, as he would get out the car, closing the door with force you knew wasn’t needed. the noise echoing through your ears as his dad would reciprocate with the sound of the heavy engine speeding off. your lips would form a thin line, thinking if that’s the tension between them without any words, what hell was it at home?

would they scream and shout at eachother? break things? would his introvert and brooding sister get caught up between the two hot-headed men? would they not even talk? as deadly silence fills the whole house?

you would be brought out of your thoughts and snapped back to reality as fushiguro would walk past you, light scoff leaving his velvet lips. looking at you with a frown as if you were below him. as if you were ought to be ashamed for staring at him. as if you didn’t have permission to. the threatening look in his dark blue eyes would raise the beats of your heart, yet you wouldn’t look away. you knew you would pay for it later anyway.

you would watch as he walked away, your eyes darting to his hair. noticing how it wasn’t styled and spiky today as it is normally. his hair was almost messy, as if he wasn’t bothered to do anything with it. a few strands covered his forhead, making him look almost.. soft. you internally laughed at yourself for ever associating that word with the boy.

you would zone out all day in your classes, thinking of all the possibilities. thinking of what life fushiguro had to live at home. trying to understand why he would act the way he did. why he felt the need to bully you, no. you hated that word. you hated what it implied. you would like to believe he would only pick on you. maybe you were in denial. that’s what everybody would tell you. even your brain, telling you that you like to be his punching bag.

so what if he had issues at home? so what if he had self-issues and most definitely daddy issues? that would be no reason to hurt you. a girl. no, that would be no reason to hurt anyone. that’s what the rational parts of your brain would tell you. the other parts, the more naive and dumb parts, would tell you you want to help him somehow. even if he got some sort of relief by hurting you. you would want to help him.

you didn’t know why you would sacrifice your mental and emotional well being for a boy like him. but something pulled you in. he was like a damn magnet. a negative one. and you were the positive. that’s all you would think about sitting in physics class. but the negative and positive should attract eachother. then why were you the only would attracted? were you?

your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing sound of the bell, everyone picking up their backpacks and leaving. you would always be last to leave the classroom, sometimes staring too hard out the window, getting lost in your thoughts. there was something peaceful about an empty classroom, a place that was always constantly filled with noise and people, now quite.

you sighed as you picked up your bag and slowly started making your way out the classroom, you had a free period now, which you would usually go and have lunch with your friends in. however today you were feeling nauseous, not really in the mood to chew or even swallow anything.

as you opened the class door, making your way to the empty halls, you felt a strong pair of hands grab on to your shoulders, making you flinch. they pushed you back into the classroom in a flash, you were now pushed up against the classroom wall, door closing shut by itself. as you tried to calm your breathing and opened your eyes, you saw the familiar dark blue ones staring down at you with a glint of madness swimming in them. you wish you could swim in them.

your heart started beating faster. how did he know you took this class? you looked down at his hands on your upper arms, hissing as you looked up at him with your eyebrows furrowed, as if you wanted to tell him it hurt with your eyes. not wanting to talk. he slightly loosened his grip on your arms. but still keeping his big hands on you. as if to remind you, to make you aware of his intimidating presence.

he spoke through his teeth, with the same venom in his voice as always, “what the fuck were you doing watching me this morning?” he searched your eyes for an answer, yet the only thing he saw was his own so called hate in them.

you batted your eyelashes slowly, “I- huh?”

his grip tightened again in a mere second, pushing you into the wall as you winced, your back hitting against the hard wall. “don’t fucking bullshit me, l/n. you come to school from the other side, what the fuck were you doing on the east side where I get off?” 

you closed your eyes and tried to control your breathing. not wanting to break beneath his firm touch and voice. you spoke in a low voice as you looked down, “..I was— waiting for a friend that gets off there.”

you felt both his hands let go of you, dropping by his sides. you felt his fingers on your chin, making you flinch visibly, his brows furrowing at you as he made you look up to his eyes.

your eyes darted all around his face, his cheeks looked so soft, his lips pressed together as his face was dangerously close to yours. you finally looked up to his eyes, they were as if searching for something within yours, you bit on your lower lip, his hand left your chin. muttering “liar.” before he swiftly got out, leaving you a mental mess in the empty classroom.

•••••••••••••••••••••

the day passed quite slowly, it seemed like every hour was adding a new weight on your head. you picked up your bag and left your last class, gaze on the floor as you thought about a certain raven-headed asshole.

you weren’t feeling like going home, you’d usually go home after the sun sets, listening to music and biking around. your parents could care less anyway, busy with their own bickering. you walked to the school parking lot, trying to get to your bike.

a tall figure caught your attention as he was leaning against a tree, the shadow of the big willow covering his face. your eyes darted to the willow tree, the cool breeze making the leaves swish from side to side. willows, hope. belonging. safety.

you walked towards the tree, the bike stands being right next to it. you glanced at the boy again, almost gasping as your eyes locked with the same blue ones from earlier today. he walked towards you, hint of a smirk on his face. you swiftly tried to untie your bike and leave. not wanting any more conflict, you thought you couldn’t take it.

he grabbed on to your arm with a tight grip, your eyes shooting daggers at him, “let me go.” for once, venom filled your voice. he gave you the most shit-eating grin, “I wanna talk to you, bunny.” you tolled your eyes at the unfamiliar nickname.

you felt rather bold today, the blood in your veins rushing to your ears as you raised your voice, “let me fucking go. go and release your daddy issues somewhere else, fushiguro.”

he raise his brows, “the sweet innocent girl is swearing at me? insulting me? you seem to forget who you’re talking to, sweetie.” his grip on your arm tightened as he pulled you away from your bike before you could undo the restrains. he started pulling you towards the parking lot.

your legs walking for you at this point, you dumbfoundedly followed him as he kept tugging on your arm. almost throwing you when he let go, his voice filled with anger, “get in.” he said as he got into a black hellcat charger parked in the parking lot.

you stood there, the rational part of your brain practically yelling at you to not get in a car with your bully. but your legs were already walking for you before you could listen to your own warnings.

the smell of cedarwood and musk hit your nose as you sat down in the leather seats next to him. looking out the window, you huffed. crossing your arms as the car started with a roar, “where are we going?”

he glanced at you from the side of his eyes, “shut your smart little mouth.” this time, his voice wasn’t filled with the usual venom, it had a hint of..playfulness?

you dropped your hands in your lap and fidgeted with them, tapping one of your legs against the floor of the car slowly as he pulled out of the parking lot snd onto the street. that didn’t go unnoticed by fushiguro, his eyes darting to your fingers and your bumping leg, piecing together that you were indeed nervous.

he spoke in a low, menacing voice, “I’m not gonna kill you, don’t worry.” you looked at him with this, letting out a dry chuckle, “oh! like that makes it sound less-creepy!”

he didn’t say anything as he smirked and sped up. the car hit a speed bump, his arm shot to you, holding it infront of your form as to shield you like a seatbelt, his bicep pressing into your chest. he removed his arm after a few seconds as fast as he had brought it. your cheeks grew red, putting on your seatbelt, not wanting that to happen again. or did you?

he turned on the car’s radio, and put on a song with a few swipes of his slender fingers on his phone. the screen lighting up and reading “Softcore—The neighbourhood”. your scoff at the universe being hidden as he raised the volume and sped up again.

the ride to wherever he was going was pretty long, at some point your eyes drooping from the tiredness of the school day, but immediately opening back up as you didn’t trust the boy enough to be unconscious around him.

after a few minutes, you arrived at lookout. he got out the car, and sat down on the hood. you sighed, and got out after him. the view of the city was breathtaking, the sun hiding under the clouds, a few minutes away from setting down completely. the sky a mix of purple, pink, and orange.

you stood by the car door, watching the view as he glanced at you, a ghost of a smile at his lips.

you took slow steps towards him, standing next to the hood of the car yet not sitting down beside him. you moved your eyes from the view and to his face, the sunset had painted his face a faint orange, the dark blue of his eyes almost looking brown. you sighed for what seemed to be the umpteenth time of the evening, “why did you bring me here, fushiguro?”

he turned his head to you, motioning for you to sit down next to him. you did. but he stood, moving to stand infront of you, his face being much higher than yours than it usually is. his glanced moved between your lips and you eyes, “I fucking hate you, angel.”

before you could react, he leaned down swiftly, catching your lips in his, putting one palm on the hood of the car next to your thigh and placing the other on your cheek, holding you as his soft lips pressed against yours. his cool cedarwood cologne filling your nose as it pressed against his.

you suddenly came to your senses, hitting his chest with both your hands, looking up at his now lust-filled blue orbs. he took your wrists and placed both your hands around his neck as he leaned into you again, this time you felt his tongue against your lips, begging to enter. you refused, that was until his hands went to palm your ass on the car, making you gasp as he slid his tongue into your mouth.

your tongue slowly moved against his, yet he still dominated your mouth. your hands starting to move on him, one going to grip his bicep and the other intertwining in his soft hair, you were so thankful his hair was soft today for whatever reason. no hint of any of the excessive gel he uses to hold up his spikes. as your hand easily glided through his raven locks, he grunted into your mouth, moving closer to you, opening you thighs with his hands so he could stand in between them.

you pulled away, your lungs not the only thing threatening to combust. a string of saliva connected you both until his ragged sighs and breaths broke it. your looked up at him, your eyes swiftly switching between each of his eyes. he looked down at you and blinked slowly, suddenly pulling you flush against his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around your figure, face burried in your neck.

you slowly wrapped your arms around his waist, snuffling against his chest as it smelt heavenly. he groaned. you pulled back, looking up at him with a confused look, until he motioned his head downwards between the both of you. only then you realized something hard poking at your thigh. your face grew red as you burried you head in his chest again, feeling a deep chuckle come from it. he spoke in a deep, throaty voice against the shell of your ear, making you shiver, “are you a virgin?”

you moved away from his chest, looking up at his dark eyes, the sun was almost completely behind the horizon now. you slowly shaked your head, blushing. he smirked, “you naughty little thing.”

before you could say anything else, he picked you up by your ass, your hands going to tighten around his neck and your legs around his waist. you could hear one of the car doors open as your buried your face into his neck, smelling his cologne, something you clearly couldn’t get enough of.

he sat you down on the edge of the backseat, the car door still open as he knelt down in between it, looking up at you with soft eyes. you felt a lump in your throat as you started to get anxious. he realized it too, his burrows furrowing as he put his hands on your kness, his thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs. “what’s wrong, baby?”

your heart threatened to convulse at the nickname, sucking in a breath before you slowly spoke, “are..are you going to..use me? and- and then—“

he cut you off as he squeezed your thigh with one hand, and put his other palm on your cheek. “don’t say that..please.”

you didn’t know if he was genuine or not, his gaze holding an unreadable expression. but you fell for him anyway. you knew you were going to be at his mercy and do whatever he asks of you.

his eyes searching for something in yours, you nodded your head against his palm. at that, he gripped your legs and pulled you forward even more, your ass just barely on the seat of the car. his slender hands trailed up your thighs, long fingers resting on the waistline of your pants. your breaths were messy and uncollected as he slowly slid your pants down to your ankles, his gaze landing on your slightly damp underwear.

he licked his lips. the action being too intriguing for you, you leaned down, grabbing a hold of the back of his soft black hair as you smashed your lips against his. at first, he was surprised and didn’t move, then he started meeting your hungry open-mouthed kisses to his lips, tongues fighting like a tug of war.

he eventually pulled away, a slight smirk on his face “such a needy little slut, hm?”

you bite your lip as he leaves wet kisses on your lower thighs, inching closer to where you needed him most slowy. he looks up at you, and oh lord you could probably cum on the spot from only his gaze. you bite your lip harder. with the action, he let out a deep growl, biting harshly on your thigh, sure to leave a mark. he soothed it with his tongue and he spoke, mouth coming of your skin with a ‘pop’, “don’t you dare hold back your moans,” he pressed more wet kisses to your thighs, occasionally sucking and nibbling on the soft skin. “been wanting to hear em’ for so long, don’t hold back baby.”

little pants and sighs started leaving your mouth, your hips slightly bucking, trying to find some friction with the edge of the leather seat beneath you. fushiguro noticed, of course. his hands came to grip your hips, holding you down firmly as he tutted. “don’t be bad now. patience, angel.” you whined at his words, a low chuckle leaving him as his hands now gripped the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling it down.

you pressed your thighs together, nervousness creeping up your veins. he looks up at you with his dark blue eyes which looked black as the night before you. “c’mon now, lemme see that pretty pussy, yeah?”

you hesitated. he didn’t, gripping your thighs tightly as he pried your legs open. glistening cunt bare to his eyes now. he licked his lips, something you could get used to.

he pressed soft kisses on your inner thighs as he moved closer, hot breath fanning over you cunt. you clenched around nothings as he pressed a soft kiss on your clit, you bit your lip again.

a sudden sharp sting on your clit from his teeth made you scream, looking down at him as he hummed around your lips, gaze never leaving yours. you knew what he meant. he wanted you to be more vocal.

his tongue flicked around your sensitive clit, making you squirm beneath him as you started letting out quite moans, spurring him on to him against your clit as he attacked you with his tongue. his hums would spur you on to moan more, making him hum more. it was a whole cycle of the two of you getting lost in eachother’s sounds and pleasures.

as soon as your moans turned into whines and your thighs began to slightly shake against his hold, he pulled away, your wetness covering his chin and his lips. making him practically glow in the darkness surrounding you both. you whined, the knot in your stomach slipping from you and getting lost in his gaze.

he licks all around his lips, “you’re not cumming unless it’s ‘round my cock, angel.” his gruff voice making you shiver. with that, he stood up, making you lay back in the car seats. he hovered over you, one of his legs still out of the car, as his other leg was in between yours. he brought his lips down to yours, tongues instantly linking together as he hummed in your mouth. you could taste yourself on his tongue, your hands went to his neck and hair, slightly tugging on the black locks.

with a firm grip on his hair, you brought your other hand to his shoulder, pushing him down to sit, his back against the closed door of the car, one of his long legs stretched out on the seat and the other rested in a normal seating position on the floor of the car.

he furrowed his brows at your boldness, lips giving you a soft, lust-dazed smile. you put your hands in his thighs, slightly tugging at his pants. he lifted his hips to take off both his pants and underwear with a chuckle. you wanted to hear that sound forever.

the whole time you looked at his face, kind of intimidated to look down, as he finished and looked at you, he raised a brow, “It won’t bite y’know.”

you slowly looked down, your eyes widening at his length. his cock was pretty. he looked long, very long— maybe more than 7’. the head of his cock was flushed a pretty dark pink, slightly darker than the rest of his length. precum leaking down his dick from the tip.

the sound of another heavenly chuckle of his brought you out of your daze, he waited patiently for you. not trying to push you. was this the fushiguro you really knew? how was he being so soft? so kind almost?

you moved your hand towards him, gripping his length as he hissed. you pumped him slowly, his eyebrows furrowing and mouth hanging open as he let out ragged breaths and threw his head back.

you could easily say he looked the prettiest right now. so you did, “it’s so pretty.”

his dark eyes moved from the ceiling to you, raising a brow as he tried to smirk, you hand tightening around him made him wince instead.

“p-pretty?” he said in a shaky voice, almost making you chuckle. you smiled and nodded your head. if you weren’t in pure ecstatic bliss right now, you would believe fushiguro blushed at your words.

you slowly leaned down to his cock, he held his breath as your soft lips pressed a kiss to his tip. you circled your tongue around his head, his thighs slightly shaking at the action. soft pants leaving his plum lips.

you slowly took him in your mouth, less than half of it barely fitting before it hit the back of your throat. you looked up at him, he was biting his lips, looking down at you. you disconnect from his cock with a ‘pop’, a few strings of saliva around your lips as you licked them, “wanna hear you too.” you said softly, he nodded swiftly, wanting you to continue your previous actions.

you licked a strip all the way on the prominent vein showing at the side of his length. he winced in pleasure, moaning as you took him in your mouth again, bobbing your head up and down in a slow pace.

he gave out a slow whine, his hand moving to your shoulder, pulling you back from his now saliva-covered cock. his face scrunched as he took deep breaths, “i’m c-close, don’t wanna cum in your mouth.” you looked at him dumbfounded, he gave out a low chuckle, “c’mere.” he shifted on the car seat, sitting down completely and pulling you into his lap.

he held your chin, bringing your lips down to his, you melted into him, letting him dominate your mouth with his tongue. you gasped and moaned as you felt him shift, his cock sitting right at your entrance. he looked up at you, holding your hips, “gonna put it in slowly, kay?” his velvet voice making you shiver, you nodded. feeling his tip between your folds, you moaned, hands tightening on his broad shoulders.

he slowly pushed you down onto him, filling you to the brim. you screamed from the stretch, your eyes squeezing shut as he shushed you and drew small circles on your hips with his thumb. you opened your eyes, lids heavy on lust, your teeth pressed down so hard on your lower lip it drew blood. he leaned forward, licking the blood of your lips, then pressing his lips softly to yours.

you made out as his cock still sat in you, unmoving. you could feel him twitch against your walls as you bit on his lip while pulling it. he looked down between you, “fuuuuck,” you looked to where his gaze was, slightly confused. you saw what he was gawking it, his long cock made a bulge in your stomach, you clenched around him involuntarily, making him hiss as he spoke through his teeth, “if you clench around me one more time i’m going to cum without having fucked you.” there was venom in his voice, but it was delicious, you wanted it. you were insatiable.

you clenched around him, this time on command. he groaned as he pressed down on the bulge his cock made on your stomach with his slender fingers. you felt warm liquid fill you up, you moaned, as he started fucking into you, the sound of skin slapping filling the car.

you could feel his cum from a few seconds prior leak onto his thighs as he kept fucking into you, with a bruising pace. you screamed as his hand landed a harsh slap on your ass, kneading it with his palm to soothe the pain, “fuck—fuck, fuck i told you i’d cum, now you’re gonna have to take it.” you clenched around him with his words, cumming around him with a loud whine as he slapped your ass again.

his movements didn’t falter for a second. fucking you through your orgasm and after it, your hands pushing away at his chest pathetically, pulling a menacing chuckle from him as he held your arms as you shook.

you had barely came down from your high when you felt him slap you other ass cheek, thrusting into you harder than before if that was even possible, his balls slapping your ass with each movement, your thighs shaking. “f-fushiguro—“, he grunted, “megumi. say my name.” you shivered, “m-megumi!!” a chant of blabbers leaving your mouth as he fucked you dumb. “that’s right angel.”

he buried his head into your neck, you could feel his hot breaths on the shell of your ear, his movements slowing down, or so you thought. he started a different pace, instead of fast thrusts, he gave you hard ones, pulling out of your ruined cunt slowly and thrusting back in harshly after a few seconds.

both his palms went to your ass, holding your cheeks to move you with them, he spoke into your ear with a thrust of his hips, “i want you to know,” another hard thrust, making you scream, he spoke with a deep voice, “i need you to be,” another thrust, he groaned as you clenched around him, trying to suppress your moans so you could hear him. “i need you to be—fuck-argh-someone for me in my life,” you wrapped your hands around his head, his mouth leaving sloppy kisses on your neck as he thrusted again, “i can’t— i can’t let you g-go.”

your hand tugged on his hair, and that was his breaking point, cumming into you again as he thrusted, his thumb going to rub on your clit, making you cum with a scream as you tightened around him. your whole body shaked as he held you close, your pussy gushed from the overstimulation, your fluids covering his abs in a glistening sight.

you stood like that for a while, embracing eachother as your bodies cooled down. after a few seconds, he helped you get off of him, cleaning the both of you with a few tissues as he handed you your clothes.

you didn’t know what you were now, you just knew you were happy. you were happy when you screamed out the window of his car, his hand resting on your upper thigh as you urged him to shout at the empty road too.

you were happy when he got you both food, eating together as you laughed and talked. you were happy because you felt safe.

safe to just talk for hours with him about your fears and the things you’re ashamed of.. hours of pure vulnerability with him, and when you would look up, expecting the worst. you would feel his lips against yours.

only one thing bugged and ate away at your head when he dropped you off at your house, making you still your hands on the doorbell,

he never apologized.

•••••••••••••••••••••••

© all content belongs to e-jaegerenthusiast, do not repost or copy any of my work

aaaaaa i hope you guys enjoyed this one <3

it took me a long time to write phew~ my first actual fic posted~

part 2

xxxx

[jekacatrina]

Fate don't know you like I do

Hello, guys, have this super cheesy and self indulgent piece I wrote for Bakudeku day! I'm so happy to be part of this fandom and all the wonderful content creators out there, so here's my little contribution, enjoy! I wrote it super fast so sorry for any mistake or typo!

Also, the title is a song I love, please check it out, it inspired the whole thing!

Izuku wakes up to the sight of his bedroom ceiling, body aching and mind restless. He’s no longer wearing his hero suit, except for the undershirt and his pants, everything else is gone. Slowly, the yells of the crowd infiltrate his thoughts and he wishes to run away, to go to where he can’t hurt anyone he cares about.

He has to leave. He is being selfish. Izuku props himself up on his elbows.

“That’s the face of a rabbit ready to bolt,” the gruff voice startles him, and he turns to see Kacchan sitting on his desk, frowning. It adds up that they wouldn't leave him without someone standing guard.

Kacchan has changed out of his hero suit, and a dark grey long sleeved t-shirt hides the bandages on his shoulder and stomach, but Izuku is keenly aware of the wounds he was sporting as he flew around trying to keep him from leaving. By the end, his childhood friend was bleeding through them. That was Izuku’s fault; both Kacchan reopening his injuries and the fact that he has them in the first place.

“Kacchan, I'm so-“

“Save it, nerd,” he abandons the desk chair and shuffles closer.

Izuku takes him in; after weeks of agonizing over the state in which he left Kacchan, seeing him do a perfect arch in the air and stop a villain with a precise AP Shot, filled him with a relief so strong, it paralyzed him, and he was only able to stare in awe.

During the following fight, if Izuku can call it that when it was against his friends, Kacchan was everywhere; coordinating different maneuvers, and he even had a new move. Izuku told his friends they couldn’t keep up, and he remembers vaguely that he apologized, because in reality they’re miles ahead of him.

Still, nobody is like Kacchan: certain and absolute, pure will held together by his convictions. He never backs down, and he never gives up, only marches forward. Izuku never stood a chance against him, in more than one way.

Kacchan kneels by the bed, putting an elbow on the bed, close to his hips, and lazily resting his head on his hand.

“Kacchan, I can’t stay here,” he mumbles, trying to convey all his inner turmoil. He wants to stay, he is so tired and scared, but he will not risk anyone for his sake.

Kacchan frowns in response.

“You can, and you will, dumbass,” he states, surprising him by clutching his forearm. “I’m not chasing your sorry ass around anymore.”

“Then let me go,” Izuku turns his arm, grabbing him as well.

“You’re not going anywhere, Izuku.”

The name travels through his body, lighting him up on the inside, coursing through him with the violence of the first time he used One For All, equally exhilarating and terrifying.

It all comes back to him; the rain, his words, his bow, Izuku collapsing and Kacchan appearing in time to support him.

Izuku.

“You apologized,” he whispers, tears coming to his eyes. “You said all those things in front of the whole class.”

“I had to, asshole, you left before I could tell you in private,” he doesn’t look embarrassed or regretful. Kacchan doesn’t shy away from his decisions once he makes up his mind. “Only a shitty letter for explanation and that was it.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t even let me go with you, idiot.”

“You’re still dealing with the outcome of the last time I let you come with me.” The tears are running freely down his cheeks. “I had to watch how he almost took you away from me.” He scrubs his eyes furiously with his free hand, not letting go of Kacchan. “I can’t allow more people to suffer because of me.” He’s on his way to a full on breakdown, struggling to get air in his lungs, and blood roaring in his ears, the noises muffled.

Suddenly, Kacchan is hovering over him, shoving his shoulder firmly.

“Hey, Deku, scoot over,” Izuku only glances at him through his crying, baffled. “Give me some room to lay down, like when we were kids.” He’s already in the process of climbing on the bed, and Izuku manages to slide his body closer to the other end, grabbing the bed cover when the weight of his childhood friend laying down almost makes him roll over him. “Jesus Christ, you stink,” Kacchan complains.

“I know,” Izuku turns on his side, creating more space between them. Hygiene wasn’t that high on his list of priorities, not even eating or sleeping was, and he feels awful. He didn’t have the energy to shower before passing out.

“You smell like dirt and sweat.” Kacchan scrunches up his nose. “Worst of all, you reek of that goddamn martyr complex, and it pisses me off.” he turns too, and traps Izuku in his red gaze. “If you’re choosing to ignore all I said before, at least pay attention to the last part.” He’s not sugarcoating his words, he’s as brash as he always is. “We all want to fight, because we’re heroes and we want to protect everyone, including the fucking chosen one, whether you want us to or not. I’m not asking for your damn permission, and neither is any of the rest. So, you can either play nice and make it easy for us, or be a self-sacrificial idiot, making it all the more annoying. Your call.”

“I don’t know how to stop,” Izuku grimaces, reaching for him with a shaky hand, and awkwardly squeezes his arm. “I’m not ignoring all you said, Kacchan” he chooses to focus on that, gaze in his All Might covers. “I, I forgave you a long time ago, mostly because I wanted to focus on the good parts, so in a way I let go of it for me.” He forgets about his smell, and scoots closer, resting his forehead close to his shoulder. “But thank you, Katsuki.” He hasn’t said that name in ages, but that doesn’t come from any animosity on his part. Kacchan has always been and will always be Kacchan. Izuku feels him move as Kacchan places his chin on top of his matted curls, and they stay like that for a while, with their past laid to rest at last.

Kacchan speaks up first.

“Listen, Deku, everything is getting pretty fucking real,” he pauses for a moment. “Shit is really dangerous for any of us, but for you it is like a thousand times worse. Your ass is a fucking death magnet, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“One For All is a big responsibility, Kacchan, but it’s not yours.” He does his best to keep his voice low and soft, the weight of the legacy crushing him.

“The Hell is not!” Kacchan retorts vehemently. “You made it my deal the moment you told me!” Izuku winced. “What’s up with that? Wasn't that the biggest secret ever? Are you that much of a blabber mouth?”

Izuku clutches his arm harder.

“I wasn’t going to let you think I lied all those years.” He explains, and in a moment of bravery, he continues. “I’ve never been anything but honest with you, Kacchan.”

The anger in his voice disappears as fast as it came.

“I know that, idiot.” His bigger hand finds Izuku’s hip. “One for All is your responsibility, but you are mine.” Izuku is pretty sure he stops breathing. “Since we were fucking four years old, and you were this quirkless little shit that wouldn’t quit chasing after me, no matter how much I pushed you away.” Kacchan scoffs and his breath tickles him. “Well, congrats, dumbass, now you have me and I’m not going anywhere.” His heart flies to his throat and doesn’t let any word come out. Kacchan growls, clearly bothered by his silence. “All for One VS One For All is the fucking shit show for the ages, and of course you, Deku of all people, have to be right in the middle of that crap.” He talks through clenched teeth, and Izuku longs to soothe him, but there’s nothing he can say to fix the situation. “All those who fell against that fucking maniac and now you have to-” Kacchan chokes up, and punches Izuku on the arm. “Whatever, there's nothing I can do for those nobodies that came before you, but you have an advantage over them.”

“What’s that?” He whispers in a small voice, not believing he is having this conversation in bed with his childhood friend.

“You have me,” Kacchan utters, and Izuku feels like he hit him with an explosion, sweeping his feet from under him. “Just let me set something straight, Deku, I’m not going to be your fucking sidekick, you hear me? You watch my back and I watch yours. I don’t trust anyone to keep up with you.”

I don’t trust anyone else to protect you.

“Kacchan-”

“You deal with this crap once and for fucking all, Deku, and we come up on top.” Kacchan declares, Izuku can hear the smirk in his words, and he has to smile back. “I don’t settle for anything but the best, and taking down fucking evil incarnated, I’m in, Deku, I’m all in.” He disentangles them, leaning back with a vulnerable expression, and offers his hand for Izuku to clasp. “What do you say?”

Izuku wants to say no, push him away from danger and lock him somewhere where he is going to be safe, but he knows Kacchan. He is determined, stubborn to a fault, and braver than anyone he has met. If he sets his mind on protecting Izuku, nothing is going to stop Kacchan, not even him.

That’s why Izuku loves him like he does.

In this space, with just the two of them, Izuku can be honest with himself: He is scared, and he has been for a while.

Scared of not living up to All Might’s hopes.

Scared of never mastering this power.

Scared of letting down all the people that gave up their lives to take down All For One.

Scared of being the wrong choice.

At the end of the day, Midoriya Izuku is terrified of not being enough.

In the midst of all the fear and doubt, he sees Kacchan; the person Izuku admires the most, the hero he has chased since he was four years old, and the driving force behind his progress. Kacchan, who knows all of him, and understands him because he sees Izuku for who he is, all the good and bad parts.

His Kacchan, who is now offering to help him and ease his burden, risking his dream, his precious life in the process, to stay close to Izuku and protect him.

A part of him, the one that imitates All Might, is screaming at him that he has to reject the support, to do it on his own. He should hold the weight of the legacy by himself. However, the other part of him, the one that believes Kacchan is what victory looks like, tells him he isn’t All Might and he doesn’t have to be.

He is Midoriya Izuku, and he is allowed to live his life and fight his battles on his terms, just as Kacchan does.

He clasps his hand, and Kacchan smiles, without a trace of mockery or anger, just plain happiness and relief lifting the corners of his mouth. Izuku hasn't seen him smile like that in years, and he needs to say something. He means to say yes to his offer, maybe thank him, but what comes out instead is:

“I love you.”

The punched out gasp that Kacchan lets out shocks Izuku more than his confession does. He can’t believe the words he has hidden for so long in his heart escaped that easily. More shocking is the fact that he doesn’t want to take it back. Even if he is scared of many things, Kacchan isn’t one of them. Yes, Kacchan frustrates him, he worries him, and makes him nervous, but Izuku is not scared of him, never has been. He can die any day now, any of them can, and he is done with silencing his feelings.

Kacchan is not screaming or scowling, neither he is leaping out of the bed and running away from him, so Izuku would say he is mostly stunned, although he doesn’t see why. His feelings for him are a key part of the person he is. Izuku admires him, cares for him.

Izuku loves him.

“Do you mean it?” The question seems to pain him. He hasn’t released his hand.

“Yes, Kacchan.” Izuku is not hiding it, not anymore.

“After everything?”

The words strike his heart and cut deeply. Izuku doesn’t hold any grudge or resentment, and he can’t tolerate the idea of Kacchan thinking he can feel something for him despite their past.

“Because of everything, Kacchan,” Izuku replies, touching their joined hands with his forehead, shying from the red eyes. “The past doesn’t disappear, but that’s not our present, and definitely not our future.” He takes a deep breath to calm his heart. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t say it to get an answer.”

“Deku, you can do so much better,” Kacchan says, bluntly.

Izuku doesn't let the obvious rejection deter him from speaking with the truth.

“I don’t see how,” he stares at him, mustering a wonky smile. “You are you, Kacchan; you’re brave, honest, loyal, brilliant, and hardworking.” The words spill without filter, and he drinks the sight of his pale skin blushing. “It’s not about doing better, just who I choose, because when it comes down to it, I chose you a long time ago, Kacchan.”

Kacchan tips his head up, the blond strands cloaking his eyes. Izuku refuses to regret coming clean about his feelings, but as the silence grows between them, he starts to fidget. Little by little, he realizes the true weight of his confession, and the bridges he might be burning.

“This doesn’t have to change anything, Kacchan.”

“It changes everything, Deku,” he replies, not missing a beat.

Izuku curses his luck; it was just like him to confess his love right when Kacchan finally came back to him, something Izuku hadn’t dreamt in his wildest dreams. Dealing with these feelings much longer, when they are so powerful and consuming is not possible. Still, he should have tried, for the sake of their friendship.

A callous finger touches his chin, breaking his spiral of thoughts, and lifts his face. The fiery eyes are wide and defenseless, embers instead of the wild inferno Izuku expected.

The first touch of chapped lips is an awakening, and his first kiss is over before he can finish tasting it.

Kacchan leans back, and for the second time in his life, Izuku’s mind goes blank and his body moves on its own, chasing after him. Their second kiss is messy, they don’t have any experience, but Izuku is lost to it. He tries to commit to memory every brush of their lips and ragged gasps, how soft is his blond hair, and the feeling of fingers sinking in his curls, guiding the kiss.

They break apart, but stay close.

"You didn’t have to do that, Kacchan,” he says against his mouth.

“I never do shit I don’t want to do, Deku.”

Izuku grabs him again, bunching up his t-shirt, so full of love that he fears he is going to float away if he doesn’t get a firm grip.

“Deku, I-“ his voice quivers and Izuku kisses him again, softly and reassuringly.

“It’s okay, Kacchan, you don’t have to say anything yet.” Izuku told him because he wanted him to know, but he has had years to come to terms with it. He’s not expecting Kacchan to figure everything out right now.

“You better stick around after that, you damn nerd,” he touches their foreheads together. “Or take me with you. Two options, I’m magnanimous like that.”

Izuku giggles, the sound so foreign after the past weeks.

“Okay, Kacchan, for that I’ll stick around.”

“Or you’ll take me with you.”

Izuku is still terrified of anything happening to him, but he trusts him the most.

“I’ll stick around or take you with me,” he promises, and Kacchan nods satisfied, wrapping Izuku in his arms and hugging him closer. “I thought you said I stink.”

“You fucking do,” Kacchan says immediately. “When I think about this, the first thing that is going to pop into my mind is that my first kiss smelled like a wet dog.”

Izuku laughs until he cries, and Kacchan joins him.

At one point, his back is to Kacchan, and he’s playing with his hands. Izuku’s so relaxed his eyes are drifting close, sleep taking over.

“Hey, Deku,”

“Yes, Kacchan?” he says drowsily.

“You have magnificent taste.”

Izuku snorts, pulling his arm tighter around him.

“I’m going to sleep now,” he murmurs, and he jumps when Kacchan buries his face on the crook of his neck. “Wake me up if something happens.”

“You can trust me, Deku, nobody is going to pass through me.”

Izuku believes him with his entire heart, but he still chooses to only think and not say what crosses his mind before falling asleep in his arms:

I would die before letting anything happen to you.

[turquoise-stones]

Save Your Tears

Bakugou x Reader

artist link (a bit nsfw, careful)

Request: hello!! I would like to request a scenario with bakugo and the reader inspired in the lyrics of the song "save your tears" by the weeknd? only if u want of course 😊 angst if it's possible!

A/N: Okay I hope you like it! It’s not a songfic sadly cause I talk too much so it didn’t fit into a the song lmao. Listen on spotify or something cause I realized you can’t actually play a video and read on tumblr :/ Oh and ya’ll are aged up.

. . .

It was painfully stuffy in his blazer, and the ice in his liquor did nothing to help. If Kirishima hadn't of dragged him to this "Top Hero Get Together Party" on the threat that his connections would waver if he didn't attend, Bakugou was certain he would be home sleeping.

An exhausted sigh escaped his lips, and he glanced at the clock, wondering how many more extras he needed to interact with before he was allowed to call it a night and leave. Taking a sip, he winced as the alcohol left a trail of heat down his throat. He wasn't one to drink (he like to be in control of himself) but like most night for the past week, he'd let it slide.

Glancing bitterly at the swaying bodies on the dance floor, his eyes aimlessly searched the crowd again for your figure. But he knew it was pointless because you wouldn't be there, after all, you were never one for par-

Yet there you were.

The mass of bodies parted and for a moment his eyes locked onto your swaying form. The soft overhead lights made you look almost magical as they caught on the creamy material of your dress. The clench of his jaw slackened as you twirled, curled hair flowing out behind you and lips forming a sweet laugh that he could practically hear in his head.

He stood up rapidly as you slipped out of view, barely registering the annoyed grumbling of the bartender as he knocked over his glass. His eyes desperately scanned the crowd, heart suddenly beating painfully fast.

Right as he was about to push his way through the crowd, he spotted you again--and now that the initial shock was gone he noticed something absolutely rage inducing. The reason why you were dancing, the reason why you were smiling... was because you were with Midoriya. With Deku.

The jealousy that burned in his veins was indescribable. Why were you here with Deku? Why did you look so happy?

A low growl slipped from his mouth as Midoriya's hand traveled up to your back, dipping you down with the music. You were glowing on the dance floor, carefree joy practically radiating off you as you swirled. He selfishly wanted you to look at him, to show him that loving and adoring expression he hadn't seen in so long... The longer he stared, the more aware he was of the painful tightness growing in his chest. After all these years with you, did it really take nothing more than a month for you to move on? Were you... over him? Did you already forget?

He bit his lip, a flush of foolishness and shame washing over him. What was wrong with him? It was him that made the mistake, it was his fault that you were in the arms of another man. But by god did he regret it. He regretted everything. Maybe this was his punishment.

He had no right to be jealous, you weren't his to hold. At least not anymore.

As if you could feel his penetrating stare, you finally turned your head to face him. Maybe it was because he was so deprived of you, but the sight was intoxicating. You were beautiful. Even when you flinched and snapped your head away, you were beautiful.

Midoriya placed his hand on your shoulder, looking around for the cause of your alarm. Bakugou watched you shake your head, arms slipping off Midoriya's shoulders as you quickly walked away.

It hurt when he realized that just the sight of him was enough to make you run away. The things he would do to take all that hurt away...

He sat back down, glaring daggers at the bartender cleaning the spill of alcohol in front of him.

"Give me another one."

. . .

He exited the bathroom, letting out a low groan of pain as he subdued the rush of nausea that clouded his head every time he opened his eyes. What was he doing, getting wasted like some out of control teenager... He didn't understand why he couldn't bring himself to leave this damn party.

"Katsuki."

His head shot up, and he winced at the spike of pain that shot through him.

You were so close that he could have reached out and touched you. A pang hit his heart when he noticed how your eyes were puffy, and your cheeks were flushed in a way that told him you weren't any more sober than he was. It was impossible to resist the urge to stare when he hadn't seen your pretty face up close in so long.

"Fuck. (Y/n)."

"I... didn't think you'd be here tonight."

Bakugou let out a grunt, straightening up and leaning a shoulder against the wall for support.

"I'm surprised you're here too."

You let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing your arms self-consciously.

"How... how have you been?"

"Fine." He swallowed, throat dry.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Hmph."

"Did you... come here with anyone?" You asked cautiously.

"No. Unless you count shitty hair."

You let out a small laugh at the way he addressed Kirishima. As rude as it was, you had missed those stupid nicknames he had for everyone.

"I haven't heard much on the news about Ground Zero lately."

His heart thudded as his hero name escaped your mouth. It was true that for the first time in his life, he had been slacking in his duties. But still, the slightly mocking tone in your voice irked him. "Well it's not like I've been feeling like shit for the past month." He grumbled, annoyed.

The awkward tension resurfaced almost immediately. You stumbled for words but nothing came out.

"What about you?" He questioned, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"You're here with fricken Deku right?"

"Oh... mm yeah."

Bakugou hated the small smile that graced your lips. Why were you smiling for that fucking nerd?

"Why're you with him?" He tried his best to keep the hurt off his voice, but it shone through anyways.

"He asked me to come with him to... cheer me up."

"Are you with him now?" He asked coldly, in contrast with the burning jealousy he felt. The nerve of that bastard.

"No. We're friends." You said firmly.

"Fucking Deku of all people." He snarled. "Of all the shitty extras in the world you chose him."

"I said we're not dating!"

"Deku seems to want to think so."

"Stop! Are you seriously getting jealous!?" You cried in exasperation.

He twitched.

"Fuck yes I'm jealous!" He roared. "We break up and not one month later you're off dancing with that nerd!"

"He's not a nerd, he's a hero just like you and me!"

"Does he touch you?" He asked abruptly, the image of you looking so happy still seared in his mind. "Does he kiss you?"

"Why does it matter!?" You were starting to regret coming up to talk to him.

"Why are you with someone else!?"

"Oh, so I still belong to you!?" You roared back, alcohol fueling your sudden spurt of anger. "You threw away years of us just to fuck some sidekick!"

Deadened silence fell between the two of you. The moment the words left your mouth you wanted to take them back. The two of you had been through this already, all these words had been said before...

"I..." He faltered.

"So don't start." You said breathlessly. "Don't accuse me. You made the mistake Katsuki. I'm just trying to feel better."

He visibly faltered, jealousy ebbing off a bit when he caught the exhausted expression on your face. You looked up at him with a sigh, before joining him in leaning against the wall.

"I don't want to fight... I just want to talk about it." You murmured. "Now that we've had time to think."

An almost imperceptible flinch crossed his face.

"Shit, (y/n)..."

"Well?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." You took a breath. "I'll go first." You said quietly, not wanting to look at him. The utter rage you had felt when you first confronted him after finding out had dissipated with time, only to be replaced by sadness.

"I don't want it to be like this. But, you did hurt me. And I don't know if we can move past that."

"Fuck, I know." He groaned. "I know I screwed up."

You sighed, feeling the frustration prick at the corner of your eyes. Even now, it hurt to see him in pain as well. "But for some stupid reason, I still miss you. I should hate you for what you did, but for some reason I just can't." You let out a derisive laugh. "Isn't that stupid of me?"

You saw him bite his lip out of the corner of your eye.

"I've known you for so long Katsuki. That's why it hurts so much to know you cheated on me. But... that's also why I can't let you go."

You peeked up at him, watching the way his eyes softened at your words.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for... for cheating on you. And for running away."

"Why did you do it?" You asked quietly. His eyebrows tightened and he closed his eyes briefly before refocusing on you.

"I... I don't know."

"I think I deserve an answer."

"I was being an idiot." He grumbled, frustrated.

"You were." You let out a dry chuckle. "But I want a reason."

You waited but his furrowed brows told you that you weren't getting an answer.

"Was I not enough, Katsuki?"

"No." He said firmly, distress edging on his voice. "You were always enough."

"Then why? Why?"

"...you were on a long mission. I was having trouble sleeping without you. And I was frustrated with the job I was on. And my sidekick offered to take the tension away... and it happened."

"And then it happened again."

"...yes."

"And again."

"Yes."

"And again."

"(Y/n)..."

Your face was impassive as you took in his words. The silence that ensued was long enough to cause Bakugou to panic.

"(Y/n) say something." He said desperately, leaning down to try and catch a glimpse of your face hidden by your hair. Reaching out, he touched your cheek, flinching when he felt warm wetness run down his finger.

"Fuck, don't cry."

"I-"

"I'm sorry." He murmured, heart hurting at the sight of you. It was awful seeing you with Midoriya, but seeing you in tears because of his actions was so much worse.

You let our a choked sob, pushing his hand away. He caught on and didn't let go, even though you tried to jerk free.

"Why did you run away?" You asked angrily.

"What?"

"When I caught you. You couldn't even face me."

He cringed, remembering the terrible night you had returned from your mission early, ready to greet him at his agency with a surprise visit.

"I cried for so long you... you asshole." You cried.

"I was afraid of what you would say." He grit his teeth as he forced himself to tell the truth. "I was too damn guilty."

"You stupid idiot... you're such a fucking jerk." You cried, the broken tone of your voice not quite matching your words. "You promised you'd always stay."

"I know."

"You promised you'd always love me."

"I know. I did. I still do."

"Do you?"

"I'm sorry." He said, voice growing softer as he stepped closer again. "I never said it enough. I love you."

The two of you fell into silence once more, the quiet only broken by your occasional sniffles. Bakugou was about to reach for you before you spoke again.

"I want to forgive you." You said, wiping at your running makeup. "But how will I know you won't hurt me again?"

"Fuck, I promise you I won't. This time for real." He said quietly, the rough pads of his thumbs coming up to swipe at the tears you missed.

"Then tell me you're sorry... like you mean it." You said sorrowfully.

Did you know that he would throw every ounce of his pride away for you?

"I'm... sorry." His hands came to rest on your forearms. "I made the mistake. I broke your heart. I took you for granted. You deserve someone so much better than me."

He took a breath, eyes closing momentarily. "I did everything wrong. But if you let me try again... I'll do better. Please take me back. I want you to be mine again."

"Katsuki..."

"I never want to make you cry ever again. So stop... stop."

"Okay." You choked out, unable to manage anything else.

"Okay?" He echoed, surprised at your quick answer. Hooking a finger under your chin, he tilted your face up.

"Y-yeah." You sobbed out, before his grip tightened around you and your face collided right into his chest. He didn't need any more confirmation than that.

"Shit- (Y/n)." His nose burrowed into your hair, taking in the sweet smell of your perfume and squeezing you. He didn't deserve to be forgiven, yet you had it in your heart to forgive him. He wondered how he was blessed with someone as devoted and accepting as you.

"I won't look at anyone other than you. I'll always put your happiness first. I'll always love you. I'll... fuck, (y/n) I'd do anything for you from now on, I promise."

"I hope you're telling the truth..." You sighed, hands coming up to grip the back of his jacket.

"I am."

It was warm and comfortable, a feeling you had been missing for the past month. How much time passed with just the two of you locked in an embrace, you could not tell.

Eventually he let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing circles on your back. "Look how fucking mushy you make me."

You let out a hum of content. You had missed being in his arms.

"It's getting late. Let's go home, (y/n)."

.

.

.

Masterlist

[blackicephantom]

The black dragon and the coward CH. 12

Note: I know your all waiting for something different, but this needs to happen first. Trust me. Please tell me what you think, because i feel a little insecure about this one......

Please enjoy!

Tagged: @patolemus , @runestarchild

- . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - . -

Somewhere in the ocean

A long, serpentine, figure swam slowly through the water, when it felt a certain kind of vibration. The fins on its head tried to locate the origin, but to no avail. Then something poked him at the back of his mind and he started to surface. The blue scales glimmered in the sunlight and the slim face rose skyward. Just a single moment and he heard the cry, the call to come home.

With a swift jump he dove back into the depths of the water, only to jump back out in a high arch and with his own melodious cry. His main fins spread wide and his tail finished his elegant form.

The Oceanblue Raindragon recognized and answered the call to arms. And in a show of power dark storm clouds started to form and seconds later heavy rain fell upon the earth and the sea.

Once his body was back in the water he took the course back home.

Colonello, the Oceanblue Raindragon, swam swiftly and as fast as he could. His family was waiting for him.

Deep in the mountains

Fon sat quietly near his den, when the wind started to pick up and dark clouds started to form. Electricity shot up his spine and he shuddered. He stood up and watched as all the birds stopped singing and the wind howled louder and louder. Red flames engulfed his form and scales replaced soft skin.

In one smooth movement he circled a few times around the mountain he dwelled in, so that his upper body and head are even with the mountain's peak. His mane and his whiskers danced in the wind and he knew. Just then a roar echoed thru his stoney valley and resonated with his own wish and desire.

He rose up, slightly above the mountain top and sang his own song to join that of his brothers. A rough and yet calm sound left his throat and the winds around him turned themselves into little hurricanes and storms, ready to cut down the land itself.

He knew that he said he would look for Kyoya but it seems that this will have to wait, just a little bit longer. As the last note of his cry faded away, he took to the sky and started in the direction of the forest he had left only days prior.

The Bloodred Stormdragon heard and heeded the call to arms.

Inside a secret lab

Beeping filled the dark room a lonesome and glasses wearing figure occupied. Many monitors showed him just as many sceneries and yet nothing changed. He’s been in this laboratory for years now, researching everything that came to mind, but mostly ways to protect his own, so that what happened on that fateful day would not repeat itself. And he’s been waiting. Waiting for that one moment…… Verde knew that his home underground was anything but optional, but he also knew Reborn….. and all the others…..

Suddenly almost all of his instruments measured impossible data. The displays went highwire and a few displays even broke down due to the sudden intensity. A smirk and a low chuckle escaped him. Of course this would happen shortly after he thought about it.

He stood up, ignoring all his different machines and displays and went to the small lift he built to make his way to the surface. On the ride up he thought about many things. Even about his fellow Arcobaleno….. which was more than unusual. But it has been a few years now. And just as Reborn has said: this years have felt like they went by in the blink of an eye for him.

Once he was back above the ground he took a deep breath and looked around.

Unlike what his instruments had shown him, the world was silent. And that could only mean one thing: he was not alone. But out of all the people that knew him, only two could really find him. The first one is the one to call them home and the other one the silent killer in their ranks.

He watched as mist slowly crawled along the ground, which confirmed his suspicion.

A small rustling reached his ears and he just stood still and quiet, once again waiting. Next came hissing and a long indigo coloured body, only seen in parts. The mist grew thicker with every passing moment and the long body started to draw steadily closer. Then there was someone behind him but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t need to.

“I see that you’ve found me, Viper.” A hissed laugh was his answer and just as the mist and the stillness had appeared, it vanished. Suddenly there were howling winds and pouring rain and, most importantly, the still sounding roar of their own kin.

Both Arcobaleno looked up into the slowly graying sky and knew it was time.

With the flash of a single lightning bolt a massive creature stood amidst the green. A long maw and strong legs were the most prominent features, closely followed by the sparking yellow spikes that run along it’s back and tail and its dark green scales. Lightning crashed into the trees and rushed through the clouds above while a thick misty blanket fell over the earth, obscuring the view of all that dared to look.

Around that massive body the other one curled in on himself, his body slowly growing and a pair of thin looking wings sprouting from his form.

And thus two more voices joined the almighty song of the weather.

A low and rumbling growl from the Forestgreen Lightningdragon and a deafening yet silent screech from the Indigoblue Mistdragon. Thous two also heard the call to arms and were ready to take back what was once stolen. Their answer resonated with the cries of their brothers and no sooner were they on their way. One digging his way home and the other silently sliding close behind him.

In a village on the other end of the continent

Chains rattled as another foolish human tried to get too close to him, his tails trashing behind him. It's been ages that he has seen the sky or breathed fresh air. These villagers only caught him by sheer luck and a great deal of misfortune on his part.

The long spikes along his back vibrated gently and he raised his head, ignoring the weapons that were pointed at him. The air was charged with something…..exciting. A familiar tension filling his core and making his heart pound. It was like the thrill right before a battle and he fucking missed this. He wanted to stretch his wings, follow the clouds he was born in but this stupid chains kept him grounded.

Then there was a rumbling, right outside his meager cage. He watched as lightning tore through the sky and rain started up, which got stronger and stronger with every passing minute. His anticipation grew as the wind turned into cutting blades, almost blowing his captors away. A storm was brewing and he knew exactly who started it. So he concentrated on the wind, on the vibrations in the air and every sound that comes from somewhere farther away. And there it was: a melody so long forgotten and yet still so beautiful and familiar. The song of his family! It was time to return!

Clouds gathered all around the Village and blocked the usually bright sun. People were starting to panic and the guards that are supposed to keep watch over him became scared. His tails trashed again right before three became one and his two wings became four. Because of the increased mass of his wings the chains keeping him down broke and because of the decreased number of tails the chains keeping him pinned slipped away. He was almost free, yesssss, he could almost taste it! Only thing left to destroy was the cage keeping him here. Four wings returned to being two and one tail became three again and with the spiked tips he just slashed his way to freedom, cutting through the iron bars like nothing.

Taking a running start he swept into the air, chirping his own answer to the long overdue call to arms. The Violentpurple Clouddragon, Skull, was on his way home. Six feathered wings carried him towards his brothers, his purple scales riddled with scars.

The clouds accompanied him and shrouded his figure from view.

Back with Tsuna and Reborn

As Reborn finished his roar he settled back down and listened while he still supported Tsuna at his side. He too could feel the return of the boy's fire and couldn’t help his smirk. Iemitsu and the other foolish have no fucking idea what’s awaiting them.

From far away both could see dark clouds gathering, followed by pounding rain and destructive lightning. The slight breeze slowly grew into turbulent winds which in turn evolved into a raging storm. The air turned humid and the dragon watched satisfied as mist started to spread through the forest. Then he listened as one after another all their voices came together as a unique and beautiful song. All their specific tunes come together but something is still missing…… That’s the moment Reborn hears a soft humming, a tune that Luce used to sing….. It’s a soft lullaby that she sang for the kids.

Roaring once again the Midnightblack Sundragon completed the harmony.

The sky was once again filled with all the raging elements, waiting to avenge the dragon that’s been slain unjustified so long ago and to take revenge for all this undeserved pain and torment.

Inside of Vongola Nono’s office

Timoteo wasn’t an idiot. When he got the notice that Tsuna was missing, again, he knew that something was up. That thous three other boys were not to be found either worried him beyond belief. But when the weather started to change he clasped his hands together and started to pray, because this could only mean one thing.

The Arcobaleno were about to gather. And where the seven strongest get together, calamity almost always follows. And without a sky to soothe their rage he sees no hope for the village and his people. He saw what they could do while trying to protect someone. Now they didn’t have this luxury. He knew that something like this would happen someday, was even prepared to face the dragon's wrath this time. But he had his own duties to fulfill.

A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts and one of his guards entered. “Nono, our mages have returned.” He gave an affirmative hum and sighed. Before the guard could leave again Timoteo called out to him. “Please send in Coyote and the others, it’s an emergency.”

Timoteo, Vongola Nono, hoped against hope and prayed to all gods that would listen that the tragedy would not repeat itself. But when this haunting roar sounds again in the distance, Nono knows that their chances of survival are very slim to none existent. `Please have mercy, oh kind one and spare us the pain. Let us not spill innocent blood, let us not condemn our children.´ It was an old prayer, one that Vongola Primo taught in his time, but Nono has no other option left. A single tear slid down his wrinkled cheek.

`Oh kind one, let us live peacefully and in joy with the dragons harmony, sung in a lovely lullaby.´

_TBC_

[melnchly-a]

the nights and days blend together until no seam can be found. the light of the sun comes, but even that seems dim, hidden behind a veil it is not theirs to draw away. alphros wakes in the night, as he has not since he was first born, and sometimes it is lothiriel who goes to him, to allow her brother’s wife to sleep. (it will not be left only to nurses, this task - - not now.) they walk hand-in-hand in the garden, under moonlight, and lothiriel tries not to show alarm at the creeping dark that seems to tug even at the moon’s soft skirts. other nights she simply gathers him into her lap and sings to him until he sleeps again, songs her father once had sung to her. 

her own sleep is fitful, torn by dreams she barely remembers in the morning, when all the world must wake again. 

awake to another morning, to another sunrise, a world still living and the walls of her home stout around her. the cry of gulls and the sea’s song. 

every morning she dons clothing of silver or of blue, light and graceful, to walk with her mother among the people in the morning light, to sing and to pray and to distribute bread and comfort, best as she can. she tries to remember the names they murmur to her, the name of every man who might have gone to his death. 

and then, in the endless parade of time tied tight with worry, back to her father’s hall. the captain of the city guard grows more lined each day, she thinks, as does the captain of the castle guard, their ranks diminished by those gone to fight in the walls of another city. 

and still every day there is the simple work of living, the responsibility of hall, of city, of family, of people. stores of food and of supplies to see to. (some days, too, she hears her mother’s lowered voice, knows she speaks of what-may-come-to-pass, plans for the evacuation of the city if it should come to that. she does not need to see her mother’s face to know the hopelessness of such a plan, for a world in which this city could be left behind would be one with no safe place to go.) 

they eat only simply, much the same fare as the rest of the city, and not much. some nights she goes to her bed with a stomach half empty and a mind too full. 

but before that comes, before the tossing and turning like a boat upon waves, she climbs stairs up and up and thinks of tar-miriel, imagines a great wave chasing her up flights and flights of stairs, but when these waves crash it is only upon the shore, and lothiriel still stands upon a tower balcony, looking out across the sea. 

some nights her brother’s wife joins her, some nights her mother, sometimes it is lothiriel alone in silent vigil, the air gone chill and restless in the gathering dark. looking out to the sea, her vigil does not reveal much, though at night sometimes the sky seems to change, its color shifting. and each hour that passes, the world seems to go so still. each night she strains to listen, closes her eyes and braces her hands upon the balcony rail, and tries to hear in the hush and the roar of the sea whatever secrets it might divulge to her. (it is only hear that she speaks her worries aloud, her fears. whispers them into the night and lets the sea bear them away, she does not know where they go.) each night she looks across the water, cranes her neck to peer down along the coast, tries to tell if she can hear the shouts of men and clash of swords, if men would come to try to take the city with its defenses low. 

but it is only the night and the darkness that come, swift and sure and deeper each time. 

and then she descends the stairs, back down the way she came, passes by her nephew’s door as though to be certain he is still there, still breathing. tonight (the last night that shall be like this, though she does not know it yet - - tomorrow brings a messenger) he stands in the doorway already, clutching a blanket in soft baby hands. “tîrada?” he murmurs, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a tiny fist. 

“i am here,” she says, holding out her arms though her own eyes are heavy with sleep. “did you dream again?” 

alphros only blinks, walks forth into her arms, lets her lift him up to perch upon her hip, his dark-haired head tucked against her shoulder. "’s it morning?” he asks, and lothiriel shakes her head, sets him back upon his bed and tucks the blankets in around him. 

“not yet,” she says, leaning forward to brush the dark hair back from his face, to set a kiss upon his brow, wonders if she is speaking now of the morning to come or the next morning of the world. (she must force down the part of her that thinks, if it ever comes at all.) “not for quite a while yet. so you must go to sleep and wait for it.” 

(this, she realizes, looking at her nephew, this was what they had all done for her all these years. pushed the shadows back or took them all upon themselves to bear, leaving her only thoughts of morning. it had angered her a little, when first her father had left. how much had been kept from her, but now she looks into her nephew’s eyes and knows. sees the innocence living there, the hope of him - - his beating heart, his unformed future - - and she knows.) 

“here,” she says, holding out her hand for alphros to put his into. “i shall stay right here until you fall asleep. 

but she stays far longer, long after his eyes slip closed, his breathing deepens. long after her brother’s child slips into sleep to wait til morning, lothiriel watches over him, and wills the darkness to pass him by. come for her if it must, but pass him by. 

please, she begs the stars shining through his window. please let him see the morning. (and does not mean the weak rays of the clouded sun that come within a span of hours, means instead the dawning of a new world freed of this heavy darkness, the dawning of an age in which his life may yet be unmarked by war.) 

[thetravelerwrites]

The Swamp Singer (Frog Fae)

A 2000 word commission for @envy-kitty​​, the second place prize for the 2000 follower giveaway! A young herbalist hears singing from the swamp near her home, where she often gathers ingredients for her remedies, and decided to befriend the singer. Please reblog and leave feedback!

The Traveler's Masterlist

Though I am a frog, And I live in a bog, I lament that I’m alone.

I sing and I sing, Hoping it might bring A friend to call my own.

You heard this song every evening. The voice was a coarse and croaky baritone, but strangely not unpleasant, and you wondered if it really was a frog singing its sad song.

You didn’t live in the swamp, but you were close. You were an herbalist and owned the apothecary of the nearby village, and a lot of your stock came from the swamp, so you were in and out of that place rather often.

It had been you, at first, to sing. As you were gathering ingredients for a tincture, you were humming an old lullaby to yourself as you gathered, not noticing at first that there was a second voice harmonizing with you. Just the knowledge that you weren’t alone was enough to startle you, and in what was considerably not your finest moment, you shrieked and dropped all of your things, running back toward your cottage as fast as your feet could carry you.

Though, the next morning, you found your basket, gloves, and ingredients sitting on your front doorstep, plus all the items on your list you’d yet to gather when you made your wild flight from the swamp. There was also a a small bundle of flowers tied neatly with flaxen fibers. You picked them up carefully and sniffed the sweet scent.

Perhaps you’d been too hasty the day before. There was no law against strolling in the swamp the same day as someone else, or joining someone in song. That evening was the first time you heard the sad refrain and felt a little guilty. Perhaps… perhaps being friends wasn’t out of the question. At the very least, you should apologize for being so abrupt and rude in your exit.

You made your medicines and tinctures, salves and poultices, stocking your store with the newly made remedies. You were good at what you did, thanks to your family’s tutelage, and within days you were sold out again, which meant another trek into the swamp. You tried to put it off as long as you could, a little out of fear and a little out of shame, but your stockroom was nearly empty by this point and it couldn’t be delayed any longer. Gathering your courage, you lists, and your basket, you headed out.

This time, you heard the humming first, but it was soft and far away, far enough away that you didn’t react as rashly as you had a few days before. The song was unfamiliar to you but pretty, in a strange way. During the bridge, you decided to speak up.

“Stranger,” You called, not shouting but loudly enough to be heard. “Why do you spend your time singing in the swamp?”

“Why don’t you sing along with me?” The voice responded shyly.

Despite yourself, you had to smile. “I would, Stranger, but I’m afraid I don’t know that song.”

It didn’t speak again while you continued your picking and collecting, though you did catch a soft hum a few times. When you had finished your work in the bog, you said “goodbye” to the distance as you left. A returning croak answered you.

If you were to be honest, you actually felt much safer in the swamp afterward, especially when you heard his rough humming nearby. There were aggressive or carnivorous animals in the swamp, and working alone could be dangerous.

In fact, there was a time or two that you heard a distant angry creature, to be silenced a moment later to be followed by a friendly croaking, reassuring you that all was safe, and you would smile.

You only needed to go into the swamp once a week, and you heard their humming every time, though sometimes it would sing out lyrics to the songs you heard.

“Why do you always sing, my friend?” You asked again.

“In hopes that you would sing along with me,” The voice responded.

You laughed. “I would, friend, but I don’t know that song.”

“I can teach you, if you like,” The voice ventured carefully.

“I would like that,” You replied. “But I only come out to the swamp every so often.”

“And I will be here when you do,” They said. “I will always be here to sing for you.”

“And it will be my pleasure to listen,” You replied as you made your way home.

You began to notice patterns. Certain songs would bring about gentle rains, and others would pull up mist around the bog. Others still would part the clouds and clear the swamp, making it perfect for picking. You even realized at one point that, unless there was a dire need for rain, the cycle of the weather seemed to be centered around your schedule for collecting ingredients. In fact, it always had. You wondered how long they had lived in the swamp, and if they were alone. If so, how long had they been alone?

After more than a month, you realized you’d yet to learn your swamp friend’s name. So, one day, you went out with a picnic and sat on the small pier that was over the water that sometimes you’d fish off of, and called out, “Are you there, friend?”

They answered immediately. “I am always here.”

“It occurs to me that we’ve been talking all this time, but I don’t know much about you,” You said. “What’s your name, if you please?”

“Lilyfoot,” the voice replied. “What is yours.”

You told them. “Are you a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. I think,” He said.

“You think?”

“Well, our kind don’t think in those terms, really.”

“Your kind?”

“Fae creatures.”

Fae? You sat up sharply, beginning to feel a little nervous. “You don’t plan to spirit me away to the Otherworld, do you?”

You heard a gentle laugh. “Goodness no. It’s terribly boring there. I like it better here. With you.”

You flushed a little. “Why don’t you ever show yourself?”

There was a small silence. “…I’m not as pretty as you.”

“I don’t mind that,” You replied.

“I do,” Lilyfoot said. “I do not wish to frighten you.”

“You wouldn’t frighten me,” You assured him.

“You don’t know that,” He said mournfully. “I scared you by singing. I didn’t mean to, I just liked your song.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry about that. You just startled me, is all. I’ve been coming into the swamp for years now and I never heard another person. How long have you lived here?”

“Not long,” They admitted. “I was ousted from my old home by a naga, so I came here. There were no hostile entities to eject me, but it was when I heard singing that I decided to stay. It was so nice to hear.”

“You stayed because of me?” You asked, surprised.

“You have a lovely voice. Mine is not so nice, but I liked singing with you.”

“Your voice is… unique,” You said.

You heard the gentle laugh again. “That’s a kind way of saying I sound like a sick goat baying for food.”

“Not at all!” You said. “Your voice is different, but it’s not bad. In fact, I think we sound very good together.”

“Do you?” He said, his voice brightening.

“I do,” You affirmed.

“I’m glad I stayed here,” Lilyfoot said, his form ever hidden in the mist of the swamp. “It’s nice to have a friend.”

“I agree,” You said, throwing an apple in the direction of the voice. You heard it impact with something wet, and then a crunching sound. “Since I took over for my parents, I’ve been too busy to have many friends. They’re all getting married and having babies and don’t really understand why I’d rather work with toadstools and moss.”

“You do so much good, though,” Lilyfoot said around a mouthful of apple. “Your tinctures and salves help people. That’s a wonderful way to spend a life.”

“Thank you! I think so, too,” You replied.

As time passed, you felt comfortable delving deeper into the swamp, deeper than you’d ever gone before, reassured by Lilyfoot’s presence. He talked and sang, keeping you company, though he still refused to show himself, always maintaining a distance that obscured himself.

He’d teach you little bits of songs he knew, and you’d teach him songs you knew, and before long, the two of you were singing together as if it were second nature.

Perhaps you got complacent. Perhaps his presence had blinded you to the dangers of the swamp, because when the alligator flashed around and caught your leg in it’s jaws, you were taken completely by surprise.

You screamed in pain and terror, and from your left side, you heard a deafening roar as a large green blur streaked past you, slamming into the alligator with the solid weight of it’s body. The green blue coalesced into a long, skinny green man with a largish head and long dragonfly wings on his back. Wearing little more than a loincloth, he began fighting with the alligator, pressing his large thumbs into the alligator’s eyes. The alligator let go immediately with a angry growl and slapped the water with its tail as it shook its head and swam off.

You were crying from the pain, but tried to check the wounds on your leg as best as you could in the low light. There were at least seven puncture wounds that were bleeding freely. You needed to get back to the shop and get some witch’s hazel on it before an infection set in.

“I’m so sorry!” Lilyfoot said, crouching with his back to you, so you couldn’t see his face. “I’m so sorry! Please forgive me! I was so focused on singing that I forgot to listen for threats! I’m sorry!”

“Lilyfoot!” You shouted over his profuse apologizing, putting a hand on his shoulder. He was wet, but not slimy. “Please. Look at me.”

“I can’t,” He said, putting his webbed hands over his face.

“I need your help getting home,” You said softly. “I can’t walk on my own with these injuries. Please, will you help me?”

He sighed and pulled his hands away from his face, but he didn’t turn around. “You promise you won’t be afraid?” His wings were folded, but they shuddered now and then anxiously.

“I promise, Lilyfoot. You’re my friend. I couldn’t never be frightened of you. You surely can’t be as frightening as an alligator.”

He huffed a laugh and, while still crouched, slowly turned around.

His belly was white, but his face was the same color as the rest of his body, sort of a lime green. He was bald and had no earlobes. His eyes were large and his mouth was wide. He did look much like a frog that had taken on human form, though the wings definitely gave away his fae heritage.

“There now,” You said with a smile. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

He ducked his head and his lips stretched in a wide, wide smile. “I shouldn’t have been so suspicious. You’re a true friend. I should have known you’d never have hated me.”

“Never,” You agreed. “Can you help me get home?”

He nodded and picked you up effortlessly. “Of course.”

“Will you sing to me?”

He chuckled as he walked you back to your cottage. “Only if you’ll sing along with me.”

“Of course,” You replied, putting an arm around his neck and snugging into his chest. “We always sound the best when we sing together.”

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience!To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi, becoming a Patron, or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

[girlmeetsliv3]

Inferno I

Kim Namjoon x reader ; Various other pairings

Warning: The following story contains mentions of violence, drugs, smut, anxiety, manipulation, abuse, and vivid descriptions of abusive acts. The behavior and mindset of the characters in this series will be incredibly yandere and toxic. This is a work of fiction and doesn’t represent the character of bangtan sonyeondan. Enjoy ~~~

Word Count: 4k

*Be warned the keep reading link isn't working, I'll try to fix it when I can*

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤

The sound of Justin Townes Earl voice bled through the cheap paper-thin walls in the motel's bathroom. It wasn’t the nicest place ever, but it was the only that did reservations in cash and didn’t ask for identification. Convenience always won over comfort. Boxes of hair dye, razors, and wax were scattered across the grimy tiled floor. Your hair was beginning to itch, eyes watering as the door and window were both closed; you sucked it up not wanting to risk it. When at last the bleach had settled you rinsed it off, conditioning it deeply to try and stop it from being totally ruined. Glancing in the mirror, you barely recognized yourself, but that was the entire point wasn’t it? To look so unrecognizable that no one would dare question that you are who you say you are, or that anyone would notice the similarities. A loud banging on the door startled you, instinctively you ran out the bathroom and lunged for the Ruger hidden underneath your bag, pointing it at the door. Cautiously, you approached the door making sure to check through the peephole to see who it could be. “Seriously?!” You let out a frustrated sigh, letting the gun drop to your side and ripping open the door. “What the fuck is your problem, Kun?” The lanky tall man walked quickly into the apartment, a slight bulge under his sweater which let you know he kept his promise. “I wanted to make sure you knew it was me or heard me considering your neighbor is blasting some god-awful music.” He looked around the room with clear disgust evident on his face, before turning back towards you. “Wait did you call me Kun? You know I fucking hate that name.” He sounded like a whiny child, one would never guess he was one of the tops in the game. “Bambam is a stupid name. I can’t believe people take you seriously with that name.” Checking once more to make sure, no one had seen him come in you shut the door.

“They take it more seriously than Kunpimook. Whatever, I’m not here for that. I’m here for this.” He reached under his shirt, pulling out a brown paper bag containing everything that you needed for this plan to work. Grabbing it, you ripped the bag open seeing several documents facing back at you: passport, licenses, school diploma’s, and two identification cards. “Thank you, seriously.” Bambam stared at you with fear and worry evident in his wide eyes. “Y/n…are you absolutely sure you want to do this? This isn’t vandalizing a car or a simple hit job.” You understood his concerns, you also knew that he wasn’t only motivated by what might happen to you. But how it could affect him if you were caught. Kim Namjoon was not a forgiving man. “I know. It may not look like I’ve got this under control, but I do.” He didn’t look assured by your words, but nothing you said would fix that. “Listen, I have to do this. For my family, for me, for him –” Bambam interrupted you with fervor in his voice, “It’s been a year. Nothing that you do will bring him back, okay? Revenge is pointless. It’s like consuming a poison and expecting the other person to die.” His chest was rapidly moving up and down, you feared an anxiety attack might occur, but he quickly regained control over himself. In that moment you recalled when the two of you were kids: Bambam always got panic attacks over the silliest things and you were always there to help him through it. Until you weren’t. “Namjoon killed him, for retaliation. For believing that he had done something wrong, when it all ended up being a mistake. And how did he remedy it? By killing everyone in my family in a tragic accident.” You had long stopped crying over the event, tear ducts completely dried after a year. However, your heart still ached painfully whenever the subject was brought up.

Bambam wasn’t there when it happened. He only found you later through a combination of his intelligence and sheer luck. No one outside your immediate family, knew about the island. It had been the only place you could lay low whilst, the rest of the world – especially Jiong Bul Pa – celebrated your misery. “I know where I end up by the end of this, but as long as I get to bring down Kim Namjoon with me. It’ll all be worth it.” There was an emptiness in your eyes that Bambam had never seen before, gone was the joy and innocence that had always surrounded you. The smile lines around your cheeks quickly ceasing to exist and being replaced by harsh scowls. Bambam placed his hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Good luck. God knows you’re going to need it if you plan to beat the devil at his own game.” With that he walked out of the motel room leaving you to finish erasing all that was left of the old you. When you had finally managed to scrub down the entire room and gathered all your stuff it dawned on you that the last song had finished. The deep melodic tone of a woman singing now echoing along the hallways. As you closed the door, you couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. “How fitting.”

The strip club smelt of a strong combination of expensive liquor, drugs, and sex. These days the walls had been torn down in an often-divided side. While some women still worked the poles, the men paraded themselves on the floor. In an effort to make everything more “discrete” or so the owner had said. Jimin didn’t particularly care about one or the other, his entire focus was on the velvet doors observing anxiously who came in and out. He saw the regulars, the infrequent, and the newcomers. There was no way for him to remember all their faces, but one could tell by the way they walked and held themselves. Those who puffed out their chest and had insatiable thirst in their eyes were obviously new, that kind of behavior wasn’t tolerated in Purgatorio; they would likely end up kicked out or beaten to a bloody pulp by the end of the night. Not that it bothered him, those men were always pigs who saw him and those he worked with as nothing but a Kleenex tissue. Jimin had long been desensitized to violence – he had his grandfather to thank for that. Plus, life as a “pleasure worker” as the manager dubbed it required a certain level of apathy towards violence and those on the receiving end of it. If the world was perfect, that none of this would happen. Girls wouldn’t have to fake their age to make ends meet or be exploited by their boyfriends. Boys wouldn’t have to turn to crime to prove their manliness or to survive hostile environments. If the world was perfect, Jimin wouldn’t have a sore ass from sitting on a leather cushion waiting for his father’s murdered to step through the strip club’s doors. ‘Everything in life has a purpose’ is what he had been taught from a young age. ‘God has a greater plan for all us.’ He often wondered if that was just bullshit the old man spat in his ear to make Jimin go along with his plans. Probably.

The clock above him read twelve thirteen am, he wasn’t going to show. Jimin let out an exasperated sigh as he slouched forward onto the bar. He strongly longed for something to relax him, but he long learned the consequences of not being fully present at his job. Letting his body slip off the stool, he headed for the backstage area where his bag was before going out the backdoor to head home. His grandfather had told him, that the kid would be there only for him to not show up. Knowing the old man, his dementia is probably caused him to confuse the dates. It was a rumor that his grandfather had gotten from a ‘trusted source’ at this point, he wasn’t sure if the trusted source was messing with his grandfather; or his grandfather with him. Opening the large metal door and stepping out, Jimin was greeted with the sight of some frats completely doped out. Fuck. By the time, he turned around the door had closed shut alerting the men that he was there. “Well, look here it’s a pretty boy.” Jimin hated frats. Hated how their money led them to believe they were above everyone. Hated how their aggressiveness peaked when doped out. Mostly he hated how they had always picked on him – especially because of how he looked. “Aw come on pretty boy. Look at me.” He turned around in spite of every bone in his being telling him not to. The man was nothing special, but he could easily kill Jimin if he really wanted. When he tried to step around the man, he was blocked. The frats friends found this hilarious apparently as they fell into a roar of laughter.

“Come on pretty boy. How much for a night?” Jimin’s eyes widened in fear. There was a lot he could handle, but he knew what he couldn’t. The frat laughed at the absolute terror in his eyes. Grabbing him by the sides and pushing him against the metal door, “Do I have to pay upfront or can I do it after?” The man behind him kept laughing, encouraging him on with perverse words and phrases. Jimin’s eyes were beginning to water and a part of him long to close his eyes in fear of what was to come. If he had Jimin wouldn’t have seen the bullet pierce through the frat’s head and come out the other side; parts of his brain exiting as well. Jimin was frozen in shock as he saw several goons surround the frat’s friends and beat them all. He had to move. Needed to move. However, his motor functions were still blocked by fear – by instinct. Only when he heard a voice and felt the warm touch of a hand on his chin, was he able to regain control over himself. “Are you alright?” He was everything Jimin had expected and not at the same time. His hair had grown, dark tussles framing his perfectly carved out features. Jeon Jungkook looked like an angel even under the dim lighting of the alleyway, but the man in front of you shared more with the devil than he did god. All the distraught Jimin had felt slipped away the longer he stared at the man in front of him. Remember your purpose. The mask was on and Jimin stepped away from Jungkook, ready to begin the long game that would end in him sacrificing his queen in order to kill the king. “It takes a lot more than that to shake me up, darling.” He gave a soft smile before, glancing down at the corpse on his feet. “Although I do ask that next time you want to play hero. Maybe don’t shoot the villain’s brains out right in front of the hostage.” Jimin stepped over the corpse before walking past Jungkook who stood stoically, clearly not expecting that response.

When Jimin was a few feet away, he heard a small chuckle leave the other man’s lips. “I thought damsels were much more grateful towards their saviors.” He was teasing him. So be it. Jimin turned around, “Such a pity that I ain’t one. Though I’m sure any of the girls inside would die to have you fawn over them.” Jimin took great pleasure in turning back around and walking away, knowing that once he did Jeon Jungkook wouldn’t be able to resist. There was a little hip in his step as he crossed down two blocks, before getting into the car waiting for him. His grandfather calling him the second he did. “Did you sleep with him?” The old man rasped through the phone. “I did one better. Now all that’s left is for him to fall in love with me.”

“What is this monstrosity?!” Your hair dresser, whose name you had come to learn was Mark, exclaimed as he toyed with your hair. “My last hairdresser said she could take me from red to blonde. It’s a miracle I didn’t go from red to bald.” The rehearsed lie slipped from you with ease. Mark’s eyes widened, “You can say that again. Don’t worry I can fix it.” Mark giggled before leaning over to whisper in your ear, “You’ll walk out the prettiest girl here.” His bubbliness was contagious – even if a part of it was an act. You waited for the inevitable questioning that was sure to begin. The salon you had chosen to come to wasn’t random. It was one of the many properties under Jiong Bul Pa management. The higher ups often came here for a fresh cut or a happy ending massage; sometimes both. You had been studying the men from afar your entire life, only needing to weaponize the information now. You had been escorted to the washing station where a facial had been done, as your hair was conditioned. Now back in your seat, it was sure to begin. Mark began to slowly hum to himself as he prepared his tools. “So, what brings a girl like you here?” There it was. Mark’s eyes met yours through the mirror, that gleam in his eyes let you know he was paying a lot more attention than one might assume. “Whatever it is that brings people to the city. Opportunities, fortune, fame, even love.” You shrugged your shoulders, trying to be coy. Mark quirked his eyebrow, “You don’t look like the hopeless romantic type.” You shook your head, “I’m not trust me. I do believe everything happens for a reason though.” He seemed to agree with your statement. The two of you switched topics onto more rudimentary things, common small talk that was probably to get you to put your guard down.

If there was one thing you would agree on, was that Mark was a genius. “I’m speechless.” You said as you stared at your reflection in the mirror, your mind fading towards the last time your hair had been cut that short. You must’ve been six or seven when – “I told you I was good.” Mark snapped you out of your daydream, secretly you were thankful. You couldn’t afford to dwell on the past when it would only hinder your future. Mark was leaning forward, eying down your figure with a smirk on his face. “Where are you staying?” You didn’t like the look in his eyes, but you weren’t exactly in a position where you could refuse. “I’m at Lotte down by Myeongdong.” Mark grimaced, “That pretentious place?! Well whatever, my friends and I are going out for drinks tomorrow at a new club that just opened. Join us.” Mark didn’t seem to be particularly high on the ladder, but you had heard that he was the best hairdresser in town. That had to have some type of merit. “I’d love to.” The two of you shared your details and you left the salon, with a game plan forming inside your head.

“What do you know about Kunpimook Bhuwakul?” Seokjin stopped sipping on his whiskey to glance over the rim at his long-time best friend and boss. “He was born in Thailand, raised here. Professionally known as Bambam. He’s the best when it comes to identities and falsifying documents. Likes to lay on the low, uses technology for his work but you’ll never find a trace of him online.” Seokjin was positive Namjoon already knew all this, but the man often liked to test him. Keep him on his toes. “Why?” If Namjoon needed something like documents, he had people who could do it. They might not be as fool proof as Bambam’s but they could get the job done. “Bo’s daughter wants the wedding to take place in Bali. I can’t send Jungkook over the pacific with his passport without risking him getting arrested or worse.” Namjoon rubbed the area between his brows, muttering about what a pain this was. Seokjin had never understood the need to marry Jungkook off, he was already the selected heir – no one dared question it. If Namjoon was the king, then Jungkook was the brat prince that everyone was forced to bow down to. “I can get some of our men to procure the documents.” Namjoon chuckled, “As if they wouldn’t shoot the plane down the second, they knew he was there.” Seokjin couldn’t disagree. Jungkook wasn’t liked by most of Jiong Bul Pa, but he didn’t need to be: he was feared. That’s the reason no one dared to object or speak badly of him, it’s said that those who did…well dead men and all that.

Namjoon leaned back on the couch, as he glanced at his watch. “When’s my next meeting?” He longed for a hot shower and to fall into bed. The engagement was a pain in the neck and he would have never agreed if securing such an alliance didn’t give him large stake in the most important company in the country. “At ten. You’re heading down to Lotte at Myeongdong and meeting Mr. Il Seung.” Namjoon laughed as he thought of the pathetic man and his big mouth. “Is it all set up?” Seokjin smirked, “Perfectly. There’s no way he’ll make it.” A wicked smile spread through Namjoon’s lips. “Well then, I must be sure to go. You know so that the blame won’t fall on me.” The two men shared a look before Seokjin excused himself from the penthouse, allowing Namjoon to prepare for his meeting. In the elevator ride his phone vibrated in his pocket, scooping it out Seokjin was greeted by a proacative photo and a text. Which caused him to genuinely laugh as he read it.

Unknown: Miss me? I miss you <3

It wouldn’t do him any favors to continue his rendezvous with Bo Lilith. She wasn’t particularly spectacular in bed, nor was she that pretty. Lilith was also Jungkook’s fiancé but that bothered him even less. He would never admit that he slept with her out of spite, when Jungkook had joked about him being too effeminate while drunk. That was below someone of his stature. The elevator finally opened on his floor and Seokjin stepped out, making sure to leave his shoes by the entrance. As soon as the door opened, he was tackled onto the wall and kissed passionately. “T-taehyung s-stop.” The other man didn’t stop his assault, continuing to attack his neck and destroy his clothes until Seokjin couldn’t help but moan. Knowing there was no stopping Taehyung when he got like this, Seokjin went along with it. As the younger picked him up and carried him to bed, not stopping until hours later when both lay in the silk sheets spent.

Taehyung lay cuddled against him hiding his face in the crook of his lover’s neck. Even in the dark Seokjin could still make out the dried blood on his cheek’s and hands; clear evidence of what had happened that night. “Who was it this time?” He whispered softly, knowing it was best not to directly ask what Taehyung had done. Taehyung remained quiet for a while before finally speaking, “A pimp and his whore. They were stealing profit.” Seokjin nodded in understanding, “No one of importance then.” To anyone listening it may sound harsh, but Seokjin had long stopped caring what other’s thought of him. Except for Namjoon and Taehyung. They were the most important people in his life, he would be damned if anything ever occurred to either. Seokjin might go insane or set the world ablaze, maybe both. “I missed you last night…” It was a whimper like one a child might make. It always surprised Seokjin at how distinct his lover could be depending on his mood, when they had first met Taehyung had crushed skulls with his bare hands – only to be putty in Seokjin’s later that day. Seokjin had always lived and breathed to be useful to Namjoon, to make him proud. It felt nice to have Taehyung do that for him, no one else would. “Business ran late. You know I have no control over that.” More like it was impossible to peel Lilith off him and the wrath of Jungkook’s comment only fueled that. Seokjin pressed his lips against Taehyung’s forehead, “Don’t worry. I’m here now.” With that Seokjin turned to the side, attempting to fall asleep. “Seokjin?” He rolled his eyes, “Yes Taehyung?” It was as if the temperature of the room had suddenly dropped, he felt Taehyung’s dark eyes piercing into his back. Goosebumps rose on Seokjin’s skin as he waited for his lover to speak. “Don’t let it happen again.”

"Ma'am I'm afraid this area is reserved, and you can't be here." His voice was entirely mechanical and lacked any warmth. Clearly perfectly suited for his profession as a bartender. You had been sitting bored in your hotel room when, you decided that you desperately needed a drink. You hadn’t had one in god knows how long, and there was no better time than the present. You reached for your clutch situated on the marble countertop, "Oh I apologize. I didn't know." You turned the bar stool, just about to dismount when a voice spoke out. "Yoon don't be rude. I'm sure the lady didn't know any better." No way. It can’t be. The voice of your brother replayed in your head, as you remembered the last conversation you had before his death. “You can’t outrun fate, Y/n.” Kim Namjoon was everything you envisioned him to be, yet your imagination couldn't do him justice. He towered over you. He towered over everything and not just physically. Yoon moved over to the wall adjacent to the two of you stationing himself at an angle where he could see your every move. Yoon would see if you reached for your drink or if you decided to pull a gun from your clutch. You didn't bring it with you this time - you knew better. "May I ask what someone like you is doing alone at a bar? Especially at this hour." Namjoon moved in order to sit down, leaving one barstool in between the two of you as a barrier of sorts. "You just did." Your reply was curt but coy.

Kim Namjoon may like dominant independent women for a fuck, but you needed to do so much more than fuck him. "Touche." The man replied before ordering a shot of whiskey, the bartender rushing over. Not wanting him to become bored, you indulged the small talk. "I was in need of a drink." You played with your fingers and you noticed him staring at you from his peripheral. "Bit dangerous for a woman to be drinking alone in this day and age." Namjoon said as he ordered two drinks, one for him and one for you. “About as dangerous as drinking with a complete stranger.” You twirled your finger around the rim of the glass, while Namjoon downed his. The clink of the glass being set down echoed loudly, you turned to look at him. Cold hooded eyes staring back at you. There was such an intensity in his stare. It was as if he could see right through you and that instinctively terrified you. If Namjoon ever found out what you were planning hell would look like a stroll through the park. "Well, then allow me to rectify the situation. My name is Namjoon, and you are?" Namjoon’s interest was piqued, it had been a while since he’d been this entertained. “Pretty name for a pretty boy.” You couldn't help but laugh at your response. At the sound, the corners of his lips turned slightly upward. "I’d love to know your name." Namjoon stated, looking at your entire body from top to bottom. Instead of replying you chose to take a sip of your drink, taking as long as you could. “Do you like it?” He asked, eyes focused on your lips around the straw. “I’ve had better.”

Namjoon finally leaned back and with a curious look on his face spoke, "What's your name?" It was a simple enough question, but coming from the devil himself you knew that it was a dangerous one. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes and a sharp smirk that showcased the indent on his right cheek. The lighting in the empty bar was low, a few lanterns being turned to the lowest setting possible, causing shadows to dance along with his features whenever he moved. “Come on, I deserve at least that.” Kim Namjoon didn’t deserve your name. He deserved to have the world punish him entirely for all his crimes, but such things should not be said out loud. Frustration was growing on his face and before he decided to move on you quickly replied. “What do I gain from telling you my name?” At your comment, he laughed though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You could gain the world.” As if. “Dolores, but you can call me Lolita.” Now his laughter was genuine. Clearly finding the joke funny, using the establishment's name had been a bit clever on your part to your credit. “Y/n. Kim Y/n."

Now that all the pieces are in place, the game begins.

[seasonsintheabyss47]

COMING SOON: HE(LL) IS RISEN, PART 2: “THE END IS THE BEGINNING IS THE END.”

“Whiteout”

It's cool enough out that a person might choose to wear a jacket but Henry is in the short sleeved button up shirt and jeans and his cowboy boots with The Bible and matches in his school back pack. A breeze ruffles his hair like a mother's caress as he blows into Shadrock's nose. She inhales his scent and exhales over his face. She then whinnies softly and stomps her front hoof in a gesture that seems antsy. “Wanna go for a ride?” Eddie says softly to her. She raises her head in the dim light and tosses it, looking down the length of her muzzle at Eddie and Henry with the whites of her eyes showing, and Henry smiles. “She gets it,” Eddie says. “She's all in, and wants to get on with it.” Eddie grins, appearing as nothing but a cluster of stars in the darkness whenever the drifting clouds cover the moon. Henry is not certain how to work the cinch if he was to put the saddle on Shadrock. He also doesn't feel like dealing with the bridle, and senses strongly that the horse hates the metal bit in her mouth. So he unclips the leather reins from the bridle and attaches them to metal rings on her halter beside her mouth. He and Eddie quietly walk her out of the corral when Henry thinks of the Jesus that hangs suspended from the rear-view mirror in the car. “Good idea,” Eddie says. “I can't really manipulate things in this world or I'd grab it.” Henry thinks about the fact that the car is locked. “Smash a window with a rock.” “No,” Henry replies, shaking his head. Henry sighs in minor annoyance. He drapes the reigns over a wooden post and holds Shadrock's muzzle and tells her softly to be good. She whinnies in response. Henry creeps back into the house and into Anne and Willie's room where both are snoring. He gets into her purse one more time. The car keys jingle and Willie's snoring stops and Henry freezes, his heart pounding. Willie adjusts himself in bed and breathes long and slow. Henry clasps the keys hard so they wont make any more noise, then ducks out of the room and back out to Shadrock. He unlocks the car and yanks the Jesus from the rear-view mirror, snapping the string. “Lock the keys in the car!” Eddie tells him. Henry is about to say no but pauses, then shrugs his shoulders, locks the car door again, and tosses the keys onto the seat before he shuts it. “YEAH!” Eddie says. Then he and Eddie are astride Shadrock and she is off like a shot galloping toward town. He holds onto the reigns with both fists. Not having a saddle and with her speed, hooves thudding against the ground at a rapid rhythm, he bounces around on her back and has a moment of terror a few times when he nearly flies off of the horse. He learns quickly to hold on to her ribs with his legs. Pitching himself forward gives him a bit more stability. Henry can feel a cooler temperature where Eddie's arms wrap around his waist as they ride past town through the forest night. It is somewhat frightful but mostly exhilarating as Henry wonders where the heck they are headed. “Wherever we end up,“ Eddie answers his thought. There are only a few people out and about in the dark as they pass the stream and he can hear the waterfall crashing distantly when they make their way through town. The dark shadowed woods and its many animal inhabitants seem keenly aware of their passage and then they are out of Twin Pines and descend down winding forested roads, a low tree branch occasionally dragging over him. Shadrock breathes heavily and is covered in sweat when they have left the mountains. She slows to a trot, and a short distance beyond the gas station where Willie has been working, Henry dismounts and lets her rest for a time. He studies the passing clouds and the dimly lit sky with its moon and stars beyond. He feels Eddie's presence and feels his restlessness and in time he has the sense that Shadrock, too, is antsy to move on. He thinks about The Bible and the crucifix and the matches as well as Willie's tin of lighter fluid that he brought with him when he sees some moon beams play over a great gray slab of mesa in the distance. It appears desolate and deserted and he wonders how long it would take to ride there. A half an hour? A bit more? He wonders what it would be like to get up the top of it and ride out to the end and be there high up under the desert night sky, and then he feels that that is where they are destined for. “Yes!” Eddie agrees with him. Shadrock tosses her head and whinnies. “YEAH!” Eddie cries. Henry smiles and then they are both back on Shadrock and he cannot get her to slow down as they race under the moonlight across the sage-pocked high desert toward the looming monolith. They take some foothills gradually up and in no time they are at the end of the rock slab where it emerges from the surrounding mountains. In no time again they make their way past piles of debris and the remains of a few old campfires and are out on the tip of the great length of rock where Henry dismounts. He gazes up at the closeness of the clear night sky, deep creamy blue between the points of starlight, a halo of white glowing around the nearly full moon. In silence, he hears a steady shush of cool wind that stirs his bangs. Then he hears a distant piping and notices that there is a harmony to the sounds and he grins at the song of his old friends the coyotes. Eddie throws back his head and cayays back at them as loud as he can in a high voice and Henry has to admit that he sounds very much like them. Eddie and Henry then pause after he has finished his coyote song and then they cry seemingly in return and Henry and Eddie both laugh at that. Then Henry is scouting for discarded pallets and wooden posts from an old broken down barbed wire fence, the wood crumbly and arid from dry rot. He finds a large number of enormous dry brown tumble weeds and piles them up into a small mountain, waying them down with some boards. He can feel both Shadrock and Eddie peering over his shoulder as he jams some old wadded newspaper under the base of the pile. As he has seen Willie do a hundred times, he squirts lighter fluid from the tin. His companions watch in tense silence. It is the third match from the book that catches the soaked newspaper and kindling. Henry backs away quickly and he grabs Shadrock's reigns to draw her back with him. It's when the mountain of dry tumbleweeds takes that he turns around from some distance. There is an audible “THUD!” that makes Shadrock jump and pull back as the pile erupts in an explosion of orange flames leaping into the night sky. “COOL!” Eddie says. Henry looks at him and grins as the fire light plays over his jet black form. The tumble weeds are nearly burned down entirely in only a few minutes. The piled wood crackles and pops, flames leaping, as Henry grabs the backpack and withdraws Willie's Bible. He gets near the fire and douses the pages of The Bible with squirts of the lighter fluid. “Burn it up!” Eddie yells beside him as Shadrock whinnies and rears up on her back hooves to twirl the front like a circus show horse. Henry throws The Bible angrily into the fire. “Anne and Willie pray to you. They pray to death and to failure and to all your lies and broken promises!” he screams. "You are the God of drunks who beat on children and the God of murderers who wipe out whole nations! Willie had me believing in you, once. Almost. For awhile. Then, like you, he failed! He lied! Burn! Burn in your own Hell, liar God!” In a rapid fury Henry finds the crucifix from the bag. “And TAKE THIS, TOO!” he screams, his voice cracking as he hurls the crucifix into the roaring fire. Henry finds himself so filled with rage and excitement and release that he cannot stand still. He begins to jump around the fire and loses himself in the moment, thrusting his arms outward and bounding and spiraling around the tall bright flames. Eddie is dancing as well, sometimes directly behind him, sometimes in front of him. There is a beat that he begins to incorporate into his frenzied war dance. “Parrrump! Parrrump! Parrrump!” And he realizes that even Shadrock dances with him and Eddie. In time he glimpses the gleaming eyes of a coyote sitting to watch very near to the fire and to them. A number of coyotes circle the fire with him and Eddie and Shadrock. The flames are hot on his skin whenever he gets too close while the rest of the air is cool enough for a jacket. From his continuous frenzied dancing, alone, Henry is drenched with sweat, his hair and shirt plastered to him. He sees dark figures, black like Eddie rather than the shadow people, dancing with them, as well as the coyotes, and he laughs maniacally when the flames take on the form of a gigantic monstrous thing not entirely unlike a bison, but also resembling a grizzly bear and a wolf. In time the fire dies down and all the wind goes out of Henry. His sweat dries and he becomes cool and exhausted. His throat hurts a little, probably from shrieking at the top of his lungs. He feels chilly. Underneath it all he feels good, though. Proud, he supposes, that he did something. And more that he did something wrong, bad, crazy, even. He smiles at the thought and feels weary and woozy and has the realization that it was listening to Eddie that led him to this crazy happy moment and to the whole night before. He feels like he could sleep for a week, but the exhaustion is peaceful.

He looks at Shadrock and smiles again and laughs a little, then feels that he could cry, and he feels so grateful that she alone has given him love through the lonely hell his life has become. She and Mother. He feels adoration for Shadrock while she sleeps standing up in the silence, her head bowed lower than she usually holds it, eyes closed, one rear hoof cocked, ready to snap back and clobber anything that would try to sneak up behind her.

HE(LL) IS RISEN

[euphanisms]

Flatlands

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

rating: e

warnings: a certain video… & it’s sad. but there’s a hopeful ending

word count: 1431

summary: 2012. Dan & Phil run away. you know why.

written for the prompt “on the run” for @phandomficfests bingo

lots of inspiration came from the song Flatlands by Chelsea Wolfe. highly suggest listening to it while you read <3

big big thanks to @spookydanniie & @philsroots for betaing, & to @thoughtfulightcollectionspooky for encouragement 💞💞

note: a sensitive topic within the phandom that I tried my very best to treat with the utmost respect. I hope it comes across that way.

read on ao3

Phil’s stomach feels like it’s on the floor.

He’s aware that Dan’s speaking to him. Screaming, really. But he’s not comprehending anything that he’s trying to communicate; sound and thought is being filtered to a dull buzz in his head. He’s watching the features of Dan’s beautiful, young face contort with fear, his warm chocolate eyes wide and spilling tears down his cheeks. Phil can’t help but notice how young he looks right now - how completely unprepared to deal with something like this. He wants to reach out and touch him, try to provide him some semblance of comfort. He wants to more than anything.

It wouldn’t help. Not now.

It might make things worse.

He feels stupid, like this whole thing could’ve been easily prevented if he took it more seriously months before. He could have taken it down then, but it didn’t seem important at the time. Maybe he should’ve taken it down right after Dan saw it. They could watch it again from the saved file on Phil’s computer if Dan felt like it. But it just… seemed easier to leave it up. That way, Dan could watch it whenever he wanted.

Phil never anticipated the possibility of the video being leaked. Especially not because of a freak Youtube glitch.

He feels like he broke Dan’s trust by not considering that this might happen. By even uploading it to Youtube in the first place. It was only ever meant for his and Dan’s eyes - a simple, but heartfelt gift for a boy who said he didn’t need anything extravagant. And it had been turned into a wrecking ball, smashing through the foundation of their relationship. Fear twists sickeningly in Phil’s stomach as he watches his boyfriend spill every thought and tear within him, his long arms gesturing frantically. He’s standing not two feet away from Phil, but it feels like he’s slipping further and further away. And Phil can’t move. He can’t reach out to stop it.

He looks past Dan’s tear-stained face out the window behind him. The late afternoon September sun shines in, amber light bouncing against the floor of their new lounge and casting a low, warm glow around Dan.

He’s shaking.

Phil’s eyes follow one giant tear as it rolls down his smooth cheek and falls into a pool of sunlight on the ground. Transfixed, he watches it soak into the fibres of the rug (their rug) and disappear.

He’s standing there, staring into that spot on the floor, as Dan’s voice floats back into comprehension.

“... and I can’t even go on the internet to distract myself, because people will just keep harassing me!” Dan’s chokes, his shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. “They don’t deserve to know ANYTHING about me anymore!”

Phil feels like his heart is being sucked out by a vacuum. He can't do anything except watch as his Dan falls apart under the stress of thousands of prying eyes, searching for things they are not entitled to know.

And a quiet, horrible voice in the back of his head tells him over and over that it’s his fault.

Dan hasn’t actually said the words “I blame you for this”, but Phil can’t shake the feeling that he’s thinking it. And he would be right to, the voice calls, and the thought echoes through every cavern of his brain.

He wants to make it right. He has to.

Somehow.

“What can I do?” Phil’s voice comes out wavering. He hasn’t spoken in a long time. The sound of his voice almost startles him.

“I don’t know,” Dan shakes his head at the ground, eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I don’t know, Phil. I wish we could just disappear.”

Phil’s heart sinks to somewhere by his kneecaps, but from within the sadness swirling through him, he clings to one thing.

We.

Dan said we.

Despite the turmoil of this stupid, invasive thing happening to them… Dan still wants Phil. Right there next to him.

Phil pulls himself from the hole of dissociative despair that he’s been struggling to escape since Dan started crying. He knows what he needs to do now.

“Ok. Let’s go.”

Dan sniffs, but his tears stop. “Wha’dyou mean?”

“Let’s disappear.”

Dan stares at Phil through wide, red, wet eyes. His shock at Phil’s words has stilled his body; he stands motionless as Phil looks back at him with soft eyes, calm as the middle of the ocean on a misty morning, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

Not one hour later, they’re leaving their apartment, lightly packed backpacks slung over shoulders, with sunlight sinking down into the cracks and crevices of the city around them. A brief discussion points them westbound; Dan mentions that he wants to be close to the ocean. One way train tickets are purchased and ripped in half, and then Dan and Phil are hurtling away from the station... from their brand new home, from Manchester. From everything they know.

They’re seated towards the back of a near deserted train car, the rumbling of forward movement shaking them gently as they speed towards the sea. Phil glances over at Dan, eyes raking over his features. His tears have dried, reduced to faint tracks on his golden skin. Dan’s staring out the window into the inky blackness of night, dotted with flecks of light zooming past. Phil’s staring at the small constellation of freckles over the rosy patch on Dan’s cheek.

The inexplicably magnetic pull of eyes on him drags Dan’s gaze from the window, and it lands on Phil. Phil offers a small, crooked smile, which Dan returns. Both expressions are twinged with a hint of something unspoken, mutually known but perhaps not fully understood yet. Dan peeks over the headrests of the seats ahead of them, and sees no one. He slips his hand into Phil’s without a word.

They reach the coast about an hour later. They’re close enough to the beach that they can hear the relentless roar of the ocean faintly behind the closed door of their motel room. Almost exactly the moment they shut the heavy weighted door on the unfamiliar parking lot outside, Dan’s eyes mist over with fresh tears. He drops his bag carelessly in the middle of the room and collapses on one of the double beds, curling in on himself. The other bed remains vacant as Phil sits carefully beside him, pained and unsure. He brings a hand to Dan’s shoulder and squeezes… and Dan turns the opposite direction, his back to Phil.

Phil looks at his shoes, and they grow blurry as his own tears begin to fall. He listens to Dan’s sniffles and reminds himself with a shaky breath that time heals everything. Maybe one day this will all seem like a bad dream, a distant chapter in their lives. The wounds will fade to scars and they won’t hurt anymore. He hopes with everything in him that it’s true as he starts to stand.

“Wait.”

Phil whips around to face Dan. He’s still turned away, his figure still. There’s a pause... then a request, barely whispered.

“... Please stay.”

A large hand reaches back blindly and its fingers entangle in Phil’s, then he’s being pulled back onto the bed. Dan brings both of their hands to his chest as Phil fits himself snugly against Dan’s back.

They stay like that for a long time, until Dan’s distressed tears stop and exhaustion carries him to sleep. Phil gets up only long enough to remove both of their shoes, then slots himself in behind Dan again. He listens to the far away rumble of waves and Dan’s steady breathing and clings to Dan tight as he drifts off to sleep.

He dreams of bright lights illuminating a crowded theatre and unknown places with beautiful old buildings. Of American pancakes, fuzzy critters in Australia, cherry blossoms in Japan. Of scribbles in the shape of the words Dan and Phil scrawled on endless surfaces.

Dan is with him. His hair is curly and he’s older. He turns to Phil and flashes him a stunning, dimpled smile with a confidence that Phil has only seen in his waking life once or twice. He reaches for Phil’s hand and Phil can feel his fingers intertwined in Dan’s.

“Good things are coming,” Dan says, his voice velvety and mature. “Just hold on.”

When sunlight filters through the closed curtains and the across the beds, one vacant, one not, Phil wakes with a feeling like everything is going to be okay.

It’s just going to take some time.

--

[anupamasdiggs]

SV 1

Satan, being thus confined to a vagabond, wandering, unsettled condition, is without any certain abode; for though he has, in consequence of his angelic nature, a kind of empire in the liquid waste or air, yet this is certainly part of his punishment, that he is . . . without any fixed place, or space, allowed him to rest the sole of his foot upon.

Daniel Defoe, _The History of the Devil_

I

The Angel Gibreel

1

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, "first you have to die. Hoji! Hoji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Taka-thun! How to ever smile again, if first you won't cry? How to win the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . ." Just before dawn one winter's morning, New Year's Day or thereabouts, two real, full-grown, living men fell from a great height, twenty-nine thousand and two feet, towards the English Channel, without benefit of parachutes or wings, out of a clear sky.

"I tell you, you must die, I tell you, I tell you," and thusly and so beneath a moon of alabaster until a loud cry crossed the night, "To the devil with your tunes," the words hanging crystalline in the iced white night, "in the movies you only mimed to playback singers, so spare me these infernal noises now."

Gibreel, the tuneless soloist, had been cavorting in moonlight as he sang his impromptu gazal, swimming in air, butterfly-stroke, breast-stroke, bunching himself into a ball, spreadeagling himself against the almost-infinity of the almost-dawn, adopting heraldic postures, rampant, couchant, pitting levity against gravity. Now he rolled happily towards the sardonic voice. "Ohé, Salad baba, it's you, too good. What-ho, old Chumch." At which the other, a fastidious shadow falling headfirst in a grey suit with all the jacket buttons done up, arms by his sides, taking for granted the improbability of the bowler hat on his head, pulled a nickname-hater's face. "Hey, Spoono," Gibreel yelled, eliciting a second inverted wince, "Proper London, bhai! Here we come! Those bastards down there won't know what hit them. Meteor or lightning or vengeance of God. Out of thin air, baby. _Dharrraaammm!_ Wham, na? What an entrance, yaar. I swear: splat."

Out of thin air: a big bang, followed by falling stars. A universal beginning, a miniature echo of the birth of time . . . the jumbo jet _Bostan_, Flight AI-420, blew apart without any warning, high above the great, rotting, beautiful, snow-white, illuminated city, Mahagonny, Babylon, Alphaville. But Gibreel has already named it, I mustn't interfere: Proper London, capital of Vilayet, winked blinked nodded in the night. While at Himalayan height a brief and premature sun burst into the powdery January air, a blip vanished from radar screens, and the thin air was full of bodies, descending from the Everest of the catastrophe to the milky paleness of the sea.

Who am I?

Who else is there?

The aircraft cracked in half, a seed-pod giving up its spores, an egg yielding its mystery. Two actors, prancing Gibreel and buttony, pursed Mr. Saladin Chamcha, fell like titbits of tobacco from a broken old cigar. Above, behind, below them in the void there hung reclining seats, stereophonic headsets, drinks trolleys, motion discomfort receptacles, disembarkation cards, duty-free video games, braided caps, paper cups, blankets, oxygen masks. Also -- for there had been more than a few migrants aboard, yes, quite a quantity of wives who had been grilled by reasonable, doing-their-job officials about the length of and distinguishing moles upon their husbands' genitalia, a sufficiency of children upon whose legitimacy the British Government had cast its everreasonable doubts -- mingling with the remnants of the plane, equally fragmented, equally absurd, there floated the debris of the soul, broken memories, sloughed-off selves, severed mothertongues, violated privacies, untranslatable jokes, extinguished futures, lost loves, the forgotten meaning of hollow, booming words, _land_, _belonging_, _home_. Knocked a little silly by the blast, Gibreel and Saladin plummeted like bundles dropped by some carelessly open-beaked stork, and because Chamcha was going down head first, in the recommended position for babies entering the birth canal, he commenced to feel a low irritation at the other's refusal to fall in plain fashion. Saladin nosedived while Farishta embraced air, hugging it with his arms and legs, a flailing, overwrought actor without techniques of restraint. Below, cloud-covered, awaiting their entrance, the slow congealed currents of the English Sleeve, the appointed zone of their watery reincarnation.

"O, my shoes are Japanese," Gibreel sang, translating the old song into English in semi-conscious deference to the uprushing host-nation, "These trousers English, if you please. On my head, red Russian hat; my heart's Indian for all that." The clouds were bubbling up towards them, and perhaps it was on account of that great mystification of cumulus and cumulo-nimbus, the mighty rolling thunderheads standing like hammers in the dawn, or perhaps it was the singing (the one busy performing, the other booing the performance), or their blast--delirium that spared them full foreknowledge of the imminent . . . but for whatever reason, the two men, Gibreelsaladin Farishtachamcha, condemned to this endless but also ending angelicdevilish fall, did not become aware of the moment at which the processes of their transmutation began.

Mutation?

Yessir, but not random. Up there in air-space, in that soft, imperceptible field which had been made possible by the century and which, thereafter, made the century possible, becoming one of its defining locations, the place of movement and of war, the planet-shrinker and power-vacuum, most insecure and transitory of zones, illusory, discontinuous, metamorphic, -- because when you throw everything up in the air anything becomes possible -- wayupthere, at any rate, changes took place in delirious actors that would have gladdened the heart of old Mr. Lamarck: under extreme environmental pressure, characteristics were acquired.

What characteristics which? Slow down; you think Creation happens in a rush? So then, neither does revelation . . . take a look at the pair of them. Notice anything unusual? Just two brown men, falling hard, nothing so new about that, you may think; climbed too high, got above themselves, flew too close to the sun, is that it?

That's not it. Listen:

Mr. Saladin Chamcha, appalled by the noises emanating from Gibreel Farishta's mouth, fought back with verses of his own. What Farishta heard wafting across the improbable night sky was an old song, too, lyrics by Mr. James Thomson, seventeenhundred to seventeen-forty-eight. ". . . at Heaven's command," Chamcha carolled through lips turned jingoistically redwhiteblue by the cold, "arooooose from out the aaaazure main." Farishta, horrified, sang louder and louder of Japanese shoes, Russian hats, inviolately subcontinental hearts, but could not still Saladin's wild recital: "And guardian aaaaangels sung the strain."

Let's face it: it was impossible for them to have heard one another, much less conversed and also competed thus in song. Accelerating towards the planet, atmosphere roaring around them, how could they? But let's face this, too: they did.

Downdown they hurtled, and the winter cold frosting their eyelashes and threatening to freeze their hearts was on the point of waking them from their delirious daydream, they were about to become aware of the miracle of the singing, the rain of limbs and babies of which they were a part, and the terror of the destiny rushing at them from below, when they hit, were drenched and instantly iced by, the degree-zero boiling of the clouds.

They were in what appeared to be a long, vertical tunnel. Chamcha, prim, rigid, and still upside-down, saw Gibreel Farishta in his purple bush-shirt come swimming towards him across that cloud-walled funnel, and would have shouted, "Keep away, get away from me," except that something prevented him, the beginning of a little fluttery screamy thing in his intestines, so instead of uttering words of rejection he opened his arms and Farishta swam into them until they were embracing head-to-tail, and the force of their collision sent them tumbling end over end, performing their geminate cartwheels all the way down and along the hole that went to Wonderland; while pushing their way out of the white came a succession of cloudforms, ceaselessly metamorphosing, gods into bulls, women into spiders, men into wolves. Hybrid cloud-creatures pressed in upon them, gigantic flowers with human breasts dangling from fleshy stalks, winged cats, centaurs, and Chamcha in his semi-consciousness was seized by the notion that he, too, had acquired the quality of cloudiness, becoming metamorphic, hybrid, as if he were growing into the person whose head nestled now between his legs and whose legs were wrapped around his long, patrician neck.

This person had, however, no time for such "high falutions"; was, indeed, incapable of faluting at all; having just seen, emerging from the swirl of cloud, the figure of a glamorous woman of a certain age, wearing a brocade sari in green and gold, with a diamond in her nose and lacquer defending her high-coiled hair against the pressure of the wind at these altitudes, as she sat, equably, upon a flying carpet. "Rekha Merchant," Gibreel greeted her. "You couldn't find your way to heaven or what?" Insensitive words to speak to a dead woman! But his concussed, plummeting condition may be offered in mitigation

. . . Chamcha, clutching his legs, made an uncomprehending query: "What the hell?"

"You don't see her?" Gibreel shouted. "You don't see her goddamn Bokhara rug?"

No, no, Gibbo, her voice whispered in his ears, don't expect him to confirm. I am strictly for your eyes only, maybe you are going crazy, what do you think, you namaqool, you piece of pig excrement, my love. With death comes honesty, my beloved, so I can call you by your true names.

Cloudy Rekha murmured sour nothings, but Gibreel cried again to Chamcha: "Spoono? You see her or you don't?"

Saladin Chamcha saw nothing, heard nothing, said nothing. Gibreel faced her alone. "You shouldn't have done it," he admonished her. "No, sir. A sin. A suchmuch thing."

O, you can lecture me now, she laughed. You are the one with the high moral tone, that's a good one. It was you who left me, her voice reminded his ear, seeming to nibble at the lobe. It was you, O moon of my delight, who hid behind a cloud. And I in darkness, blinded, lost, for love.

He became afraid. "What do you want? No, don't tell, just go."

When you were sick I could not see you, in case of scandal, you knew I could not, that I stayed away for your sake, but afterwards you punished, you used it as your excuse to leave, your cloud to hide behind. That, and also her, the icewoman. Bastard. Now that I am dead I have forgotten how to forgive. I curse you, my Gibreel, may your life be hell. Hell, because that's where you sent me, damn you, where you came from, devil, where you're going, sucker, enjoy the bloody dip. Rekha's curse; and after that, verses in a language he did not understand, all harshnesses and sibilance, in which he thought he made out, but maybe not, the repeated name _Al-Lat_.

He clutched at Chamcha; they burst through the bottom of the clouds.

Speed, the sensation of speed, returned, whistling its fearful note. The roof of cloud fled upwards, the water-floor zoomed closer, their eyes opened. A scream, that same scream that had fluttered in his guts when Gibreel swam across the sky, burst from Chamcha's lips; a shaft of sunlight pierced his open mouth and set it free. But they had fallen through the transformations of the clouds, Chamcha and Farishta, and there was a fluidity, an indistinctness, at the edges of them, and as the sunlight hit Chamcha it released more than noise:

"Fly," Chamcha shrieked at Gibreel. "Start flying, now." And added, without knowing its source, the second command: "And sing."

How does newness come into the world? How is it born?

Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?

How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is? What compromises, what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?

Is birth always a fall?

Do angels have wings? Can men fly?

When Mr. Saladin Chamcha fell out of the clouds over the English Channel he felt his heart being gripped by a force so implacable that he understood it was impossible for him to die. Afterwards, when his feet were once more firmly planted on the ground, he would begin to doubt this, to ascribe the implausibilities of his transit to the scrambling of his perceptions by the blast, and to attribute his survival, his and Gibreel's, to blind, dumb luck. But at the time he had no doubt; what had taken him over was the will to live, unadulterated, irresistible, pure, and the first thing it did was to inform him that it wanted nothing to do with his pathetic personality, that half-reconstructed affair of mimicry and voices, it intended to bypass all that, and he found himself surrendering to it, yes, go on, as if he were a bystander in his own mind, in his own body, because it began in the very centre of his body and spread outwards, turning his blood to iron, changing his flesh to steel, except that it also felt like a fist that enveloped him from outside, holding him in a way that was both unbearably tight and intolerably gentle; until finally it had conquered him totally and could work his mouth, his fingers, whatever it chose, and once it was sure of its dominion it spread outward from his body and grabbed Gibreel Farishta by the balls.

"Fly," it commanded Gibreel. "Sing."

Chamcha held on to Gibreel while the other began, slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and force, to flap his arms. Harder and harder he flapped, and as he flapped a song burst out of him, and like the song of the spectre of Rekha Merchant it was sung in a language he did not know to a tune he had never heard. Gibreel never repudiated the miracle; unlike Chamcha, who tried to reason it out of existence, he never stopped saying that the gazal had been celestial, that without the song the flapping would have been for nothing, and without the flapping it was a sure thing that they would have hit the waves like rocks or what and simply burst into pieces on making contact with the taut drum of the sea. Whereas instead they began to slow down. The more emphatically Gibreel flapped and sang, sang and flapped, the more pronounced the deceleration, until finally the two of them were floating down to the Channel like scraps of paper in a breeze.

They were the only survivors of the wreck, the only ones who fell from _Bostan_ and lived. They were found washed up on a beach. The more voluble of the two, the one in the purple shirt, swore in his wild ramblings that they had walked upon the water, that the waves had borne them gently in to shore; but the other, to whose head a soggy bowler hat clung as if by magic, denied this. "God, we were lucky," he said. "How lucky can you get?"

I know the truth, obviously. I watched the whole thing. As to omnipresence and -potence, I'm making no claims at present, but I can manage this much, I hope. Chamcha willed it and Farishta did what was willed.

Which was the miracle worker?

Of what type -- angelic, satanic -- was Farishta's song?

Who am I?

Let's put it this way: who has the best tunes?

These were the first words Gibreel Farishta said when he awoke on the snowbound English beach with the improbability of a starfish by his ear: "Born again, Spoono, you and me. Happy birthday, mister; happy birthday to you."

Whereupon Saladin Chamcha coughed, spluttered, opened his eyes, and, as befitted a new-born babe, burst into foolish tears.

2

Reincarnation was always a big topic with Gibreel, for fifteen years the biggest star in the history of the Indian movies, even before he "miraculously" defeated the Phantom Bug that everyone had begun to believe would terminate his contracts. So maybe someone should have been able to forecast, only nobody did, that when he was up and about again he would sotospeak succeed where the germs had failed and walk out of his old life forever within a week of his fortieth birthday, vanishing, poof!, like a trick, _into thin air_.

The first people to notice his absence were the four members of his film-studio wheelchair-team. Long before his illness he had formed the habit of being transported from set to set on the great D. W. Rama lot by this group of speedy, trusted athletes, because a man who makes up to eleven movies "sy-multaneous" needs to conserve his energies. Guided by a complex coding system of slashes, circles and dots which Gibreel remembered from his childhood among the fabled lunch-runners of Bombay (of which more later), the chair-men zoomed him from role to role, delivering him as punctually and unerringly as once his father had delivered lunch. And after each take Gibreel would skip back into the chair and be navigated at high speed towards the next set, to be re-costumed, made up and handed his lines. "A career in the Bombay talkies," he told his loyal crew, "is more like a wheelchair race with one-two pit stops along the route."

After the illness, the Ghostly Germ, the Mystery Malaise, the Bug, he had returned to work, easing himself in, only seven pictures at a time . . . and then, justlikethat, he wasn't there. The wheelchair stood empty among the silenced sound-stages; his absence revealed the tawdry shamming of the sets. Wheelchairmen, one to four, made excuses for the missing star when movie executives descended upon them in wrath: Ji, he must be sick, he has always been famous for his punctual, no, why to criticize, maharaj, great artists must from time to time be permitted their temperament, na, and for their protestations they became the first casualties of Farishta's unexplained hey-presto, being fired, four three two one, ekdumjaldi, ejected from studio gates so that a wheelchair lay abandoned and gathering dust beneath the painted coco-palms around a sawdust beach.

Where was Gibreel? Movie producers, left in seven lurches, panicked expensively. See, there, at the Willingdon Club golf links -- only nine holes nowadays, skyscrapers having sprouted out of the other nine like giant weeds, or, let's say, like tombstones marking the sites where the torn corpse of the old city lay -- there, right there, upper-echelon executives, missing the simplest putts; and, look above, tufts of anguished hair, torn from senior heads, wafting down from high-level windows. The agitation of the producers was easy to understand, because in those days of declining audiences and the creation of historical soap operas and contemporary crusading housewives by the television network, there was but a single name which, when set above a picture's title, could still offer a sure-fire, cent-per-cent guarantee of an Ultrahit, a Smashation, and the owner of said name had departed, up, down or sideways, but certainly and unarguably vamoosed . . .

All over the city, after telephones, motorcyclists, cops, frogmen and trawlers dragging the harbour for his body had laboured mightily but to no avail, epitaphs began to be spoken in memory of the darkened star. On one of Rama Studios' seven impotent stages, Miss Pimple Billimoria, the latest chilli-and-spices bombshell -- _she's no flibberti-gibberti mamzel!, but a whir-stir-get-lost-sir bundla dynamite_ -- clad in temple--dancer veiled undress and positioned beneath writhing cardboard representations of copulating Tantric figures from the Chandela period, -- and perceiving that her major scene was not to be, her big break lay in pieces -- offered up a spiteful farewell before an audience of sound recordists and electricians smoking their cynical beedis. Attended by a dumbly distressed ayah, all elbows, Pimple attempted scorn. "God, what a stroke of luck, for Pete's sake," she cried. "I mean today it was the love scene, chhi chhi, I was just dying inside, thinking how to go near to that fatmouth with his breath of rotting cockroach dung." Bell-heavy anklets jingled as she stamped. "Damn good for him the movies don't smell, or he wouldn't get one job as a leper even." Here Pimple's soliloquy climaxed in such a torrent of obscenities that the beedi-smokers sat up for the first time and commenced animatedly to compare Pimple's vocabulary with that of the infamous bandit queen Phoolan Devi whose oaths could melt rifle barrels and turn journalists' pencils to rubber in a trice.

Exit Pimple, weeping, censored, a scrap on a cutting-room floor. Rhinestones fell from her navel as she went, mirroring her tears. . . in the matter of Farishta's halitosis she was not, however, altogether wrong; if anything, she had a little understated the case. Gibreel's exhalations, those ochre clouds of sulphur and brimstone, had always given him -- when taken together with his pronounced widow's peak and crowblack hair -- an air more saturnine than haloed, in spite of his archangelic name. It was said after he disappeared that he ought to have been easy to find, all it took was a halfway decent nose . . . and one week after he took off, an exit more tragic than Pimple Billimoria's did much to intensify the devilish odour that was beginning to attach itself to that forsolong sweet-smelling name. You could .say that he had stepped out of the screen into the world, and in life, unlike the cinema, people know it if you stink.

_We are creatures of air, Our roots in dreams And clouds, reborn In flight. Goodbye_. The enigmatic note discovered by the police in Gibreel Farishta's penthouse, located on the top floor of the Everest Vilas skyscraper on Malabar Hill, the highest home in the highest building on the highest ground in the city, one of those double-vista apartments from which you could look this way across the evening necklace of Marine Drive or that way out to Scandal Point and the sea, permitted the newspaper headlines to prolong their cacophonies. FARISHTA DIVES UNDERGROUND, opined _Blitz_ in somewhat macabre fashion, while Busybee in _The Daily_ preferred GIBREEL FLIES coop. Many photographs were published of that fabled residence in which French interior decorators bearing letters of commendation from Reza Pahlevi for the work they had done at Persepolis had spent a million dollars recreating at this exalted altitude the effect of a Bedouin tent. Another illusion unmade by his absence; GIBREEL STRIKES CAMP, the headlines yelled, but had he gone up or down or sideways? No one knew. In that metropolis of tongues and whispers, not even the sharpest ears heard anything reliable. But Mrs. Rekha Merchant, reading all the papers, listening to all the radio broadcasts, staying glued to the Doordarshan TV programmes, gleaned something from Farishta's message, heard a note that eluded everyone else, and took her two daughters and one son for a walk on the roof of her high-rise home. Its name was Everest Vilas.

His neighbour; as a matter of fact, from the apartment directly beneath his own. His neighbour and his friend; why should I say any more? Of course the scandal-pointed malice-magazines of the city filled their columns with hint innuendo and nudge, but that's no reason for sinking to their level. Why tarnish her reputation now?

Who was she? Rich, certainly, but then Everest Vilas was not exactly a tenement in Kurla, eh? Married, yessir, thirteen years, with a husband big in ball-bearings. Independent, her carpet and antique showrooms thriving at their prime Colaba sites. She called her carpets _klims_ and _kleens_ and the ancient artefacts were _anti-queues_. Yes, and she was beautiful, beautiful in the hard, glossy manner of those rarefied occupants of the city's sky-homes, her bones skin posture all bearing witness to her long divorce from the impoverished, heavy, pullulating earth. Everyone agreed she had a strong personality, drank _like a fish_ from Lalique crystal and hung her hat _shameless_ on a Chola Natraj and knew what she wanted and how to get it, fast. The husband was a mouse with money and a good squash wrist. Rekha Merchant read Gibreel Farishta's farewell note in the newspapers, wrote a letter of her own, gathered her children, summoned the elevator, and rose heavenward (one storey) to meet her chosen fate.

"Many years ago," her letter read, "I married out of cowardice. Now, finally, I'm doing something brave." She left a newspaper on her bed with Gibreel's message circled in red and heavily underscored -- three harsh lines, one of them ripping the page in fury. So naturally the bitch-journals went to town and it was all LOVELY"S LOVELORN LEAP, and BROKEN-HEARTED BEAUTY TAKES LAST DIVE. But:

Perhaps she, too, had the rebirth bug, and Gibreel, not understanding the terrible power of metaphor, had recommended flight. _To be born again,first you have to_ and she was a creature of the sky, she drank Lalique champagne, she lived on Everest, and one of her fellow-Olympians had flown; and if he could, then she, too, could be winged, and rooted in dreams.

She didn't make it. The lala who was employed as gatekeeper of the Everest Vilas compound offered the world his blunt testimony. "I was walking, here here, in the compound only, when there came a thud, _tharaap_. I turned. It was the body of the oldest daughter. Her skull was completely crushed. I looked up and saw the boy falling, and after him the younger girl. What to say, they almost hit me where I stood. I put my hand on my mouth and came to them. The young girl was whining softly. Then I looked up a further time and the Begum was coming. Her sari was floating out like a big balloon and all her hair was loose. I took my eyes away from her because she was fallIng and it was not respectful to look up inside her clothes."

Rekha and her children fell from Everest; no survivors. The whispers blamed Gibreel. Let's leave it at that for the moment.

Oh: don't forget: he saw her after she died. He saw her several times. It was a long time before people understood how sick the great man was. Gibreel, the star. Gibreel, who vanquished the Nameless Ailment. Gibreel, who feared sleep.

After he departed the ubiquitous images of his face began to rot. On the gigantic, luridly coloured hoardings from which he had watched over the populace, his lazy eyelids started flaking and crumbling, drooping further and further until his irises looked like two moons sliced by clouds, or by the soft knives of his long lashes. Finally the eyelids fell off, giving a wild, bulging look to his painted eyes. Outside the picture palaces of Bombay, mammoth cardboard effigies of Gibreel were seen to decay and list. Dangling limply on their sustaining scaffolds, they lost arms, withered, snapped at the neck. His portraits on the covers of movie magazines acquired the pallor of death, a nullity about the eye, a hollowness. At last his images simply faded off the printed page, so that the shiny covers of _Celebrity_ and _Society_ and _Illustrated Weekly_ went blank at the bookstalls and their publishers fired the printers and blamed the quality of the ink. Even on the silver screen itself, high above his worshippers in the dark, that supposedly immortal physiognomy began to putrefy, blister and bleach; projectors jammed unaccountably every time he passed through the gate, his films ground to a halt, and the lamp-heat of the malfunctioning projectors burned his celluloid memory away: a star gone supernova, with the consuming fire spreading outwards, as was fitting, from his lips.

It was the death of God. Or something very like it; for had not that outsize face, suspended over its devotees in the artificial cinematic night, shone like that of some supernal Entity that had its being at least halfway between the mortal and the divine? More than halfway, many would have argued, for Gibreel had spent the greater part of his unique career incarnating, with absolute conviction, the countless deities of the subcontinent in the popular genre movies known as "theologicals". It was part of the magic of his persona that he succeeded in crossing religious boundaries without giving offence. Blue-skinned as Krishna he danced, flute in hand, amongst the beauteous gopis and their udder-heavy cows; with upturned palms, serene, he meditated (as Gautama) upon humanity's suffering beneath a studio-rickety bodhi-tree. On those infrequent occasions when he descended from the heavens he never went too far, playing, for example, both the Grand Mughal and his famously wily minister in the classic _Akbar and Birbal_. For over a decade and a half he had represented, to hundreds of millions of believers in that country in which, to this day, the human population outnumbers the divine by less than three to one, the most acceptable, and instantly recognizable, face of the Supreme. For many of his fans, the boundary separating the performer and his roles had longago ceased to exist.

The fans, yes, and? How about Gibreel?

That face. In real life, reduced to life-size, set amongst ordinary mortals, it stood revealed as oddly un-starry. Those low-slung eyelids could give him an exhausted look. There was, too, something coarse about the nose, the mouth was too well fleshed to be strong, the ears were long-lobed like young, knurled jackfruit. The most profane of faces, the most sensual of faces. In which, of late, it had been possible to make out the seams mined by his recent, near-fatal illness. And yet, in spite of profanity and debilitation, this was a face inextricably mixed up with holiness, perfection, grace: God stuff. No accounting for tastes, that's all. At any rate, you'll agree that for such an actor (for any actor, maybe, even for Chamcha, but most of all for him) to have a bee in his bonnet about avatars, like much-metamorphosed Vishnu, was not so very surprising. Rebirth: that's God stuff, too.

Or, but, then again . . . not always. There are secular reincarnations, too. Gibreel Farishta had been born Ismail Najmuddin in Poona, British Poona at the empire's fag-end, long before the Pune of Rajneesh etc. (Pune, Vadodara, Mumbai; even towns can take stage names nowadays.) Ismail after the child involved in the sacrifice of Ibrahim, and Najmuddin, _star of the faith_; he'd given up quite a name when he took the angel's.

Afterwards, when the aircraft _Bostan_ was in the grip of the hijackers, and the passengers, fearing for their futures, were regressing into their pasts, Gibreel confided to Saladin Chamcha that his choice of pseudonym had been his way of making a homage to the memory of his dead mother, "my mummyji, Spoono, my one and only Mamo, because who else was it who started the whole angel business, her personal angel, she called me, _farishta_, because apparently I was too damn sweet, believe it or not, I was good as goddamn gold."

Poona couldn't hold him; he was taken in his infancy to the bitch-city, his first migration; his father got a job amongst the fleet-footed inspirers of future wheelchair quartets, the lunch-porters or dabbawallas of Bombay. And Ismail the farishta followed, at thirteen, in his father's footsteps.

Gibreel, captive aboard AI-420, sank into forgivable rhapsodies, fixing Chamcha with his glittering eye, explicating the mysteries of the runners' coding system, black swastika red circle yellow slash dot, running in his mind's eye the entire relay from home to office desk, that improbable system by which two thousand dabbawallas delivered, each day, over one hundred thousand lunch-pails, and on a bad day, Spoono, maybe fifteen got mislaid, we were illiterate, mostly, but the signs were our secret tongue.

_Bostan_ circled London, gunmen patrolling the gangways, and the lights in the passenger cabins had been switched off, but Gibreel's energy illuminated the gloom. On the grubby movie screen on which, earlier in the journey, the inflight inevitability of Walter Matthau had stumbled lugubriously into the aerial ubiquity of Goldie Hawn, there were shadows moving, projected by the nostalgia of the hostages, and the most sharply defined of them was this spindly adolescent, Ismail Najmuddin, mummy's angel in a Gandhi cap, running tiffins across the town. The young dabbawalla skipped nimbly through the shadow-crowd, because he was used to such conditions, think, Spoono, picture, thirty-forty tiffins in a long wooden tray on your head, and when the local train stops you have maybe one minute to push on or off, and then running in the streets, flat out, yaar, with the trucks buses scooters cycles and what-all, one-two, one-two, lunch, lunch, the dabbas must get through, and in the monsoon running down the railway line when the train broke down, or waist-deep in water in some flooded street, and there were gangs, Salad baba, truly, organized gangs of dabba-stealers, it's a hungry city, baby, what to tell you, but we could handle them, we were everywhere, knew everything, what thieves could escape our eyes and ears, we never went to any policia, we looked after our own.

At night father and son would return exhausted to their shack by the airport runway at Santacruz and when Ismail's mother saw him approaching, illuminated by the green red yellow of the departing jet-planes, she would say that simply to lay eyes on him made all her dreams come true, which was the first indication that there was something peculiar about Gibreel, because from the beginning, it seemed, he could fulfil people's most secret desires without having any idea of how he did it. His father Najmuddin Senior never seemed to mind that his wife had eyes only for her son, that the boy's feet received nightly pressings while the father's went unstroked. A son is a blessing and a blessing requires the gratitude of the blest.

Naima Najmuddin died. A bus hit her and that was that, Gibreel wasn't around to answer her prayers for life. Neither father nor son ever spoke of grief. Silently, as though it were customary and expected, they buried their sadness beneath extra work, engaging in an inarticulate contest, who could carry the most dabbas on his head, who could acquire the most new contracts per month, who could run faster, as though the greater labour would indicate the greater love. When he saw his father at night, the knotted veins bulging in his neck and at his temples, Ismail Najmuddin would understand how much the older man had resented him, and how important it was for the father to defeat the son and regain, thereby, his usurped primacy in the affections of his dead wife. Once he realized this, the youth eased off, but his father's zeal remained unrelenting, and pretty soon he was getting promotion, no longer a mere runner but one of the organizing muqaddams. When Gibreel was nineteen, Najmuddin Senior became a member of the lunch-runners' guild, the Bombay Tiffin Carriers' Association, and when Gibreel was twenty, his father was dead, stopped in his tracks by a stroke that almost blew him apart. "He just ran himself into the ground," said the guild's General Secretary, Babasaheb Mhatre himself. "That poor bastard, he just ran out of steam." But the orphan knew better. He knew that his father had finally run hard enough and long enough to wear down the frontiers between the worlds, he had run clear out of his skin and into the arms of his wife, to whom he had proved, once and for all, the superiority of his love. Some migrants are happy to depart.

Babasaheb Mhatre sat in a blue office behind a green door above a labyrinthine bazaar, an awesome figure, buddha-fat, one of the great moving forces of the metropolis, possessing the occult gift of remaining absolutely still, never shifting from his room, and yet being everywhere important and meeting everyone who mattered in Bombay. The day after young Ismail's father ran across the border to see Naima, the Babasaheb summoned the young man into his presence. "So? Upset or what?" The reply, with downcast eyes: ji, thank you, Babaji, I am okay. "Shut your face," said Babasaheb Mhatre. "From today you live with me." Butbut, Babaji ... "But me no buts. Already I have informed my goodwife. I have spoken." Please excuse Babaji but how what why? "I have _spoken_."

Gibreel Farishta was never told why the Babasaheb had decided to take pity on him and pluck him from the futurelessness of the streets, but after a while he began to have an idea. Mrs. Mhatre was a thin woman, like a pencil beside the rubbery Babasaheb, but she was filled so full of mother-love that she should have been fat like a potato. When the Baba came home she put sweets into his mouth with her own hands, and at nights the newcomer to the household could hear the great General Secretary of the B T C A protesting, Let me go, wife, I can undress myself. At breakfast she spoon-fed Mhatre with large helpings of malt, and before he went to work she brushed his hair. They were a childless couple, and young Najmuddin understood that the Babasaheb wanted him to share the load. Oddly enough, however, the Begum did not treat the young man as a child. "You see, he is a grown fellow," she told her husband when poor Mhatre pleaded, "Give the boy the blasted spoon of malt." Yes, a grown fellow, "we must make a man of him, husband, no babying for him." "Then damn it to hell," the Babasaheb exploded, "why do you do it to me?" Mrs. Mhatre burst into tears. "But you are everything to me," she wept, "you are my father, my lover, my baby too. You are my lord and my suckling child. If I displease you then I have no life."

Babasaheb Mhatre, accepting defeat, swallowed the tablespoon of malt.

He was a kindly man, which he disguised with insults and noise. To console the orphaned youth he would speak to him, in the blue office, about the philosophy of rebirth, convincing him that his parents were already being scheduled for re-entry somewhere, unless of course their lives had been so holy that they had attained the final grace. So it was Mhatre who started Farishta off on the whole reincarnation business, and not just reincarnation. The Babasaheb was an amateur psychic, a tapper of table-legs and a bringer of spirits into glasses. "But I gave that up," he told his protégé, with many suitably melodramatic inflections, gestures, frowns, "after I got the fright of my bloody life."

Once (Mhatre recounted) the glass had been visited by the most co-operative of spirits, such a too-friendly fellow, see, so I thought to ask him some big questions. _Is there a God_, and that glass which had been running round like a mouse or so just stopped dead, middle of table, not a twitch, completely phutt, kaput. So, then, okay, I said, if you won't answer that try this one instead, and I came right out with it, _Is there a Devil_. After that the glass -- baprebap! -- began to shake -- catch your ears! -- slowslow at first, then faster--faster, like a jelly, until it jumped! -- ai-hai! -- up from the table, into the air, fell down on its side, and -- o-ho! -- into a thousand and one pieces, smashed. Believe don't believe, Babasaheb Mhatre told his charge, but thenandthere I learned my lesson: don't meddle, Mhatre, in what you do not comprehend.

This story had a profound effect on the consciousness of the young listener, because even before his mother's death he had become convinced of the existence of the supernatural world. Sometimes when he looked around him, especially in the afternoon heat when the air turned glutinous, the visible world, its features and inhabitants and things, seemed to be sticking up through the atmosphere like a profusion of hot icebergs, and he had the idea that everything continued down below the surface of the soupy air: people, motor-cars, dogs, movie billboards, trees, nine-tenths of their reality concealed from his eyes. He would blink, and the illusion would fade, but the sense of it never left him. He grew up believing in God, angels, demons, afreets, djinns, as matter-of-factly as if they were bullock-carts or lamp-posts, and it struck him as a failure in his own sight that he had never seen a ghost. He would dream of discovering a magic optometrist from whom he would purchase a pair of greentinged spectacles which would correct his regrettable myopia, and after that he would be able to see through the dense, blinding air to the fabulous world beneath.

From his mother Naima Najmuddin he heard a great many stories of the Prophet, and if inaccuracies had crept into her versions he wasn't interested in knowing what they were. "What a man!" he thought. "What angel would not wish to speak to him?" Sometimes, though, he caught himself in the act of forming blasphemous thoughts, for example when without meaning to, as he drifted off to sleep in his cot at the Mhatre residence, his somnolent fancy began to compare his own condition with that of the Prophet at the time when, having been orphaned and short of funds, he made a great success of his job as the business manager of the wealthy widow Khadija, and ended up marrying her as well. As he slipped into sleep he saw himself sitting on a rose-strewn dais, simpering shyly beneath the sari-pallu which he had placed demurely over his face, while his new husband, Babasaheb Mhatre, reached lovingly towards him to remove the fabric, and gaze at his features in a mirror placed in his lap. This dream of marrying the Babasaheb brought him awake, flushing hotly for shame, and after that he began to worry about the impurity in his make-up that could create such terrible visions.

Mostly, however, his religious faith was a low-key thing, a part of him that required no more special attention than any other. When Babasaheb Mhatre took him into his home it confirmed to the young man that he was not alone in the world, that something was taking care of him, so he was not entirely surprised when the Babasaheb called him into the blue office on the morning of his twenty-first birthday and sacked him without even being prepared to listen to an appeal.

"You're fired," Mhatre emphasized, beaming. "Cashiered, had your chips. Dis-_miss_."

"But, uncle,"

"Shut your face."

Then the Babasaheb gave the orphan the greatest present of his life, informing him that a meeting had been arranged for him at the studios of the legendary film magnate Mr. D. W. Rama; an audition. "It is for appearance only," the Babasaheb said. "Rama is my good friend and we have discussed. A small part to begin, then it is up to you. Now get out of my sight and stop pulling such humble faces, it does not suit."

"But, uncle,"

"Boy like you is too damn goodlooking to carry tiffins on his head all his life. Get gone now, go, be a homosexual movie actor. I fired you five minutes back."

"But, uncle,"

"I have spoken. Thank your lucky stars."

He became Gibreel Farishta, but for four years he did not become a star, serving his apprenticeship in a succession of minor knockabout comic parts. He remained calm, unhurried, as though he could see the future, and his apparent lack of ambition made him something of an outsider in that most self-seeking of industries. He was thought to be stupid or arrogant or both. And throughout the four wilderness years he failed to kiss a single woman on the mouth.

On-screen, he played the fall guy, the idiot who loves the beauty and can't see that she wouldn't go for him in a thousand years, the funny uncle, the poor relation, the village idiot, the servant, the incompetent crook, none of them the type of part that ever rates a love scene. Women kicked him, slapped him, teased him, laughed at him, but never, on celluloid, looked at him or sang to him or danced around him with cinematic love in their eyes. Off-screen, he lived alone in two empty rooms near the studios and tried to imagine what women looked like without clothes on. To get his mind off the subject of love and desire, he studied, becoming an omnivorous autodidact, devouring the metamorphic myths of Greece and Rome, the avatars of Jupiter, the boy who became a flower, the spider-woman, Circe, everything; and the theosophy of Annie Besant, and unified field theory, and the incident of the Satanic verses in the early career of the Prophet, and the politics of Muhammad's harem after his return to Mecca in triumph; and the surrealism of the newspapers, in which butterflies could fly into young girls' mouths, asking to be consumed, and children were born with no faces, and young boys dreamed in impossible detail of earlier incarnations, for instance in a golden fortress filled with precious stones. He filled himself up with God knows what, but he could not deny, in the small hours of his insomniac nights, that he was full of something that had never been used, that he did not know how to begin to use, that is, love. In his dreams he was tormented by women of unbearable sweetness and beauty, so he preferred to stay awake and force himself to rehearse some part of his general knowledge in order to blot out the tragic feeling of being endowed with a larger-than-usual capacity for love, without a single person on earth to offer it to.

His big break arrived with the coming of the theological movies. Once the formula of making films based on the puranas, and adding the usual mixture of songs, dances, funny uncles etc., had paid off, every god in the pantheon got his or her chance to be a star. When D. W. Rama scheduled a production based on the story of Ganesh, none of the leading box-office names of the time were willing to spend an entire movie concealed inside an elephant's head. Gibreel jumped at the chance. That was his first hit, _Ganpati Baba_, and suddenly he was a superstar, but only with the trunk and ears on. After six movies playing the elephantheaded god he was permitted to remove the thick, pendulous, grey mask and put on, instead, a long, hairy tail, in order to play Hanuman the monkey king in a sequence of adventure movies that owed more to a certain cheap television series emanating from Hong Kong than it did to the Ramayana. This series proved so popular that monkey-tails became de rigueur for the city's young bucks at the kind of parties frequented by convent girls known as "firecrackers" because of their readiness to go off with a bang.

After Hanuman there was no stopping Gibreel, and his phenomenal success deepened his belief in a guardian angel. But it also led to a more regrettable development.

(I see that I must, after all, spill poor Rekha's beans.)

Even before he replaced false head with fake tail he had become irresistibly attractive to women. The seductions of his fame had grown so great that several of these young ladies asked him if he would keep the Ganesh-mask on while they made love, but he refused out of respect for the dignity of the god. Owing to the innocence of his upbringing he could not at that time differentiate between quantity and quality and accordingly felt the need to make up for lost time. He had so many sexual partners that it was not uncommon for him to forget their names even before they had left his room. Not only did he become a philanderer of the worst type, but he also learned the arts of dissimulation, because a man who plays gods must be above reproach. So skilfully did he conceal his life of scandal and debauch that his old patron, Babasaheb Mhatre, lying on his deathbed a decade after he sent a young dabbawalla out into the world of illusion, black-money and lust, begged him to get married to prove he was a man. "God-sake, mister," the Babasaheb pleaded, "when I told you back then to go and be a homo I never thought you would take me seriously, there is a limit to respecting one's elders, after all." Gibreel threw up his hands and swore that he was no such disgraceful thing, and that when the right girl came along he would of course undergo nuptials with a will. "What you waiting? Some goddess from heaven? Greta Garbo, Gracekali, who?" cried the old man, coughing blood, but Gibreel left him with the enigma of a smile that allowed him to die without having his mind set entirely at rest.

The avalanche of sex in which Gibreel Farishta was trapped managed to bury his greatest talent so deep that it might easily have been lost forever, his talent, that is, for loving genuinely, deeply and without holding back, the rare and delicate gift which he had never been able to employ. By the time of his illness he had all but forgotten the anguish he used to experience owing to his longing for love, which had twisted and turned in him like a sorcerer's knife. Now, at the end of each gymnastic night, he slept easily and long, as if he had never been plagued by dream-women, as if he had never hoped to lose his heart.

"Your trouble," Rekha Merchant told him when she materialized out of the clouds, "is everybody always forgave you, God knows why, you always got let off, you got away with murder. Nobody ever held you responsible for what you did." He couldn't argue. "God's gift," she screamed at him, "God knows where you thought you were from, jumped-up type from the gutter, God knows what diseases you brought."

But that was what women did, he thought in those days, they were the vessels into which he could pour himself, and when he moved on, they would understand that it was his nature, and forgive. And it was true that nobody blamed him for leaving, for his thousand and one pieces of thoughtlessness, how many abortions, Rekha demanded in the cloud-hole, how many broken hearts. In all those years he was the beneficiary of the infinite generosity of women, but he was its victim, too, because their forgiveness made possible the deepest and sweetest corruption of all, namely the idea that he was doing nothing wrong.

Rekha: she entered his life when he bought the penthouse at Everest Vilas and she offered, as a neighbour and businesswoman, to show him her carpets and antiques. Her husband was at a world-wide congress of ball-bearings manufacturers in Gothenburg, Sweden, and in his absence she invited Gibreel into her apartment of stone lattices from Jaisalmer and carved wooden handrails from Kcralan palaces and a stone Mughal chhatri or cupola turned into a whirlpool bath; while she poured him French champagne she leaned against marbled walls and felt the cool veins of the stone against her back. When he sipped the champagne she teased him, surely gods should not partake of alcohol, and he answered with a line he had once read in an interview with the Aga Khan, O, you know, this champagne is only for outward show, the moment it touches my lips it turns to water. After that it didn't take long for her to touch his lips and deliquesce into his arms. By the time her children returned from school with the ayah she was immaculately dressed and coiffed, and sat with him in the drawing-room, revealing the secrets of the carpet business, confessing that art silk stood for artificial not artistic, telling him not to be fooled by her brochure in which a rug was seductively described as being made of wool plucked from the throats of baby lambs, which means, you see, only _low-grade wool_, advertising, what to do, this is how it is.

He did not love her, was not faithful to her, forgot her birthdays, failed to return her phone calls, turned up when it was most inconvenient owing to the presence in her home of dinner guests from the world of the ball-bearing, and like everyone else she forgave him. But her forgiveness was not the silent, mousy let-off he got from the others. Rekha complained like crazy, she gave him hell, she bawled him out and cursed him for a useless lafanga and haramzada and salah and even, in extremis, for being guilty of the impossible feat of fucking the sister he did not have. She spared him nothing, accusing him of being a creature of surfaces, like a movie screen, and then she went ahead and forgave him anyway and allowed him to unhook her blouse. Gibreel could not resist the operatic forgiveness of Rekha Merchant, which was all the more moving on account of the flaw in her own position, her infidelity to the ball-bearing king, which Gibreel forbore to mention, taking his verbal beatings like a man. So that whereas the pardons he got from the rest of his women left him cold and he forgot them the moment they were uttered, he kept coming back to Rekha, so that she could abuse him and then console him as only she knew how.

Then he almost died.

He was filming at Kanya Kumari, standing on the very tip of Asia, taking part in a fight scene set at the point on Cape Comorin where it seems that three oceans are truly smashing into one another. Three sets of waves rolled in from the west east south and collided in a mighty clapping of watery hands just as Gibreel took a punch on the jaw, perfect timing, and he passed out on the spot, falling backwards into tri-oceanic spume. He did not get up.

To begin with everybody blamed the giant English stunt-man Eustace Brown, who had delivered the punch. He protested vehemently. Was he not the same fellow who had performed opposite Chief Minister N. T. Rama Rao in his many theological movie roles? Had he not perfected the art of making the old man look good in combat without hurting him? Had he ever complained that NTR never pulled his punches, so that he, Eustace, invariably ended up black and blue, having been beaten stupid by a little old guy whom he could've eaten for breakfast, on _toast_, and had he ever, even once, lost his temper? Well, then? How could anyone think he would hurt the immortal Gibreel? -- They fired him anyway and the police put him in the lock-up, just in case.

But it was not the punch that had flattened Gibreel. After the star had been flown into Bombay's Breach Candy Hospital in an Air Force jet made available for the purpose; after exhaustive tests had come up with almost nothing; and while he lay unconscious, dying, with a blood-count that had fallen from his normal fifteen to a murderous four point two, a hospital spokesman faced the national press on Breach Candy's wide white steps. "It is a freak mystery," he gave out. "Call it, if you so please, an act of God."

Gibreel Farishta had begun to haemorrhage all over his insides for no apparent reason, and was quite simply bleeding to death inside his skin. At the worst moment the blood began to seep out through his rectum and penis, and it seemed that at any moment it might burst torrentially through his nose and ears and out of the corners of his eyes. For seven days he bled, and received transfusions, and every clotting agent known to medical science, including a concentrated form of rat poison, and although the treatment resulted in a marginal improvement the doctors gave him up for lost.

The whole of India was at Gibreel's bedside. His condition was the lead item on every radio bulletin, it was the subject of hourly news-flashes on the national television network, and the crowd that gathered in Warden Road was so large that the police had to disperse it with lathi-charges and tear-gas, which they used even though every one of the half-million mourners was already tearful and wailing. The Prime Minister cancelled her appointments and flew to visit him. Her son the airline pilot sat in Farishta's bedroom, holding the actor's hand. A mood of apprehension settled over the nation, because if God had unleashed such an act of retribution against his most celebrated incarnation, what did he have in store for the rest of the country? If Gibreel died, could India be far behind? In the mosques and temples of the nation, packed congregations prayed, not only for the life of the dying actor, but for the future, for themselves.

Who did not visit Gibreel in hospital? Who never wrote, made no telephone call, despatched no flowers, sent in no tiffins of delicious home cooking? While many lovers shamelessly sent him get-well cards and lamb pasandas, who, loving him most of all, kept herself to herself, unsuspected by her ball--bearing of a husband? Rekha Merchant placed iron around her heart, and went through the motions of her daily life, playing with her children, chit-chatting with her husband, acting as his hostess when required, and never, not once, revealed the bleak devastation of her soul.

He recovered.

The recovery was as mysterious as the illness, and as rapid. It, too, was called (by hospital, journalists, friends) an act of the Supreme. A national holiday was declared; fireworks were set off up and down the land. But when Gibreel regained his strength, it became clear that he had changed, and to a startling degree, because he had lost his faith.

On the day he was discharged from hospital he went under police escort through the immense crowd that had gathered to celebrate its own deliverance as well as his, climbed into his Mercedes and told the driver to give all the pursuing vehicles the slip, which took seven hours and fifty-one minutes, and by the end of the manoeuvre he had worked out what had to be done. He got out of the limousine at the Taj hotel and without looking left or right went directly into the great dining-room with its buffet table groaning under the weight of forbidden foods, and he loaded his plate with all of it, the pork sausages from Wiltshire and the cured York hams and the rashers of bacon from godknowswhere; with the gammon steaks of his unbelief and the pig's trotters of secularism; and then, standing there in the middle of the hall, while photographers popped up from nowhere, he began to eat as fast as possible, stuffing the dead pigs into his face so rapidly that bacon rashers hung out of the sides of his mouth.

During his illness he had spent every minute of consciousness calling upon God, every second of every minute. Ya Allah whose servant lies bleeding do not abandon me now after watching oven me so long. Ya Allah show me some sign, some small mark of your favour, that I may find in myself the strength to cure my ills. O God most beneficent most merciful, be with me in this my time of need, my most grievous need. Then it occurred to him that he was being punished, and for a time that made it possible to suffer the pain, but after a time he got angry. Enough, God, his unspoken words demanded, why must I die when I have not killed, are you vengeance or are you love? The anger with God carried him through another day, but then it faded, and in its place there came a terrible emptiness, an isolation, as he realized he was talking to _thin air_, that there was nobody there at all, and then he felt more foolish than ever in his life, and he began to plead into the emptiness, ya Allah, just be there, damn it, just be. But he felt nothing, nothing nothing, and then one day he found that he no longer needed there to be anything to feel. On that day of metamorphosis the illness changed and his recovery began. And to prove to himself the non-existence of God, he now stood in the dining-hall of the city's most famous hotel, with pigs falling out of his face.

He looked up from his plate to find a woman watching him. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, and her skin possessed the colour and translucency of mountain ice. She laughed at him and turned away.

"Don't you get it?" he shouted after her, spewing sausage fragments from the corners of his mouth. "No thunderbolt. That's the point."

She came back to stand in front of him. "You're alive," she told him. "You got your life back. _That's_ the point."

He told Rekha: the moment she turned around and started walking back I fell in love with her. Alleluia Cone, climber of mountains, vanquisher of Everest, blonde yahudan, ice queen. Her challenge, _change your life, or did you get it back for nothing_, I couldn't resist.

"You and your reincarnation junk," Rekha cajoled him. "Such a nonsense head. You come out of hospital, back through death's door, and it goes to your head, crazy boy, at once you must have some escapade thing, and there she is, hey presto, the blonde mame. Don't think I don't know what you're like, Gibbo, so what now, you want me to forgive you or what?"

No need, he said. He left Rekha's apartment (its mistress wept, face-down, on the floor); and never entered it again.

Three days after he met her with his mouth full of unclean meat Allie got into an aeroplane and left. Three days out of time behind a do-not-disturb sign, but in the end they agreed that the world was real, what was possible was possible and what was impossible was im--, brief encounter, ships that pass, love in a transit lounge. After she left, Gibreel rested, tried to shut his ears to her challenge, resolved to get his life back to normal. Just because he'd lost his belief it didn't mean he couldn't do his job, and in spite of the scandal of the ham-eating photographs, the first scandal ever to attach itself to his name, he signed movie contracts and went back to work.

And then, one morning, a wheelchair stood empty and he had gone. A bearded passenger, one Ismail Najmuddin, boarded Flight AI-420 to London. The 747 was named after one of the gardens of Paradise, not Gulistan but _Bostan_. "To be born again," Gibrecl Farishta said to Saladin Chamcha much later, "first you have to die. Me, I only half-expired, but I did it on two occasions, hospital and plane, so it adds up, it counts. And now, Spoono my friend, here I stand before you in Proper London, Vilayet, regenerated, a new man with a new life. Spoono, is this not a bloody fine thing?"

Why did he leave?

Because of her, the challenge of her, the newness, the fierceness of the two of them together, the inexorability of an impossible thing that was insisting on its right to become.

And, or, maybe: because after he ate the pigs the retribution began, a nocturnal retribution, a punishment of dreams.

3

Once the flight to London had taken off, thanks to his magic trick of crossing two pairs of fingers on each hand and rotating his thumbs, the narrow, fortyish fellow who sat in a non-smoking window seat watching the city of his birth fall away from him like old snakeskin allowed a relieved expression to pass briefly across his face. This face was handsome in a somewhat sour, patrician fashion, with long, thick, downturned lips like those of a disgusted turbot, and thin eyebrows arching sharply over eyes that watched the world with a kind of alert contempt. Mr. Saladin Chamcha had constructed this face with care -- it had taken him several years to get it just right -- and for many more years now he had thought of it simply as _his own_ -- indeed, he had forgotten what he had looked like before it. Furthermore, he had shaped himself a voice to go with the face, a voice whose languid, almost lazy vowels contrasted disconcertingly with the sawn--off abruptness of the consonants. The combination of face and voice was a potent one; but, during his recent visit to his home town, his first such visit in fifteen years (the exact period, I should observe, of Gibreel Farishta's film stardom), there had been strange and worrying developments. It was unfortunately the case that his voice (the first to go) and, subsequently, his face itself, had begun to let him down.

It started -- Chamcha, allowing fingers and thumbs to relax and hoping, in some embarrassment, that his last remaining superstition had gone unobserved by his fellow-passengers, closed his eyes and remembered with a delicate shudder of horror -- on his flight east some weeks ago. He had fallen into a torpid sleep, high above the desert sands of the Persian Gulf, and been visited in a dream by a bizarre stranger, a man with a glass skin, who rapped his knuckles mournfully against the thin, brittle membrane covering his entire body and begged Saladin to help him, to release him from the prison of his skin. Chamcha picked up a stone and began to batter at the glass. At once a latticework of blood oozed up through the cracked surface of the stranger's body, and when Chamcha tried to pick off the broken shards the other began to scream, because chunks of his flesh were coming away with the glass. At this point an air stewardess bent over the sleeping Chamcha and demanded, with the pitiless hospitality of her tribe: _Something to drink, sir? A drink?_, and Saladin, emerging from the dream, found his speech unaccountably metamorphosed into the Bombay lilt he had so diligently (and so long ago!) unmade. "Achha, means what?" he mumbled. "Alcoholic beverage or what?" And, when the stewardess reassured him, whatever you wish, sir, all beverages are gratis, he heard, once again, his traitor voice: "So, okay, bibi, give one whiskysoda only."

What a nasty surprise! He had come awake with a jolt, and sat stiffly in his chair, ignoring alcohol and peanuts. How had the past bubbled up, in transmogrified vowels and vocab? What next? Would he take to putting coconut-oil in his hair? Would he take to squeezing his nostrils between thumb and forefinger, blowing noisily and drawing forth a glutinous silver arc of muck? Would he become a devotee of professional wrestling? What further, diabolic humiliations were in store? He should have known it was a mistake to _go home_, after so long, how could it be other than a regression; it was an unnatural journey; a denial of time; a revolt against history; the whole thing was bound to be a disaster.

_I'm not myself_, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the vicinity of his heart. But what does that mean, anyway, he added bitterly. After all, "les acteurs ne sont pas des gens", as the great ham Frederick had explained in _Les Enfants du Paradis_. Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.

The seatbelt light came on, the captain's voice warned of air turbulence, they dropped in and out of air pockets. The desert lurched about beneath them and the migrant labourer who had boarded at Qatar clutched at his giant transistor radio and began to retch. Chamcha noticed that the man had not fastened his belt, and pulled himself together, bringing his voice back to its haughtiest English pitch. "Look here, why don't you. . ." he indicated, but the sick man, between bursts of heaving into the paper bag which Saladin had handed him just in time, shook his head, shrugged, replied: "Sahib, for what? If Allah wishes me to die, I shall die. If he does not, I shall not. Then of what use is the safety?"

Damn you, India, Saladin Chamcha cursed silently, sinking back into his seat. To hell with you, I escaped your clutches long ago, you won't get your hooks into me again, you cannot drag me back.

Once upon a time -- _it was and it was not so_, as the old stories used to say, _it happened and it never did_ -- maybe, then, or maybe not, a ten-year-old boy from Scandal Point in Bombay found a wallet lying in the Street outside his home. He was on the way home from school, having just descended from the school bus on which he had been obliged to sit squashed between the adhesive sweatiness of boys in shorts and be deafened by their noise, and because even in those days he was a person who recoiled from raucousness, jostling and the perspiration of strangers he was feeling faintly nauseated by the long, bumpy ride home. However, when he saw the black leather billfold lying at his feet, the nausea vanished, and he bent down excitedly and grabbed, -- opened, -- and found, to his delight, that it was full of cash, -- and not merely rupees, but real money, negotiable on black markets and international exchanges, -- pounds! Pounds sterling, from Proper London in the fabled country of Vilayet across the black water and far away. Dazzled by the thick wad of foreign currency, the boy raised his eyes to make sure he had not been observed, and for a moment it seemed to him that a rainbow had arched down to him from the heavens, a rainbow like an angel's breath, like an answered prayer, coming to an end in the very spot on which he stood. His fingers trembled as they reached into the wallet, towards the fabulous hoard.

"Give it." It seemed to him in later life that his father had been spying on him throughout his childhood, and even though Changez Chamchawala was a big man, a giant even, to say nothing of his wealth and public standing, he still always had the lightness of foot and also the inclination to sneak up behind his son and spoil whatever he was doing, whipping the young Salahuddin's bedsheet off at night to reveal the shameful penis in the clutching, red hand. And he could smell money from a hundred and one miles away, even through the stink of chemicals and fertilizer that always hung around him owing to his being the country's largest manufacturer of agricultural sprays and fluids and artificial dung. Changez Chamchawala, philanthropist, philanderer, living legend, leading light of the nationalist movement, sprang from the gateway of his home to pluck a bulging wallet from his son's frustrated hand. "Tch tch," he admonished, pocketing the pounds sterling, "you should not pick things up from the street. The ground is dirty, and money is dirtier, anyway."

On a shelf of Changez Chamchawala's teak-lined study, beside a ten-volume set of the Richard Burton translation of the Arabian Nights, which was being slowly devoured by mildew and bookworm owing to the deep-seated prejudice against books which led Changez to own thousands of the pernicious things in order to humiliate them by leaving them to rot unread, there stood a magic lamp, a brightly polished copper--and--brass avatar of Aladdin's very own genie-container: a lamp begging to be rubbed. But Changez neither rubbed it nor permitted it to be rubbed by, for example, his son. "One day," he assured the boy, "you'll have it for yourself. Then rub and rub as much as you like and see what doesn't come to you. Just now, but, it is mine." The promise of the magic lamp infected Master Salahuddin with the notion that one day his troubles would end and his innermost desires would be gratified, and all he had to do was wait it out; but then there was the incident of the wallet, when the magic of a rainbow had worked for him, not for his father but for him, and Changez Chamchawala had stolen the crock of gold. After that the son became convinced that his father would smother all his hopes unless he got away, and from that moment he became desperate to leave, to escape, to place oceans between the great man and himself.

Salahuddin Chamchawala had understood by his thirteenth year that he was destined for that cool Vilayet full of the crisp promises of pounds sterling at which the magic billfold had hinted, and he grew increasingly impatient of that Bombay of dust, vulgarity, policemen in shorts, transvestites, movie fanzines, pavement sleepers and the rumoured singing whores of Grant Road who had begun as devotees of the Yellamma cult in Karnataka but ended up here as dancers in the more prosaic temples of the flesh. He was fed up of textile factories and local trains and all the confusion and superabundance of the place, and longed for that dream-Vilayet of poise and moderation that had come to obsess him by night and day. His favourite playground rhymes were those that yearned for foreign cities: kitchy--con kitchy-ki kitchy-con stanty-eye kitchy-ople kitchy-cople kitchyCon-stanti-nople. And his favourite game was the version ofgrandmother's footsteps in which, when he was it, he would turn his back on upcreeping playmates to gabble out, like a mantra, like a spell, the six letters of his dream--city, _ellowen deeowen_. In his secret heart, he crept silently up on London, letter by letter, just as his friends crept up to him. _Ellowen deeowen London_.

The mutation of Salahuddin Chamchawala into Saladin Chamcha began, it will be seen, in old Bombay, long before he got close enough to hear the lions of Trafalgar roar. When the England cricket team played India at the Brabourne Stadium, he prayed for an England victory, for the game's creators to defeat the local upstarts, for the proper order of things to be maintained. (But the games were invariably drawn, owing to the featherbed somnolence of the Brabourne Stadium wicket; the great issue, creator versus imitator, colonizer against colonized, had perforce to remain unresolved.)

In his thirteenth year he was old enough to play on the rocks at Scandal Point without having to be watched over by his ayah, Kasturba. And one day (it was so, it was not so), he strolled out of the house, that ample, crumbling, salt-caked building in the Parsi style, all columns and shutters and little balconies, and through the garden that was his father's pride and joy and which in a certain evening light could give the impression of being infinite (and which was also enigmatic, an unsolved riddle, because nobody, not his father, not the gardener, could tell him the names of most of the plants and trees), and out through the main gateway, a grandiose folly, a reproduction of the Roman triumphal arch of Septimius Severus, and across the wild insanity of the street, and over the sea wall, and so at last on to the broad expanse of shiny black rocks with their little shrimpy pools. Christian girls giggled in frocks, men with furled umbrellas stood silent and fixed upon the blue horizon. In a hollow of black stone Salahuddin saw a man in a dhoti bending over a pool. Their eyes met, and the man beckoned him with a single finger which he then laid across his lips. _Shh_, and the mystery of rock-pools drew the boy towards the stranger. He was a creature of bone. Spectacles framed in what might have been ivory. His finger curling, curling, like a baited hook, come. When Salahuddin came down the other grasped him, put a hand around his mouth and forced his young hand between old and fleshless legs, to feel the fleshbone there. The dhoti open to the winds. Salahuddin had never known how to fight; he did what he was forced to do, and then the other simply turned away from him and let him go.

After that Salahuddin never went to the rocks at Scandal Point; nor did he tell anyone what had happened, knowing the neurasthenic crises it would unleash in his mother and suspecting that his father would say it was his own fault. It seemed to him that everything loathsome, everything he had come to revile about his home town, had come together in the stranger's bony embrace, and now that he had escaped that evil skeleton he must also escape Bombay, or die. He began to concentrate fiercely upon this idea, to fix his will upon it at all times, eating shitting sleeping, convincing himself that he could make the miracle happen even without his father's lamp to help him out. He dreamed of flying out of his bedroom window to discover that there, below him, was -- not Bombay -- but Proper London itself, Bigben Nelsonscolumn Lordstavern Bloodytower Queen. But as he floated out over the great metropolis he felt himself beginning to lose height, and no matter how hard he struggled kicked swam-in-air he continued to spiral slowly downwards to earth, then faster, then faster still, until he was screaming headfirst down towards the city, Saintpauls, Puddinglane, Threadneedlestreet, zeroing in on London like a bomb.

o o o

[writer-and-artist27]

Power of Friendship

Heavily inspired by the many times I was down, only for Osie and Lang to find me and pick me up to keep going all over again. And this is a sequel to the previous fic of Hiding in the Dark, because Otoha and Kei can’t let a certain pianist wander for oh so long. Everyone deserves some light in their lives.

The themes for this little story consist of three recommendations from Lang and one last pick from me: (1) Light Up the Dark by Taylor Henderson, (2) Love Story Meets Viva La Vida from the Piano Guys, (3) the piano cover of Shut Up and Dance + Best Song Ever from the Rogers Family, and (4) Stars and Flowers (Piano Version) from Yuki Yuna is a Hero. To help with all the Friendship Feels. ;D

Dedicated to @owlsofstarlight and @langwrites. Because we’re the Writer’s Guild, and I hope fluff helps with the long night. You two have done a lot for me. It’s best to show how much, because I can’t be more thankful.

They shouldn’t have noticed. They weren’t supposed to have noticed.

For these past few years, I tried to keep my chakra on the down-low. Kei and Otoha were both sensors, and if I wanted to not trouble them with my emotions, it meant sealing off what I could. Boarding up — bottling up as much as I could.

It felt cowardly, almost hypocritical to give white lies of, “I’m okay” in the face of the Narutoverse. The fact that I was hiding away from my reincarnation buddies in spite of my own wish to be with them forever. In spite of my outer exterior encouraging emotional honesty when it came to personal problems.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that the darkness in my heart was my burden. I had to handle it. It was my weight, not theirs. Kei and Otoha had enough on their plates. They deserved more than worried tears about the future, more than my useless ideas.

They didn’t need to worry about me.

Yet, somehow, I was open enough to be caught off guard again.

“Tomo?”

Kei’s call of my nickname didn’t sound any different from usual, and even with the electric mixer on, I could still flip the switch off to turn around and face her. The cake batter could wait. It sounded like she needed something. “Mm? What is it, Kei?”

I couldn’t lie to her face like that. It was probably foolish to even try, because her hands were shoved in her jacket pockets and a wry, dry smile was on her face. “Think we can talk? Just for a bit. Otoha’s already in the other room.”  

My heart clenched on itself.

Hisako was already giving the mental push. C’mon, Tomoko-chan. Don’t freeze.

I sucked in a breath to steady myself. My chakra was still rolling around in my gut, adding to the butterflies that started popping up at Kei’s question, and I had to force it down. It wasn’t the time to be the deer in headlights. I wasn’t that little girl. I wasn’t.

This isn’t the old world, this isn’t the old world, this isn’t the old world.

I just had to keep repeating that mantra. Outwardly, I put on a small smile in return. “Sure? But…” the words felt somewhat foreign on my tongue as the first bit of honesty was already coming out. “What for, Kei?”

In the time it had taken for me to reply, Kei had only turned around to face the hallway. A single second was all it took for her to swivel her head back to meet my stare, something dark in her eyes. “Just to talk, Tomo,” she offered her hand to me. “Just to talk.”

My heart clenched again. I glanced between her open hand and the floor. “…This won’t trouble you?”

I didn’t even know where the question came from. But by the time it was already out in the air, I couldn’t stop myself.

Kei’s eyes widened a small margin, almost in surprise before softening. There was a spark in the black eyes replacing the dark from before, a spark that I could at least pinpoint as, “agreement” and “oh, you.” Fond exasperation, I think. It reminded me of — of Vy’s Dad. The same soft care. “Nah, it’s no real trouble,” she still gestured with her open hand towards me. It was hard to miss the small smile on Kei’s face. “Let’s just go to your room, Tomo. Trust me.”

For the last signal, Hisako grinned softly.

Even with my blood starting to race in my veins from all the butterflies, my hand was already resting in hers before I could consider any other options.

The walk to my room wasn’t that long. But Otoha was indeed there, letting out a soft dinosaur roar of recognition as soon as Kei opened the door. I didn’t know if the roar was of happiness or of some other emotion, but Kuroha-san seemed happy enough. “Glad to see you, Kei-Kei, To-To.”

That nickname still had some getting used to, because the heat flooding my cheeks was nothing to laugh at. “H-Hi again, Kuroha-san.”

Even without raising my head, I knew Kei was smiling. The dork. ���C’mon, Tomo, less blushing, more talking.” Then my hand was being tugged and I could barely hold back from flailing as she guided me over to the floor where Kuroha-san was sitting. It didn’t take long for her to neatly plop down on a nearby seat cushion, and with her continued grip on my hand, I had no choice but to follow her example in doing the same. Because apparently the ninja had time to find the seat cushions in my closet and take them out for us to make a small group huddle.

“Um,” I said slowly, because this was not expected in the slightest. “What’s going on…?”

Otoha swiveled her head in Kei’s direction before slowly flapping a hand in the air. “Me first or you, Lang-Lang?” The small nervous laugh was unmistakable.

I was missing something. Um.

Kei sighed, and it was only then that I realized she had let go of my hand. “Might as well.” The tone had turned almost sad somehow, and I probably should have expected the next statement. Especially considering the cold air of my room somehow. My thoughts at the time chalked it up to the open window, but still.

It didn’t stop my heart from freezing once Kei turned to me with a raised eyebrow. “Tomo, I’m going to be level with you. Please cut the crap.”

“Eh?” was my rather intelligent answer. Because really, Kei had never taken that tone of voice before. Even in the few times I had seen her train with Team Minato in those sessions so long ago, she never got that short and to the point in front of me. This was new, and I didn’t know what to make of it. What left me instead of any other follow-up comment was, “What do you mean?”

Kei sighed again, and it was obvious something was weighing on her mind before Otoha interrupted with a raised hand. “To-To, you’ve been hiding your chakra away from us for the past few weeks, and we’re not in Kansas anymore. There’s no Wicked Witch to drop a house on, so what made you lose sight of the Yellow Brick Road?”

Hisako held back a knowing snort.

I was already starting to feel my hands shake. “K-Kuroha…san…”

“For better terms,” Kei added, tone going back to that same quiet, “You’ve been hiding something, Tomo. And we’re worried. What’s going on?”

Otoha’s jaw clenched before they added a soft and troubled mumble of agreement.

The urge to cry was starting to show up again. For the goddamn umpteenth time.

Of course they would notice. Of course they would.

How could I even think of hiding from my reincarnation buddies? My bestest friends in this whole wide world?

But after losing Leo and Josh…

Hisako was already hugging me. She knew. Of course she knew.

I took in the deepest breath I could muster, letting go of my chakra by just a little bit. “…Are you sure? H-Hearing me out, I mean? I’m…I’m not the best right now, and, and,” the crying urge was already starting to show in my voice, frig, “I’m kinda…yeah. Holding together. Slowly. B-Barely. Yeah.” A lump was already surfacing in my throat. “I’m—I’m trying not to cry. Again.”  

“Tomoko,” And now Kei was using my full name, what— “It’s okay. You’re with us. There’s a privacy seal on your door and Otoha and I are the only ones here.” A hand was resting over both of mine again, and it was obvious who it was. The tears were blurring my vision, but I could still make out the familiar calluses that was my first friend. “I said it before. Whatever you have to say, I’ll listen. Even now.” The smile in her voice was obvious as she squeezed my hands. “I know I still want to hear it.”

Another hand was quickly covering Kei’s, making a huddle on top of both of mine, and I tried not to jump. “Me too,” Otoha added just as quietly. I could even hear the beginnings of a comforting dinosaur trill in her voice with the gesture. “I want to hear it too, Vy-Vy.”

I didn’t deserve these two. I didn’t.

The first drops were already falling onto the pile of hands. “I-I don’t deserve you two. I just—I just don’t.” I wanted to smile, but the tears made it hard to even muster one as it kept cracking on my cheeks, the snot already starting to clog my nose. “I-I… I hid because I’m not worth it. Because I keep doubting you two. Because I’m afraid.”

Kei exhaled shakily, her voice coming out calm and controlled. “Of us? Or what?” She paused before the realization set in. “Of being alone? Of us leaving?”

Of course she would remember that talk about Ty.

The tears kept falling down on our combined hands as I could only nod jerkily.

“To-To…” Otoha’s other hand was already patting my head, and it took all I had to not lurch away from the gesture. “Dorothy didn’t leave you, and I’m not going to leave either. Although,” they paused, glancing at Kei once from what I could see through my bangs before continuing with a confused, “what would that make Kei? The Cowardly Lion? Because I’m pretty sure Kakashi’s the Scarecrow.”

Kei blinked before barking down a sudden laugh. “Os, I don’t think I’m lion-material.”

There was confusion running through my blood this time, but there was still one thing left to address. I tried not to choke. “…You knew?”

Kei and Otoha both were now turning back to stare at me again. A single second was all it took for Otoha’s voice to turn soft, their other hand patting my head all over again as a small dinosaur hum left their lips. “Yeah. Your chakra said everything, To-To. And you wear your heart on your sleeve. It was obvious. And, and we’re not going to leave you.”

The tears were falling faster now. Frig. “I-I think Kei’s the Tin Man with her swords…” But the sniffles were hard to ignore too. My chakra was flooding me like a tsunami because my limits were hit.

Hisako was still silent, hugging me.

They knew. Despite my lies, despite my hiding, they knew. They freakin’ knew. The questions were already leaving me faster than I could think on them, between the starts of sobs. “A-And you’re—you’re not going to leave? Even though I’m the girl who can’t forget the sight of her own blood? Even though I’m the girl who nearly broke her entire past family apart because she didn’t know her brother was doing something wrong? Even though—” my jaw clenched at the exact same time my heart did. “Even though I’m a useless civilian who’s worth jack shit…”

Otoha was already letting out a loud and troubled pterodactyl wail as Kei reached out with her other, free hand to squeeze my shoulder.

Frig, I was already crying, and I couldn’t even meet their eyes. I couldn’t even stop myself from asking the last question. “Why…why do you two still care?”

“Why do you stay?” was left unsaid because I couldn’t find the courage to even muster that anymore. The words were already out there, and I was going to reap whatever repercussions they had.  

I wasn’t expecting the headbutt. It was sudden, quick, and painful, but I was reeling back, and then I could only see resolute and pained black eyes. “Tomo.” Kei’s voice had turned hard, and it only vaguely registered that she was angry. What? “Tomo. You’re seriously asking that? Is it so hard to understand?” She was resting her head against mine, eyes closing slowly in time with her breathing. Even with the tears, I could still make out hers and Otoha’s hands still holding mine down from shuddering. “I've never seen you do a single thing bad enough to deserve how much weight you keep piling on your shoulders. You’re not useless, and you’re better than that.”

Those black eyes were opening to stare at me again, and I took in a shaky breath. “You’re my friend, Tomo. I don’t care about what your past says. Or the dark. I just care about you.”

My heart froze.

Hisako was smiling. There it is.

My reply was choked down to a small, “Eh?”

Kei was pulling away to give more distance, and then I could see the brown hair that was Kuroha-san. When— “To-To…” they mumbled a small, mournful noise before reaching with both hands past Kei’s fingers to touch mine. “To-To, you didn’t exclude me and forget me. You put up with my shit. You made me remember that I’m more than a faceless ninja.” A crooked grin was on their face, and I could barely find myself breathing. “You helped me remember that I’m real. So, I’m not leaving you. Lang-Lang and I, we aren’t leaving you.” They squeezed what they could of my fingers through the hand-pile. “We’re in this together, Vy-Vy. So, don’t be scared.”

The waterworks were officially on now.

I couldn’t even stop the sobs leaving my lips as my nose started to feel runny. “You two…ohmifreakinggod, you two ninja…”

Kei was smiling wryly as the tears kept falling down on our hand pile. “What Os said, all the way.” She was already reaching over with her not-wet hand to offer the start of what was looking like a big Group Hug. “C’mon, Tomo. You’re stuck with us for life, so quit hiding.”

“K-Keiiiiiiiiii…Otohaaaaaaaa…!” was the culmination of the high-pitched, choked noises that left my throat, and once Otoha was adding in a small and cute dinosaur hum, I finally lost it.

Otoha and Kei didn’t even seem to mind that I literally threw myself at them.

My heart wasn’t cold, the room felt warm, and my friends were hugging as hard as they could back. Even if my back was a bit sore from crouching for so long, even if my throat was becoming hoarse from all the crying, it didn’t change the fact that they were here.

Kei and Otoha — Lang and Os. They were here.

We were definitely Best Friends.

I could be with them. It was okay.

No doubts at all.

The darkness could finally be laid to rest.

“You doooooooorks…! H-How can you live saying that cheesy stuff~~?!”

“This coming from the girl who can’t go without a hug every day?”

“That’s what makes her To-To!”

“Heyyyyyyyyy…!”

“Aw, Tomo, it’s okay. I don’t think we meant for you to cry.”

“Th-These are happy tears, you doofus! You complete, ridiculous, insufferable, lovable, doofus!”

“One of those is not like the other, one of those just doesn’t belong~!”

“Heh. That’s how it should be.”

“You doooooooooorks…!”

“Love you too, dork.”

“We’re dorks for life!”

[aizawa-yamada-shinsou]

Go Love Him

Summary-Bim has a hard choice to make, one that he knows he’ll resent no matter which way he chooses to go.

Part 1 

Part 2

@pleaseletthisjimbetaken , @celinethotwrong I know you two love this series so I thought I’d tag you :P

Sighing, Bim found himself staring blankly at the night sky on top of his greenhouse. The conversation Wil and he had that night, only minutes ago, was a long time coming. He wasn’t blind to the silent looks Dark and Wilford shared when they passed. He hadn’t expected the real reason, however. Who could? Bim sighed, letting his head rest on his knees as he pulled out his phone from his pocket, picking at the tangled headphone wires. How could he have been so blind? How could he have not see what his relationship really was?

With a huff he finally straightened the wayward wires out and placed them gently in his ears, letting the classical music swell within him. He swayed to the beat, words flowing from his lips without him realizing he was singing.

“I'm tryin' to hold my breath

Let it stay this way,” Oh how he wished he could pretend to be as blind as he had been before. To leave everything as perfect as it seemed before.

“Can't let this moment end

You set off a dream in me,”  He had walked around on Cloud Nine for months before he started seeing the signs. The rose tint of Wilford loving him back was enough to drown out everything else.  

“Gettin' louder now

Can you hear it echoing?” The looks Dark shot at him, the cracking of the demons shell when he saw Bim, how Wilford always pulled away for his affections when Dark was near.

“Take my hand

Will you share this with me?” He remembered the night Wil had come to him, tears prickling his eyes as he confessed he was done running and that he wanted to be with Bim. Just like that Bim was crying too and they had fallen asleep on the game show host’s bed after taking turns kissing away each other's tears.

“'Cause darling without you,”  It had been a whirlwind since then, and now Bim couldn’t believe there was a time without Wilford at his side.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the night sky,” The studio lights had nothing on Wilford’s smile, the deafening applause of the crowds pathetic next to Wilford’s laugh, everything so dull compared to the colorful and eccentric nature of HIS boyfriend.

“Will never be enough

Never be enough,” Nothing compared to the feeling of being with Wil. It was like flying on cloud nine 24/7.

“Towers of gold are still too little

These hands could hold the world but it'll

Never be enough,” But slowly Bim realized there seemed to still be a hold on their relationship, however.

“Never be enough

For me,” He loved holding Wilford under the stars.

“Never, never,” He loved sitting with him in the studio giggling over coffee.

“Never, never,” He loved listening to him ramble on for hours about silly things, only making sense half of the time as his mustache practically danced on his lip.

“Never, for me

For me,” He loved waking up in the morning to see that stupid curly pink mustache in front of his eyes, having only a short stretch up to kiss that mouth that never stopped moving.

“Never enough

Never enough,” He loved being able to hold Wilford’s hand in his own as they walked around the building, knowing the others knew he was his.

“Never enough

For me,” He wished he could stay in Wilford’s arms forever.

“For me

For me,” But then he heard the story.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the night sky,” The tragic story of William and the Kims and how they became the unstable Warfstache and horrific Dark he knew.   “Will never be enough,” His love for Damien, how he called him ‘old friend’ so people wouldn’t assume they were homos. How the fear drove them apart and William into Celine's arms. How they had served all ties 

“Never be enough,” The poker night turned murder mystery, with Will knowing he was why Mark had been ‘sleeping’ as all his friends rushed around in panic.

“Towers of gold are still too little,” How things kept getting worse as the day went on, his two loves pained and worried, friends confused and trying to maintain control. How it didn’t matter in the end.

“These hands could hold the world but it'll

Never be enough,” How the Kim siblings had been fused to create Dark, two shattered souls thrown into the wrong body and held together by some entity Wilford didn’t know the name of. How Wilford’s mind couldn’t handle the strain.

“Never be enough,”

For me,” Bim’s heart had cried out at him to hold Wilford, to comfort him, to let him know that he’d help him through the nightmares, but then Wilford had let out a humorless chuckle and told him...

“Never, never

Never, never,” That one of the reasons Wil had returned Bim’s affections so easily was because the game show host reminded him of Damien… Of the part of Dark that Wil had first loved.

“Never, for me

For me,” Wilford couldn’t even tell him for certain that he wasn’t just using Bim as a stand-in for his lost love.

“Never enough

Never, never,” He asked Wilford if he was still in love with Dark, but the man refused to answer. Bim didn’t think his heart could ache this much.

“Never enough

Never, never,” Why did this always happen to him?

“Never enough,” Why was he so blind he couldn’t see that others were using him? Playing with him and his emotions?

“For me,”  It was so obvious now.

“For me,”  He wishes he could go back to being blind, if only for a little bit more happiness, but...

“For me,”  He should have known...

“For me,”  He never had Wilford to start with. The song had faded into silence as he pulled the earbuds out of his head, throwing them off the roof before he convinced himself to move. The idea in his mind wasn’t one he was entirely willing to do but….

He entered the building and spotted Wilford sending him an unsure grin, but he knew… he knew that it wasn’t for him and his resolution grew.

“Hey Wil,” he greeted, not stopping on his trek through the building, “Great timing you can come with me to see Dark.”

Wilford froze for a second before scrambling after him, “What on earth do you want to see Dark for?”

“Something that I should have done a while ago,” was the haughty answer. “Bim if this is about what I told you-“

Bim didn’t even let him finish, “Oh it is. But not in the way you’re thinking of. I’m not out to stake my claim on you, Wilford.”

“Bim��”

Before Wilford could continue they reached Dark’s door, the soft swell of a violin coming from within. Without a thought Bim kicked the door open and threw out his hand, easily deflecting the black stream thrown at him that would normally send whoever was hit by it into Dark’s void with his own purple magic. NO one could redirect Dark’s powers, no one could match the power and intensity of his blistering anger.

Dark and Wilford stiffened as Bim marched over to Dark, magic smoking around his footsteps like dry ice.

“Hello Dark,” He rumbled lower then any of them could speak, an unnatural note to his voice as he balled his hands into Dark’s suit, “Let’s make a deal.”

“Trimmer,” Dark replied evenly, but his whipping aura gave away his inner turmoil, and Bim couldn’t help but smirk at the confusion and near fear hidden in Dark’s eyes. He could just picture the cogs turning in the monochrome man’s head as he tried to figure out how a simple game show host had overpowered him. “You seem to have me at disadvantage. Since when have you had power of this caliber?”

“Never had a need to use them,” Bim responded dully, “Now about that deal.”

“Bim?” Wilford asked taking a shaky step towards the pair, “What are you doing?”

“What should have happened the second you told me about Dark,” Bim turned his head sickeningly far to look at the pink reporter, the elder ego’s eyes widen in shock, “It’s not like I could sit by and watch a broken demon hurt himself trying to stay together.”

“What are you blathering on about?” Dark growl came out weakly, but Bim decided not to comment as he turned back to his captive.

“Wilford told me your history,” Bim said, watching as the demon stiffened, “He told me that you once went by Damien and Celine, that you were the broken shards of the Kim siblings held together by a demon. That you can’t feel love due to how you put yourself back together.”

“What do you mean how I put myself back together?” Dark growled back, “the demon that resides within me wanted nothing to do with human emotions, all it wanted was power, and revenge against those who wronged it!”

“You’re an idiot!” Bim roared back, “If you’re so certain about what the demon wants then what was its name?”

“It never cared about its name!” Dark was screaming back now, anger rolling off him in waves. Bim let out a bitter laugh.

“Demons always care about their names,” He spat, “They hold importance that human names don’t! It doesn’t matter if it’s their chosen name or their birth name. They care about their names. You. Are. Broken.”

“How would you even know?” Dark asked shoving at Bim’s hands, “How would you know anything about me!”

“Because asshole!” Bim’s voice was low, magic making his form flicker as Dark found himself several inches off the floor, an inhuman face staring down at him, “You’re not the only demon around here, Dark. Now. Let’s. Make. A. Deal.” Dark straighten his shoulders the best he could pinned to the wall as Bim heard Wilford scuttle back.

“Demon,” Dark growled.  

Bim just chuckled,“Why yes would you like my rank and legion or do you even remember what those mean?”

“B-Bim?” The pair eyes flicked away from each other and back to the third man in the room. Bim’s shoulders went slack, but he didn’t lower Dark even as his face softened. Wilford wasn’t afraid, instead looking at the pair with shock and a spark of confusion.

“It’s alright, Wil,” He said, switching back to English, “I’m just getting him to understand what I’m offering.”

“He’s a crossroad demon,” Dark cut in, “Offering a deal for what my soul? Sad to say I don’t have one of those anymore, even if I’m made up of the two broken remains.”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself,” Bim snapped, “I’m not doing this for you, and I don’t want to take what’s left of the Kims. I’m fixing the chop job you did when you pieced yourself back together, and all I want you to do is make me a promise.”

Wil was the one that  broke the silence after his boyfriend’s reveal,“A promise?”

Bim didn’t turn to look at him, “A promise to take care of Wilford, and to care for him as much as I know you wish you could now.”

Dark’s eyes widen and Bim could hear the tiny gasp from Wilford and closed his eyes to prevent them from seeing his heartbreaking. He had wished that fact was a lie he had been telling himself, but he knew that was too good to be true, instead, he pushed forward, “I’ve seen the looks you send Wil and myself when you think no one is looking, the way your aura cracks and whips. You may not be able to feel positive emotions, but there are negatives that go with Love, and I know you can feel those.”

“Why do you care?” Dark asked, voice coming out weak.

“Because Wil still loves you dearly, still loves the Kims too, and maybe he does love me,” Bim paused to take a steadying breathe, “But he also sees Damien when he looks at me and I refuse to stand by when I could do something that will make him truly happy, even if it means losing him.”

The room was silent, but Bim could see how Dark looked down, avoiding Wilford’s longing gaze over his shoulder. The game show host couldn’t tell if it hurt more than Wil wasn’t denying the fact that he saw Damien instead of Bim when they were together then if Wil had lied and tried to argue the point, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“Why should I?” Dark bit out, defiance burning in his eyes. He was fine with being broken, he had been broken for over a century and he didn’t need some two-bit game show host to fix him, fellow demon or not. He didn’t need Wilford. Bim just let out a low chuckle.

“Because this isn’t a one time offer,” Bim practically purred with the smugness of someone that just cornered his prey would have, “I’ll keep bring it up until you accept. Maybe next time we won’t be so private? How would the others react to knowing their oh so powerful leader is a broken husk?” BIm smirk grew as he saw a flicker of panic in Dark’s eyes, knew he was winning by the twist in the older demon’s aura, “Knowing that a lowly game show host was able to overpower him? Knowing that you’re nothing, but a disgrace to every demon in existence?”

Dark glared at him, but nodded, “Fine, I’ll make the deal.”

“Good, I hope you still remember how to seal the deal?” Bim said cooly, “Or is that something else you forgot while playing Frankenstein with your soul?”

Dark just growled, surging forward to lock his lips with Bim’s. Bim just chuckled, taking control of the kiss easily as his magic went to work. The kiss lasted a lot longer than normal as his magic worked over the jagged remains of the demon and two souls, smoothing them out and filling in what had been missing for too long. Finally, he pulled back, laying his forehead against Dark’s as both of them panted, Bim searching Dark’s eyes. There were spirals and sparks of things he never seen in the older’s demons eyes before, his shoulders shaking slightly as Bim shrunk back to his human form, lowering him to the ground.

“Name and legion?” Bim asked softly.

“Dur… Durans,” was the reply, equally soft as the demon didn’t even bother to switch Abyssal, “My name was Durans, I was from the 7th legion of the 4th cohorts.”

“A Jinn,” Bim laughed dryly, “Why am I not surprised. Either way Durans-”

“No,” He cut off, “I’m… I’m still Dark, Dark is still my name.”

Bim nodded, offering a weak smile, “Either way Dark, I fixed your memories as much as I could with my magic. I only gave you back an eighth of your emotional range at the moment so not to overwhelm you, we’ll need to renew the deal every month for the next year to get you back to normalcy, but you should be better than you have been.” 

“Tha-”

“Don’t,” He stopped Dark from speaking with his nearly feral growl, the first peek into his true feeling that he’s given them, “Don’t you dare thank me. I did what was right, even when I wish I just let you suffer in agony forever. Don’t thank me for trying to make Wilford happy, because I want nothing more than to slit your throat so that I can have him all to myself, that I can live in my fantasy of happiness for a little longer.” 

Bim turned on his heel, refusing to look at the teary-eyed Wilford as he moved towards the door. 

“You never did tell me your name and legion,” Dark called. Bim drew to a stop, drawing his shoulders back as he turned back to the other demon.  

“I am Bim Trimmer, I thought you would pay more attention than that,” He mocked with his usual cheeky smirk, no matter how fake it felt now, noticing the annoyed set of Dark’s jaw. He almost wanted to laugh, even with working emotions and a full memory, Dark was still Dark, nothing could change the control hungry man. 

“You know that’s not what I was asking.”

“You need to try harder than that to get information from me,” He countered, before ducking out. He wandered the empty halls of the Office, before finding his way to the studio, up onto the stage of his game show. 

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the nightsky,” He sang, walking across the darkened stage, tears pricking his eyes. He didn’t want this...

“Will never be enough Never be enough,” He should go back. Wipe their memories of this, kiss Wilford senseless, not caring about Dark’s stare, let them think he’s just a harmless game show host. 

“Towers of gold are still too little

These hands could hold the world but it'll,” He should drag Wilford back to his room, and let his incubus skill make him forget there was ever anyone other than Bim in his life. 

“Never be enough,” He should kill Dark, his powers might not actually be enough to overpower Dark like he made the demon believe, but with how off-kilter Dark was feeling not only with his new emotions but with just learning Bim of all people was a demon, Bim had a chance.

“Never be enough,” But he wouldn’t, he knew he wouldn’t 

 “I thought I’d find you here.”

Bim didn’t get up, not even glancing up from his podium as his now ex-boyfriend entered. He didn’t need to see the sad smile that he could hear on his voice, see those eyes sparkling with unshed tears, to see that stupidly cute mustache twitch. 

“Bim I want you to know,” Wilford started, sincere and honest, “That I do love Dark a great deal, and loved the Kim siblings with all my heart, howe-”

“Don’t.” Bim cut him off in an inhuman growl, knuckles turning white from where he gripped his podium.

“Darling-”

“I SAID DON’T WARFSTACHE!” Bim howled, eyes turning into purple slits as he glared up at the reporter only for his shoulders to fall when he saw the hunched form of his once lover, “You can’t give me hope, Wilford, you can’t...” 

“Why would telling you the-”

Bim didn’t let him finish, he couldn’t, “It’s not the truth. The truth is that you were using me because I was too like Damien, that you didn’t see me as me. You never loved me. That’s the way it has to be Wilford.” 

“Why? Why can’t I say what I feel? Why must it be this way?” Wilford argued.

“Becuase I’m not human,” Bim didn’t pause at baffled look Wilford shot him, wood creaking under his hands, “If I knew for even a split second that I had a chance of being the one you loved instead of Dark then I would do everything in my power to make you mine, kill dark, erase your memories, use every trick up my sleeve to make you forget your own name, let alone that you loved someone else. Don’t let me go down that path Wilford, don’t give me hope.”

Wilford looked conflicted look on his face, wanting to say something but refraining, until finally, he worked up the courage, “Why’d you do it then?” 

Bim’s eyes flicked back to brown as he looked down, hands falling to his side. 

“Because I’ve been lost, and hurt, and confused. Not knowing if there was ever a way to fix myself back up again after she...” He trailed off, hand gripping the front his suit, right over his inside pocket, “I knew from the start what choice I was going to make. “

The reporter’s eyes glossed over with unseen memories. Bim just signed, turning away. 

“Have a good night, Wil. I’ll see you in the studio tomorrow morning.”

Bim was almost out of the room before Wil spoke up, calling after him,

“Goodbye old friend, I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

Bim didn’t reply as he swiftly exited the studio, instead choosing to do as all previous that had heard William use that phrase, ignore the message he hid deep within the words. It was better that way. 

It was better if he just pretended. 

[tired-college-student-writing]

Go Love Him

Summary-Bim has a hard choice to make, one that he knows he’ll resent no matter which way he chooses to go.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Sighing, Bim found himself staring blankly at the night sky on top of his greenhouse. The conversation Wil and he had that night, only minutes ago, was a long time coming. He wasn’t blind to the silent looks Dark and Wilford shared when they passed. He hadn’t expected the real reason, however. Who could? Bim sighed, letting his head rest on his knees as he pulled out his phone from his pocket, picking at the tangled headphone wires. How could he have been so blind? How could he have not see what his relationship really was?

With a huff he finally straightened the wayward wires out and placed them gently in his ears, letting the classical music swell within him. He swayed to the beat, words flowing from his lips without him realizing he was singing.

“I’m tryin’ to hold my breath

Let it stay this way,” Oh how he wished he could pretend to be as blind as he had been before. To leave everything as perfect as it seemed before.

“Can’t let this moment end

You set off a dream in me,”  He had walked around on Cloud Nine for months before he started seeing the signs. The rose tint of Wilford loving him back was enough to drown out everything else.  

“Gettin’ louder now

Can you hear it echoing?” The looks Dark shot at him, the cracking of the demons shell when he saw Bim, how Wilford always pulled away for his affections when Dark was near.

“Take my hand

Will you share this with me?” He remembered the night Wil had come to him, tears prickling his eyes as he confessed he was done running and that he wanted to be with Bim. Just like that Bim was crying too and they had fallen asleep on the game show host’s bed after taking turns kissing away each other’s tears.

“‘Cause darling without you,”  It had been a whirlwind since then, and now Bim couldn’t believe there was a time without Wilford at his side.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the night sky,” The studio lights had nothing on Wilford’s smile, the deafening applause of the crowds pathetic next to Wilford’s laugh, everything so dull compared to the colorful and eccentric nature of HIS boyfriend.

“Will never be enough

Never be enough,” Nothing compared to the feeling of being with Wil. It was like flying on cloud nine 24/7.

“Towers of gold are still too little

These hands could hold the world but it’ll

Never be enough,” But slowly Bim realized there seemed to still be a hold on their relationship, however.

“Never be enough

For me,” He loved holding Wilford under the stars.

“Never, never,” He loved sitting with him in the studio giggling over coffee.

“Never, never,” He loved listening to him ramble on for hours about silly things, only making sense half of the time as his mustache practically danced on his lip.

“Never, for me

For me,” He loved waking up in the morning to see that stupid curly pink mustache in front of his eyes, having only a short stretch up to kiss that mouth that never stopped moving.

“Never enough

Never enough,” He loved being able to hold Wilford’s hand in his own as they walked around the building, knowing the others knew he was his.

“Never enough

For me,” He wished he could stay in Wilford’s arms forever.

“For me

For me,” But then he heard the story.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the night sky,” The tragic story of William and the Kims and how they became the unstable Warfstache and horrific Dark he knew.   “Will never be enough,” His love for Damien, how he called him ‘old friend’ so people wouldn’t assume they were homos. How the fear drove them apart and William into Celine’s arms. How they had served all ties

“Never be enough,” The poker night turned murder mystery, with Will knowing he was why Mark had been ‘sleeping’ as all his friends rushed around in panic.

“Towers of gold are still too little,” How things kept getting worse as the day went on, his two loves pained and worried, friends confused and trying to maintain control. How it didn’t matter in the end.

“These hands could hold the world but it’ll

Never be enough,” How the Kim siblings had been fused to create Dark, two shattered souls thrown into the wrong body and held together by some entity Wilford didn’t know the name of. How Wilford’s mind couldn’t handle the strain.

“Never be enough,”

For me,” Bim’s heart had cried out at him to hold Wilford, to comfort him, to let him know that he’d help him through the nightmares, but then Wilford had let out a humorless chuckle and told him…

“Never, never

Never, never,” That one of the reasons Wil had returned Bim’s affections so easily was because the game show host reminded him of Damien… Of the part of Dark that Wil had first loved.

“Never, for me

For me,” Wilford couldn’t even tell him for certain that he wasn’t just using Bim as a stand-in for his lost love.

“Never enough

Never, never,” He asked Wilford if he was still in love with Dark, but the man refused to answer. Bim didn’t think his heart could ache this much.

“Never enough

Never, never,” Why did this always happen to him?

“Never enough,” Why was he so blind he couldn’t see that others were using him? Playing with him and his emotions?

“For me,”  It was so obvious now.

“For me,”  He wishes he could go back to being blind, if only for a little bit more happiness, but…

“For me,”  He should have known…

“For me,” He never had Wilford to start with. The song had faded into silence as he pulled the earbuds out of his head, throwing them off the roof before he convinced himself to move. The idea in his mind wasn’t one he was entirely willing to do but….

He entered the building and spotted Wilford sending him an unsure grin, but he knew… he knew that it wasn’t for him and his resolution grew.

“Hey Wil,” he greeted, not stopping on his trek through the building, “Great timing you can come with me to see Dark.”

Wilford froze for a second before scrambling after him, “What on earth do you want to see Dark for?”

“Something that I should have done a while ago,” was the haughty answer. “Bim if this is about what I told you-“

Bim didn’t even let him finish, “Oh it is. But not in the way you’re thinking of. I’m not out to stake my claim on you, Wilford.”

“Bim…”

Before Wilford could continue they reached Dark’s door, the soft swell of a violin coming from within. Without a thought Bim kicked the door open and threw out his hand, easily deflecting the black stream thrown at him that would normally send whoever was hit by it into Dark’s void with his own purple magic. NO one could redirect Dark’s powers, no one could match the power and intensity of his blistering anger.

Dark and Wilford stiffened as Bim marched over to Dark, magic smoking around his footsteps like dry ice.

“Hello Dark,” He rumbled lower then any of them could speak, an unnatural note to his voice as he balled his hands into Dark’s suit, “Let’s make a deal.”

“Trimmer,” Dark replied evenly, but his whipping aura gave away his inner turmoil, and Bim couldn’t help but smirk at the confusion and near fear hidden in Dark’s eyes. He could just picture the cogs turning in the monochrome man’s head as he tried to figure out how a simple game show host had overpowered him. “You seem to have me at disadvantage. Since when have you had power of this caliber?”

“Never had a need to use them,” Bim responded dully, “Now about that deal.”

“Bim?” Wilford asked taking a shaky step towards the pair, “What are you doing?”

“What should have happened the second you told me about Dark,” Bim turned his head sickeningly far to look at the pink reporter, the elder ego’s eyes widen in shock, “It’s not like I could sit by and watch a broken demon hurt himself trying to stay together.”

“What are you blathering on about?” Dark growl came out weakly, but Bim decided not to comment as he turned back to his captive.

“Wilford told me your history,” Bim said, watching as the demon stiffened, “He told me that you once went by Damien and Celine, that you were the broken shards of the Kim siblings held together by a demon. That you can’t feel love due to how you put yourself back together.”

“What do you mean how I put myself back together?” Dark growled back, “the demon that resides within me wanted nothing to do with human emotions, all it wanted was power, and revenge against those who wronged it!”

“You’re an idiot!” Bim roared back, “If you’re so certain about what the demon wants then what was its name?”

“It never cared about its name!” Dark was screaming back now, anger rolling off him in waves. Bim let out a bitter laugh.

“Demons always care about their names,” He spat, “They hold importance that human names don’t! It doesn’t matter if it’s their chosen name or their birth name. They care about their names. You. Are. Broken.”

“How would you even know?” Dark asked shoving at Bim’s hands, “How would you know anything about me!”

“Because asshole!” Bim’s voice was low, magic making his form flicker as Dark found himself several inches off the floor, an inhuman face staring down at him, “You’re not the only demon around here, Dark. Now. Let’s. Make. A. Deal.” Dark straighten his shoulders the best he could pinned to the wall as Bim heard Wilford scuttle back.

“Demon,” Dark growled.  

Bim just chuckled,“Why yes would you like my rank and legion or do you even remember what those mean?”

“B-Bim?” The pair eyes flicked away from each other and back to the third man in the room. Bim’s shoulders went slack, but he didn’t lower Dark even as his face softened. Wilford wasn’t afraid, instead looking at the pair with shock and a spark of confusion.

“It’s alright, Wil,” He said, switching back to English, “I’m just getting him to understand what I’m offering.”

“He’s a crossroad demon,” Dark cut in, “Offering a deal for what my soul? Sad to say I don’t have one of those anymore, even if I’m made up of the two broken remains.”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself,” Bim snapped, “I’m not doing this for you, and I don’t want to take what’s left of the Kims. I’m fixing the chop job you did when you pieced yourself back together, and all I want you to do is make me a promise.”

Wil was the one that  broke the silence after his boyfriend’s reveal,“A promise?”

Bim didn’t turn to look at him, “A promise to take care of Wilford, and to care for him as much as I know you wish you could now.”

Dark’s eyes widen and Bim could hear the tiny gasp from Wilford and closed his eyes to prevent them from seeing his heartbreaking. He had wished that fact was a lie he had been telling himself, but he knew that was too good to be true, instead, he pushed forward, “I’ve seen the looks you send Wil and myself when you think no one is looking, the way your aura cracks and whips. You may not be able to feel positive emotions, but there are negatives that go with Love, and I know you can feel those.”

“Why do you care?” Dark asked, voice coming out weak.

“Because Wil still loves you dearly, still loves the Kims too, and maybe he does love me,” Bim paused to take a steadying breathe, “But he also sees Damien when he looks at me and I refuse to stand by when I could do something that will make him truly happy, even if it means losing him.”

The room was silent, but Bim could see how Dark looked down, avoiding Wilford’s longing gaze over his shoulder. The game show host couldn’t tell if it hurt more than Wil wasn’t denying the fact that he saw Damien instead of Bim when they were together then if Wil had lied and tried to argue the point, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“Why should I?” Dark bit out, defiance burning in his eyes. He was fine with being broken, he had been broken for over a century and he didn’t need some two-bit game show host to fix him, fellow demon or not. He didn’t need Wilford. Bim just lets out a low chuckle.

“Because this isn’t a one time offer,” Bim practically purred with the smugness of someone that just cornered his prey would have, “I’ll keep bring it up until you accept. Maybe next time we won’t be so private? How would the others react to knowing their oh so powerful leader is a broken husk?” BIm smirk grew as he saw a flicker of panic in Dark’s eyes, knew he was winning by the twist in the older demon’s aura, “Knowing that a lowly game show host was able to overpower him? Knowing that you’re nothing, but a disgrace to every demon in existence?”

Dark glared at him, but nodded, “Fine, I’ll make the deal.”

“Good, I hope you still remember how to seal the deal?” Bim said cooly, “Or is that something else you forgot while playing Frankenstein with your soul?”

Dark just growled, surging forward to lock his lips with Bim’s. Bim just chuckled, taking control of the kiss easily as his magic went to work. The kiss lasted a lot longer than normal as his magic worked over the jagged remains of the demon and two souls, smoothing them out and filling in what had been missing for too long. Finally, he pulled back, laying his forehead against Dark’s as both of them panted, Bim searching Dark’s eyes. There were spirals and sparks of things he never seen in the older’s demons eyes before, his shoulders shaking slightly as Bim shrunk back to his human form, lowering him to the ground.

“Name and legion?” Bim asked softly.

“Dur… Durans,” was the reply, equally soft as the demon didn’t even bother to switch Abyssal, “My name was Durans, I was from the 7th legion of the 4th cohorts.”

“A Jinn,” Bim laughed dryly, “Why am I not surprised. Either way Durans-”

“No,” He cut off, “I’m… I’m still Dark, Dark is still my name.”

Bim nodded, offering a weak smile, “Either way Dark, I fixed your memories as much as I could with my magic. I only gave you back an eighth of your emotional range at the moment so not to overwhelm you, we’ll need to renew the deal every month for the next year to get you back to normalcy, but you should be better than you have been.”

“Tha-”

“Don’t,” He stopped Dark from speaking with his nearly feral growl, the first peek into his true feeling that he’s given them, “Don’t you dare thank me. I did what was right, even when I wish I just let you suffer in agony forever. Don’t thank me for trying to make Wilford happy, because I want nothing more than to slit your throat so that I can have him all to myself, that I can live in my fantasy of happiness for a little longer.”

Bim turned on his heel, refusing to look at the teary-eyed Wilford as he moved towards the door.

“You never did tell me your name and legion,” Dark called. Bim drew to a stop, drawing his shoulders back as he turned back to the other demon.  

“I am Bim Trimmer, I thought you would pay more attention than that,” He mocked with his usual cheeky smirk, no matter how fake it felt now, noticing the annoyed set of Dark’s jaw. He almost wanted to laugh, even with working emotions and a full memory, Dark was still Dark, nothing could change the control hungry man.

“You know that’s not what I was asking.”

“You need to try harder than that to get information from me,” He countered, before ducking out. He wandered the empty halls of the Office, before finding his way to the studio, up onto the stage of his game show.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights

All the stars we steal from the night sky,” He sang, walking across the darkened stage, tears pricking his eyes. He didn’t want this…

“Will never be enough Never be enough,” He should go back. Wipe their memories of this, kiss Wilford senseless, not caring about Dark’s stare, let them think he’s just a harmless game show host.

“Towers of gold are still too little

These hands could hold the world but it’ll,” He should drag Wilford back to his room, and let his incubus skill make him forget there was ever anyone other than Bim in his life.

“Never be enough,” He should kill Dark, his powers might not actually be enough to overpower Dark like he made the demon believe, but with how off-kilter Dark was feeling not only with his new emotions but with just learning Bim of all people was a demon, Bim had a chance.

“Never be enough,” But he wouldn’t, he knew he wouldn’t

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Bim didn’t get up, not even glancing up from his podium as his now ex-boyfriend entered. He didn’t need to see the sad smile that he could hear on his voice, see those eyes sparkling with unshed tears, to see that stupidly cute mustache twitch.

“Bim I want you to know,” Wilford started, sincere and honest, “That I do love Dark a great deal, and loved the Kim siblings with all my heart, howe-”

“Don’t.” Bim cut him off in an inhuman growl, knuckles turning white from where he gripped his podium.

“Darling-”

“I SAID DON’T WARFSTACHE!” Bim howled, eyes turning into purple slits as he glared up at the reporter only for his shoulders to fall when he saw the hunched form of his once lover, “You can’t give me hope, Wilford, you can’t…”

“Why would telling you the-”

Bim didn’t let him finish, he couldn’t, “It’s not the truth. The truth is that you were using me because I was too like Damien, that you didn’t see me as me. You never loved me. That’s the way it has to be Wilford.”

“Why? Why can’t I say what I feel? Why must it be this way?” Wilford argued.

“Becuase I’m not human,” Bim didn’t pause at baffled look Wilford shot him, wood creaking under his hands, “If I knew for even a split second that I had a chance of being the one you loved instead of Dark then I would do everything in my power to make you mine, kill dark, erase your memories, use every trick up my sleeve to make you forget your own name, let alone that you loved someone else. Don’t let me go down that path Wilford, don’t give me hope.”

Wilford looked conflicted look on his face, wanting to say something but refraining, until finally, he worked up the courage, “Why’d you do it then?”

Bim’s eyes flicked back to brown as he looked down, hands falling to his side.

“Because I’ve been lost, and hurt, and confused. Not knowing if there was ever a way to fix myself back up again after she…” He trailed off, hand gripping the front his suit, right over his inside pocket, “I knew from the start what choice I was going to make. “

The reporter’s eyes glossed over with unseen memories. Bim just signed, turning away.

“Have a good night, Wil. I’ll see you in the studio tomorrow morning.”

Bim was almost out of the room before Wil spoke up, calling after him,

“Goodbye old friend, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bim didn’t reply as he swiftly exited the studio, instead choosing to do as all previous that had heard William use that phrase, ignore the message he hid deep within the words. It was better that way.

It was better if he just pretended.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #135

“on a collision course to hell we march.”

When you make a mess are you more likely to clean it up right away, or do you get to it later?  Right away because otherwise it'd fuck with my OCD. Do you like to have croutons in your salad?  Ew no. Which do you find more irritating - sunburn or bug bites? Sunburn. What shape/type of fry do you like best [waffle fry, curly fry, steak fry, sweet potato fry, tater tot, etc.]?  Just.  The normal kind of fry. What’s your favorite type of bird?  Barn owls. How many friends do you have on Facebook? 110. How many contacts do you have in your phone?  15. What pet names do you use with your significant other? The usual sweetie, hunny, etc., but then there's "honeybee" and "bubblebutt." cB What’s the name of the store you usually get your groceries?  Wal-Mart. Do you carry any means of protection on you while out in public?  No, although I do wish I had pepper spray. Have you ever been inside of a cave?  No, I wish. Would you ever pick up a hitchhiker?  No. Did your parents ever show you pictures of you when you were a baby inside your mother’s tummy?  I know some exist and Mom was probably pregnant in pictures I've seen in old photo books, but I don't remember any in specific. When you were in school/if you are in school, do you actually share your grades with your parents? If you got/get a bad grade, do you hide it from them?  I always shared them regardless. Have you ever learned to play a song on an instrument just by listening to it and not looking at sheet music? No. Is anything hanging from the doorknob in your room?  My purse. Your first love walks up to your door, what do you do/say?  Considering he has no way of knowing where I live, probably, "And I thought I was the obsessive one" before closing the door. Do you honestly think you could last a week without a computer or cell phone?  Oh yeesh no. Do you know anyone who does cocaine?  No.  At least I hope not. What is something that most people wouldn’t know about you from simply looking at you?  Given my current weight, that I'm a vegetarian. What’s your longest road trip?  Like... 11-12 hours? Do you have any videos on your phone? If so, of what?  I have one video saved of Sara playing with Jem.  It's the cutest thing ever. Do you think that your bedroom is a reflection of your personality? Or would people look at your room and misjudge you?  It's a good reflection. Do you follow the ‘five second rule’ when you drop food on the ground?  No.  Food falls, not touching it. Does it bother you when people make weight comments? This depends.  Your doctor?  Without being condescending or anything, of course they should.  Otherwise, unless you are asked by this person to give your genuine opinion, keep your mouth shut. What’s a quality that your sister has that you absolutely can’t stand? I won't say which sister, but she's not appreciative enough of what she's given. Have you ever been caught right in the middle of a rain storm outside?  Yep.  In the summer afternoons especially, it can start pouring down within like five minutes of clouds forming. When was the last time you visited the park? Who did you go with?  February to take anniversary pics for Ash and Nick.  Mom and my niece and nephew were there, too. Do you live in a town where basically everyone knows everyone else?  No, we don't really live in a "town" area. Are your grandparents the kind who are very protective of you?  No. Which singer’s vocals would you love to steal?  I've only heard "Skin and Bones" by her band, but probably Layla Brooklyn Allman.  Fucking gorgeous voice but also has one badass roar. Have you got a hairdresser that you can trust?  Yeah, I've seen the same woman since like middle school. Do you like the smell of BBQs?  Yes, even though I hate barbeque. Who would you really like to become better friends with?  There's a lot of people.  But of anyone, probably Priscilla. Do you personally know anybody who has more than five tattoos?  Yeah. How big is your bed?  Queen. Have you ever been to a bachelor or bachelorette party?  No. Do you think it’s important for children to have a father figure in their life as they grow up?  ...it’s more important the child grows up feeling loved and valued than exactly who is doing the raising. <<<<< This. Do you include your middle initial in your signature? No. Have you ever imagined how it would feel kissing a certain someone?  Yes. /v\ Have you ever taken a picture with Santa when you were little?  Yes. What is the population of the city you live in? Around 5,300 lmao.  We're tiny. If you could have one more pet, what?  If I didn't have a rat the answer would be a cat, but since I do, another ball python. Something you want to buy real bad?  Gimme another plane ticket and the money for the tat I want. Something you would NEVER buy?  Drugs. What do you think will happen when you die?  Hopefully I'll see a peaceful, beautiful afterlife where I'm with all I love who've passed. Could you wait until marriage for sex?  I tried to.  Now I kinda just shrug at the idea of being abstinent.  I mean if you're in love with the person, stable in your HEALTHY relationship, and use protection, go for it. What was on the last sandwich you ate?  A pb&j forever ago.  Aaaand now I want one, but fasting hours have started. What pet names do you use with your significant other? Oh god I call her a lot.  "Pretty woman," "honeybee," "love(ly)," "sweetie, "hunny," "baby/babe," aaaand "bubblebutt" will always be The Supreme. What brand is your toaster, if you have one? We have an OOOOOLLLDDD-ass toaster oven, idk what it is. Have you ever dated a smoker? If not, would you?  For less than a day, and now, no. How would you describe your sense of humor?  Sarcastic, I guess. Do you share a middle name with any of your siblings?  Yeah, Nicole. Do you currently have any bruises on your body? Yeah, my knees are pretty bruised from getting down daily to exercise. Can you cry on command? If so, have you ever used it to your advantage?  No. Have you ever seen a lunar eclipse?  Ye, multiple times. A solar one?  No. Do you know anyone who writes huge essays when they message you?  Lmao Sara and I can both do that sometimes. Do you think your first love still loves you?  Nope. Are you a money saver or spender?  Quickly learning I'm a saver.  It's so, so rare I obtain money so I save that shit for something I really want. Do you know anyone who has been arrested?  Yes. Are you someone who has to analyze everything?  More like over-analyze. What's the last thing that scared the hell out of you? Hm... that REALLY scared me that bad, probably when Sara was having a strange health issue. Who is the last person you pushed out of your life? Why?  My old best friend because she's honestly a toxic piece of trash towards others. Do you have any awkward music downloaded on your iPod?  Lol yes.  People would raise eyebrows. Have you ever been to church? What was it like?  I grew up going to church and did sometimes with the family as a teen, and I always thought it was boring. Has a member of the opposite sex ever seen you naked? Yeah. Do you use an umbrella when it rains? No, unless one's available and it's pouring. What articles of clothing have you been wanting to buy/did you buy recently?  Homie I've wanted a leather studded jacket since middle school. Were you ever a flower girl or ring bearer in anyone’s wedding when you were little?  No. Are you afraid of speaking to large audiences?  YEAH. If you could either be fire resistant or breathe underwater, which would you rather be capable of? Breathe underwater. Have you ever bought fake money and tried to make it pass for real? No. Have you ever had to sell something for a school fundraiser? Ugh yes. If you have any piercings, who did them?  Different people, but all professionals. Have you ever cried while watching a movie trailer?  No. Do you know someone who had completely changed for the worse when he/she started hanging out with another person? If so, who?  Yeah, his name's Jason. Have you ever been pulled over, but just let off with a warning?  No. Have you ever taken shots? (of alcohol)  No. Have you ever had to evacuate somewhere do to a fire/flood/some sort of threat to safety? If so, what happened?  No. Do you like mash-up songs?  I don't listen to them enough to know. Have you ever played a real pinball machine?  Pretty sure yes. What is the saddest thing that has happened to you? Attempting suicide. What about the happiest?  Realizing my ex no longer had any power over me. What do you consider to be a bad grade? Low C. Who was the last person you slow danced with?  Jason. Do you say "like" a lot? No.  My younger sister can say it in almost every sentence and it drives me insane. Would you ever consider adopting a child with a severe mental illness?  I wouldn't be able to.  As someone who knows the pain of them, I just couldn't handle it. Do you ever go into photobooths?  I have before. Have you ever pole danced before?  No. Have you ever seen a live bat?  Yes. Has a pet ever stolen food from you as you were eating it?  No. Are you more comfortable kissing a boy or a girl? I haven't kissed a girl on the lips yet, but I can almost guarantee I'd be more comfortable kissing one than a boy. Are you waiting for something? Come.  On.  June.  12th. Have you ever kissed someone and hated it?  He kissed me and I hated it. Can you touch your nose with your tongue? No. Who in your family is the hardest to please? Nicole, probably. Would you ever pierce your “private” areas?  NONONONONONONONO WHY DO PEOPLE- What type of humor do you find funniest?  Dry or clever. What types of things fascinate you? BOY.  Nature, CAVES, space, oceans, certain animals... lots. Are you ever rude to people on purpose?  Depends on my mood/the subject...  If you're being a piece of shit to me, I may be unpleasant back.  Or I kill with kindness. What kind of place would you want to raise your children?  I already want to live in the woods, but if I had children, it'd be even more important to me to live with an abundance of nature.  I'd want to raise them to enjoy it and ESPECIALLY respect it.  I'd also want to teach them to have fun with other than just technology, and giving them a big chunk of the outdoors would help. Will you hold hands with the last person you held hands with again?  YEAH. Has your father met the boy you currently love?  *girl.  Not yet, but hopefully will next month. Why did you last cry?  I was extremely lonely and sick of how dull and repetitious my days are. Do you eat raisin bran?  Omg I hate raisins. Would you rather spend a whole day with your mom or your dad?  Either one. What serial killer do you find most disturbing?  I'm not very educated on serial killers.  Isn't there one who wore other people's faces?  That'd be high on the list. Have you ever written or received a suicide note?  Ugh.  I wrote one. Do you have the same color hair as your siblings?  Yes.  I think we ALL have brown hair. Do you have the same color eyes as your siblings?  My only siblings who has blue eyes is Bobby. What is your favorite type of cat?  Persians. What’s your opinion on tattoos in the workforce? How about piercings?  Get the fuck over it.  They have no impact on the person's personality and work ethic.  It's WAY past time we drop that shit. Do women breastfeeding in public make you feel uncomfortable? Why or why not?  *SLAMS FISTS ON TABLE* IF A CHILD IS HUNGRY FUCKING FEED THEM LIKE GODDAMN HAVE WE FORGOTTEN WHAT BREASTS ARE FOR. How many times is your cartilage pierced in your ears?  It was done once, but it closed when I had to take it out at the hospital.

[ncfan-1]

the ghosts of distant stars

Fed on a half-finished story, Elwing follows lights out into the marsh.

Written for the April 11th, 2015 picture prompt of Legendarium Ladies April, They Stood Like Memory.

[Also on AO3]

Also, for the purposes of this fic, we are assuming that there was in Beleriand a species of frog that could tolerate brackish water, and that this frog likely went extinct when the Valar decided to break the continent.

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

She had seen then from the windows late at night, when all the lamps were doused and the denizens of the Havens of Sirion were silently abed. Curfew was for queens and lords just as much as it was for cobblers and butchers; the only people who should have been abroad at that hour were the guards. And yet, when Elwing sat up in bed and stared out her window into the dark, she saw wavering wisps of white flitting in and out of the reed-forest, flickering like a candle flame, yet the light left no impression after she turned away.

On silent feet did Elwing creep out into the dark. Even the guards did not have lamps at night, for fear that some enemy (there were so many, now, more enemies than there were friends) would spy the lights from afar. He shadows were a shelter as encompassing as any dark cloak, and Elwing drew them about her as if they really were a cloak. No guard ever spotted Elwing out in the dark by herself.

Every so often, her eyes would track a wisp of light, like moonlight given substance, ephemeral and cold. Elwing followed it to the edge of the clearing, where the reeds loomed like Nellas’s tales of the beech-forests of Neldoreth. (Would that there was a barrier of terrible power at the borders of Lisgardh as there had been around Neldoreth. Would that Elwing had within her the power to cast such a barrier.)

Elwing stood, paralyzed, at the border of the reed-forest. Light trembled, further and further, fainter and fainter, until finally it would wink out, leaving her alone in the dark. The sea roared distantly. The wind blew on her face, full of salt and whispers.

-0-0-0-

Morning imposed a dream-like quality upon these encounters, their kinship seeming to lie more with the tales Elwing had heard wizened Edain tell their mayfly-like grandchildren than with the history Elwing learned from her tutor. There were fantastical tales that came out of history, and some of them were even recent. But they… they were not for this time. They were not for her. Ashes was her inheritance, cold ground and a cold hearth her birthright. The last ember had turned cold long ago.

Elwing was a queen—a child and queen of a refugee camp, without the wisdom and power of Melian, the cunning of Lúthien, or the bone-deep, intuitive knowledge of the arcane of Nimloth, but a queen, nonetheless. A child queen had few of the duties of a grown one, but she still had responsibilities. And she had, Elwing was quite certain, no time for fantastical tales.

While other children spent the day engaged in chores, drawing water from the Sirion for drinking or washing, cleaning their homes, assisting the smiths, and so many other things, Elwing whiled away her days in work of a different kind. She had her tutor, Sídhil, the lords who called themselves her vassals, even if, in truth, it was they who ruled this settlement while their queen crawled towards adulthood. They all taught her things, though it was sometimes difficult to keep track of just what they were teaching her. How to be a better queen, she hoped.

“I don’t suppose any of the Golodhrim lords have approached you lately,” Sídhil remarked, staring out into the street with a thin, pinched look on her dark face. The day was warm and the house so muggy that Elwing’s dark curls had turned into a rat’s nest; Sídhil had thought it better for them to have the lesson of the morning somewhere they could feel the wind on their faces.

Elwing shook her head, fiddling with one of the tips of her belt.

“Not even Lady Idril?”

“No.”

It had been the fourth anniversary of Gondolin’s destruction a week ago. Eärendil had been crying about… Elwing couldn’t even remember, anymore. She had sat there listening to him crying in numb silence, until numbness began to give way to irritation, until irritation boiled into unthinking rage and she pushed him into a puddle and stalked off, ignoring the horrified whispers that dogged her steps.

She still didn’t know why she had been so angry. When she went to examine her anger, it reared its head and screamed at her until she finally averted her eyes and it was quiet again. She knew that the Golodhrim had studiously avoided her since, and the thought of it made her skin prickle like someone was prodding her with a needle.

Sídhil sighed. “That may be for the best. There are others who think otherwise, but in my experience, the Iathrim have never profited from their dealings with the Golodhrim. Not in the long run.”

Somewhere in Sídhil’s lessons, somewhere swirling in Elwing’s mind, there was an account of Maedhros Fëanorion laughing at Thingol’s claim to rule over all of Beleriand. Laughing and rebuking that claim with the observation that a king was lord of the lands they could claim to rule and protect directly, and no more. Maedhros Fëanorion was a murderer and a Kinslayer, which made dismissing his words all the easier. What did it matter that his vigilance and the vigilance of his kin had kept Angband penned up in the north for a time? What did it matter that he had kept orcs from clamoring at Doriath’s borders for a time, if he came and tore Doriath apart himself later?

The Golodhrim walked among them now, anyways. Elwing liked Lady Idril, and—for the most part—liked Eärendil. She was not so sure of the rest, though. The Gondolindrim had allowed themselves to forget the law of her great-grandfather in their time isolated from the rest of Beleriand. They had forgotten, and the opprobrium of a child queen meant less to them than whether all the stars shone in their sky. Blithely they whispered amongst themselves in their outlawed tongue, their words worryingly incomprehensible to one who could not speak it herself.

Outlawed tongue or no, there was no being rid of them now. Elwing had heard the lords talking. The influx of refugees from Gondolin had made it more difficult to hide the settlements dotted through Lisgardh, but they had also brought more skilled craftspeople than the Iathrim or Edain already living by the Mouths of Sirion could boast.

When I am grown, it will be my decision whether to keep them or expel them. And she would not make that decision from Menegroth. She would not make that decision with her parents to advise her, or her brothers to comment. She would make it from a low house hidden away in a reed-forest, where all the lamps were doused at night and nearly all lived in mortal terror of the dark.

“Well,” Sídhil murmured, adjusting her weight on the stone stoop of the house, “I do hope the Golodhrim do not trouble you again, not for a long while. Now, today’s history lesson was supposed to continue the march away from Cuiviénen, correct?” she prompted.

Elwing nodded. “Yes. You were talking about the Hithaeglir…”

A warm smile unfurled on Sídhil’s face. “I’d wondered if you were paying me any mind; good. Before we get into the lesson, how about a story?”

“Alright…”

Sídhil stared out of the house, but Elwing had the idea, looking at her, that she wasn’t really seeing the settlement at all. That she wasn’t imagining it, not any of the other clusters of houses and shops that dotted the reed-forest. Her steel-gray eyes were glazed over, abstracted and transported. “We,” Sídhil said softly, “are close, so very close, to the place where the Falmari left Ennor for the Undying Lands. Follow the river to the Sea, and you’ll be there. The Isle of Balar is what remains of the island on which they forsook this land.” Elwing wondered how anyone could sail anywhere on an island, but thought better of asking. Interrupting Sídhil now would mean never knowing what she would have said.

“The Falmari left,” Sídhil went on, “but other peoples of the Lindar had been with them—the Iathrim, the Falathrim. I was not there; I was not born until later, until Thingol and Melian the Queen made Doriath their kingdom. But I have heard the stories.”

She fell silent, and Elwing frowned at her, her curiosity reluctantly piqued. “What stories?” she asked quietly.

“I’m getting there, your Highness. Don’t try to rush the story along.” Elwing opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, Sídhil resumed the telling of her tale. “The Eldar were not alone on the shores of Belegaer, you see. Even when the world was young, we were not alone in it. Belegaer is full of Maiar, some of terrible power, others as substantial as wisps of air. They heard the Lindar’s songs and swam to the shore to greet them.”

The interruption that followed could not be helped, not truly—the words flowed more easily from mind to mouth than any words had in years, and Elwing, unaccustomed to speech coming so easily to her, blurted out, thunderstruck, “The Maiar? They were here?”

Sídhil’s open face slammed shut. “Why don’t we move on to today’s lesson?”

“Sídhil?” Elwing hated the almost whining tone that curdled in her voice, but still, she pressed, “What about the story?”

Sídhil wrinkled her nose. “If you can’t listen to my stories without interrupting me, we might as well move on to something where discussion is actually encouraged. Come along, your Highness. Anor will not stay high in the sky forever.”

As Elwing followed her inside, she heard so faintly the sound of children laughing. There was bitterness in her mouth, and she wasn’t sure if it was the sound of laughter that turned her tongue to silent ash, or if her tongue had been ash all this time, and it was only now that it had finally crumbled.

-0-0-0-

Elwing did not find sleep in her bed when night fell over Lisgardh. Her mind just kept on racing and racing as the day wore on, like the little blue-striped lizards that lived on the great boulders by the Sirion. When the lamps were doused and all voices fell tautly silent, her mind did not stop racing just because her people had decided the world should stop.

My people… Elwing pressed her forehead against the chill windowpane, her silver eyes poring over the dark. Her heart beat a slow, painful tattoo on her ribs. Her ears were stopped with the kind of silence with which a rabbit willed a fox to pass its warren by.

Her people had to make do with a child queen, a child who knew nothing but what her minders told her. A queen with the power of Melian, the determination of Lúthien, or the steadfastness of Nimloth might have been able to do better, but a network of settlements in Lisgardh, nothing more than refugee camps, they must make do with Elwing.

I have Maiarin blood. Will they acknowledge that if they consent to speak with me?

For a split second, the face that stared back at her from the windowpane was not her own.

Elwing jerked back from the window, her heart in her throat. Somewhere in the reed-forest, a cold white light had kindled, wavering like a guttering candle flame. Sparks of light shot through the narrow walkways between houses, through the alleys and muddy streets.

Mayhap… mayhap she was simply dreaming. Elwing wondered about that, at times, wondered how she was ever supposed to be completely sure of whether she was awake or dreaming. She’d been told that there was no pain in dreams, but she felt pain when she was sure she had been dreaming, like being sewn up with a thick needle and coarse thread. How can I ever hope to know the difference? Elwing wondered, caught between irritation and helpless despair.

She craned her neck, watching the windows in other houses, those that she could, out of wide eyes. Might the Golodhrim, as wise and discerning as they always claimed to be, notice the lights? Might anyone else?

But no light kindled in any window, the only light outside little sparks that bobbed lazily like fireflies. Clouds veiled Ithil. The night was dark, but for this.

If this is a dream, I am in no danger.

Elwing crept out of bed, ears pricked for any sound coming from elsewhere within the house; it would not do for this exercise to be brought to a halt before she could even step outside the door. She threw on one of the dresses in her lacquered wicker chest, a pale, brownish-green dress with vertical gray stripes; effective camouflage in the reed-forest, or so Elwing hoped. She pinned the skirt at the knees and picked her sandals up off the floor, pausing to put them on once she got to the stoop.

Outside, Elwing’s ears were full of frogs’ hoarse croaking and crickets’ high, taut chirps. The sea sang its rough, ageless song. Here the ground was level with the sea and lapped the water up eagerly, but some miles north, the ground reared up abruptly in sheer cliffs, and the beach was nothing more than a strip of land maybe twenty feet wide, more stone than sand. There, the sea roared in anger, no trace of any melody that could make itself into a song. It battered against the cliffs, and all Elwing could suppose was that it was trying to break the rock to pieces.

I am in no danger. I should… I should follow…

The short walk from the house to the borders of the reed-forest was made unchallenged. Where the guards were, Elwing could not say. Perhaps they were on their rounds elsewhere; perhaps the guard who should have been on duty nearby had overslept. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh, all the hairs on her arms and legs standing on end.

Far off, a light flickered and shone.

Elwing pushed the reeds aside, and left the settlement behind her.

There was relatively little land around the Mouths of Sirion that could properly be called inhabitable. Islands of dry ground were surrounded by miles upon miles of muddy marsh, reeds and pools and streams and small, twisted trees, where no house could be built without it sinking into the earth shortly thereafter. There were paths cut in the reeds when need be, but these paths were few and far between, and the reeds grew back so quickly that within a couple of months, it was as if a particular path had never been cut at all.

Elwing huffed as she struggled through the reeds. A flash of white light in the distance told her which way to go, but her strength was not such as to make the task of following after easy. The reeds were man-high and higher, far taller than a child whose height was unequal to what would expect from a scion of the House of Thingol, and packed close together, except when they fell away in favor of pools and rivulets teeming with fish and frogs and other creatures of the marsh. The reeds were so densely leaved that Elwing constantly had to push them apart to have any idea of where she was going; she had no idea if she was going to leave a patch of reeds for open mud until she was at the threshold. There could be anything out here, she thought to herself, biting her lip, and I would never know until I was right in front of it.

Thick, sucking mud was the ground, sucking greedily on her sandals with every step that Elwing took. She struggled through a particularly dense patch of reeds and watched the horizon, white-lipped, for any sign of light. Any flicker, any flash, any firefly-like sparks.

Nothing. All was darkness.

She was a fool. Elwing wasn’t sure what it was, whether she had been a fool to think that she of all people could follow the light to its source, or whether she had been tricked, and was a fool to believe she was seeing what she thought she was seeing at all.

I wonder what the rest of Sídhil’s story would have been, Elwing wondered bitterly, a salt-choked breeze hitting her face and making her eyes sting. Would it, perhaps, have been the story of how a foolish little girl followed lights out into the marsh and never returned?

She took a step forwards into what she thought was a wide puddle.

“Ahh!”

Cold, slimy water rushed up to greet her. It was not, as it turned out, a puddle.

Elwing let out a strangled cry, struggling to fight her way out of the pool. The dark water, shimmering with brine as though it had captured thousands of stars in its depths, enveloped her body past the waist. Her legs were immobilized in the mud; they had sank all the way up to her knees. Her nostrils were filled with the reek of rotting fish; the cries of the marsh crickets reached a fever-pitch, shrill screams that stabbed like knives in her ears.

Heart racing, Elwing scrabbled for purchase in the mud, her fingernails digging shallow furrows that the water cruelly washed away. Something squirmed under her fingers and she shrieked, jerking her hand back and sinking further yet into the mud. A pallid crab scuttled away, disappearing into the gloom.

It was all Elwing could do not to scream for her father.

Eventually, Elwing managed a grab at the exposed roots of a gnarled tree sitting on the edge of an island of solid ground. She pulled with all her might, kicking at the mud, until at last her legs were free and she was able to hoist herself onto the bank.

Several short, gasping breaths, torn from her lungs like screams. Elwing’s muscles felt as though they were made of water, weak and wobbly and too feeble to so much as stand on. Her sandals were gone, swallowed whole by the mud, and Elwing had no desire to go diving for them. She was covered in mud, her dress caked in layers of it. Do I even know how to get back? Elwing wondered to herself. Wouldn’t I just get lost? I should have stayed at home.

She looked up, and the air around her was filled with light.

“Now you come to me,” she muttered to the glowing white sparks. They gave her no reply, swirling around her head, before shooting away west.

Elwing sighed and got to her feet, listing dangerously from side to side before she found her balance. The muscles in her legs didn’t feel like they were made of water anymore; they felt like they were made of sand, weighted with ground lead. The song of the sea floated to her ears again, maybe a little closer than before, but still…

She sighed and kept going.

Mercifully, there were no repeat incidents of her dip in the pool. The clouds shifted away from the moon, drenching the marsh in a soft, silvery glow. At length, the tall reeds, swaying gently in the salt-laden breeze, gave way to soft sand bleached white in the moonlight. Foam-capped waves lapped gently against the shore; the tide pools that dotted the beach glimmered like polished sheets of black glass. Elwing almost smiled.

Off to her left, a light kindled.

Elwing looked off to her left and spied several figures standing atop tall boulders. Her mouth dropped open, but no sound came out; night it might have been, but her tongue was still made of ash. She could only step closer, slowly.

The figures did not acknowledge her as she drew near, picking her way carefully through the sand to avoid stepping on sharp rock or the jagged edges of broken shells. She could not see their faces; they were wrapped in white shrouds that fell to their feet, that did not stir even though the wind was blowing Elwing’s hair all over her face. The light grew brighter and brighter the closer she came, but it was not the white light of the lights that Elwing had seen from afar when she was ensconced in her house. The figures were haloed with a watery green glow that wavered like light shining upon running water.

Elwing came to stand before them and stopped. They stood still as stone. She could not make out their faces from under the shrouds.

Her first instinct was to shrink away from them, but Elwing stood as straight and tall as her meager height allowed, and waited. She stood there for what felt like forever, and still, they said nothing.

“Hello?” she called to them. The sea’s voice rose in volume, less a song and more a shout, so that she too had to shout to be heard over them. “C-Can you hear me?”

Still they were silent, staring at nothing, statues of living stone.

“Please, I wished to speak with you.”

It was as if she truly spoke to stone, and Elwing thought she felt her heart calcifying to match them, growing heavy and still and dead within her chest. She had no power to move them. She didn’t know why she had expected anything else.

But there was something…

There was…

Was that a voice?

It was like a whisper, like someone tickling her earlobe with a feather, but it was like fishhooks in her flesh as well, and Elwing could not help but turn round to face it; the longer she ignored it, the more painful the tugging became. There was a glow in the water, but it was not moonlight she saw. This light was green and patchy, swirling and undulating in the water, coiling and uncoiling as a snake slithering through mud.

The wind buffeted Elwing to and fro as she descended the shore towards the sea, her eyes fixed on the light. She came to the place where the sand was ever soaked with seawater; her muddy feet were washed clean by the rolling tide, only to reveal long, dark scratches that bled out into the sea.

The green light flared, bright as any fire. Elwing saw in the shallows figures that furled and unfurled like flags like seaweed caught in rough currents. Their faces were hollow and waxen; their eyes shone like burning coals. They spoke to her in voices of crashing waves and bubbling currents. They spoke not a word that Elwing could understand, but her heart was filled with foreboding nonetheless.

Cloud drifted over Ithil, and they all winked out. The feeling of fishhooks in her flesh left her, and Elwing whipped around, staring up the shore to the boulders, only to find them empty.

Elwing wrapped her arms around her chest and drew a shuddering sigh, exhaustion beating down on her. This was no dream. Dreams were not supposed to leave the dreamer empty.

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Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun Belegaer—literally “Mighty Sea” (Sindarin); otherwise known as ‘The Great Sea’ or ‘The Sundering Seas’, the sea separating Middle-Earth and Aman, until such time as Aman was removed from the circles of the world; rendered in Quenya as ‘Alatairë.’ Edain—Men of the three houses (the Houses of Bëor, Hador and Haleth) who were faithful to the Elves throughout the First Age; after the War of Wrath they were gifted with the land of Númenor and became known as the Dúnedain; after the Akallabêth they established Arnor and Gondor (singular: Adan) (Sindarin) Eldar—‘People of the Stars’ (Quenya); a name first given to the Elves by Oromë when he found them by Cuiviénen, but later came to refer only to those who answered the summons to Aman and set out on the March, with those who chose to remain by Cuiviénen coming to be known as the Avari; the Eldar were composed of these groups: the Vanyar, Ñoldor (those among them who chose to go to Aman), and the Teleri (including their divisions: the Lindar, Falmari, Sindar and Nandor) Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin) Falathrim—‘People of the foaming shore’ (Sindarin) or ‘Coast people’ (Sindarin); the Sindar of the Havens of the Falas in Beleriand; Círdan’s people. Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.' Golodhrim—a name for the Ñoldor given to them by the Sindar (singular: Golodh) (Sindarin). Hithaeglir—the Misty Mountains (Sindarin); the mountain range separating Eriador and Rhovanion, the largest mountain range in Middle-Earth; first raised by Morgoth to hinder Oromë in his hunting of Morgoth’s creatures Iathrim—the Sindar of Doriath Ithil—the Sindarin name for the Moon; of the Sun and the Moon, it is the elder of the two vessels, lit by Telperion’s last flower; in an early version of ‘Of the Sun and Moon and the Hiding of Valinor’ was said to be “the giver of visions” (The Lost Road 264). As this form is very similar to ‘Isil’, the Quenya form (which is likely to be its original form, as the vessel of the Moon was made in Aman), it is likely that ‘Ithil’ was adapted from ‘Isil’; all I can suppose is that the Valar got in contact with Melian at some point during the First Age to share information. Lindar—‘Singers’; the clan name the Nelyar gave themselves (rendered in Telerin as ‘Lindai’; rendered in Primitive Quendian as ‘lindā’ or ‘glindā, though the latter appears only in Sindarin), for it was said that they learned to sing before they learned to speak. The Lindar (later known to outsiders as the Teleri) split into several groups: the Falmari of Aman, the Sindar, and the Nandor (which itself encompasses the Laiquendi and the Silvan-folk). Lisgardh—A marshy region by the Mouths of Sirion, a land of reeds that grow man-high and dense as a forest. Its name in earlier drafts was ‘Arlisgion,’ translated in The Book of Lost Tales 2 as “the place of reeds” (155). Sirion—a major river in Beleriand, which had its source in Eithel Sirion and flowed south through the Ered Wethrin, Doriath, Andram (where it fell underground for a time) and Nan Tathren, before emptying into the Bay of Balar at the Mouths of Sirion.