#ILL LEAVE IT VAGUE PROMISE - in case saving happens BUT YE

[adversityfought-a]

🔪🔪🔪

LIKE THIS IS YOU WANT AN ANGSTY STARER OF CHRIS DYING IN YALLS MUSES ARMS CAUSE I REQUIRE THE ANGST—

[rons-hermiones]

Come Find Me

Come Find Me

by rons-hermiones

Summary: Unplanned, Hermione is forced to spend Christmas at the Burrow due to her grandmother falling very ill. After being ignored by Hermione for weeks, Ron is determined to show her how much she means to him. Just before he gets the chance to tell her, Bellatrix Lestrange shows up with other plans for Hermione. Can Ron get to her before it's too late? (Ron/Hermione Half-Blood Prince AU)

Rating: M for language & dark themes in later chapters.

Chapter Thirty Two

It had been two days since Bellatrix returned to Malfoy Manor, giggling madly about what she had just done, basking in her bloodied robes. 

Since finding out what happened Narcissa had been torn up. A big part of her yearned to withhold the truth from Hermione, wanting to save her from any more pain. Her other half was screaming to tell the truth. Unfortunately, the young witch wasn’t a stranger to pain, but this was something else. 

In the past forty eight hours, she has yet to do either. She feels terrible, but she’s been avoiding the quality time, per say, that she and Hermione routinely spent together. 

Narcissa would slip her food with a small smile, occasionally squeeze her hand, then make up an excuse and run along upstairs. 

However, the past two days haven’t been a complete waste. 

Narcissa was planning. 

Planning to finally get Hermione out of this place.

And after an internal debate, today was the day to vocalize this to the young witch. 

Only problem is that Narcissa is worried she may ask questions. Ones about her parents whereabouts. But in the end, she knew she couldn’t let it stop her. 

Taking a deep breath, she slowly descends down the stairs to the dungeons. 

Upon her arrival the candle flickered on, as it always did. This action seemed to relieve Hermione. 

Normally, she’d crawl forward, but Narcissa can’t help but notice how much she's been struggling physically lately. Surely because of the cruciatus curse. This, along with many other reasons, is a factor as to why it is so important to get her out. 

Any prior reluctance worrying about being caught herself or even having Draco pay the price is out the window. Her plan is as solid as it can get and her son is safe at Hogwarts with Severus Snape protecting him at all costs. 

“Hello dear, we need to talk.” Narcissa said shakily, pushing open the door and joining the girl on the floor, not before draping a cloak over her exposed form. 

Instantly, Hermione nestled into her side, missing the contact from the past few days. She's been lonelier than usual. 

“I’m going to get you out. Tonight.” She cut right to the chase. 

At this, Hermione painfully lifted her head to stare into the woman’s eyes. 

“W-why?” It’s all she could manage, but Narcissa understood the weight of it. She’s become good at reading her. 

Why now? What’s changed? What’s coming?

And Cissy expected this. This young witch is the brightest of her age. Even beaten, violated, and under the effects of an unforgivable, she's perceptive as ever. She can sense there’s been a change to warrant such urgency. 

“I’m so sorry dear,” she begins to cry, “your parents, they’re… gone.” Narcissa barely manages. 

No. No. No. No. No. 

She’s been trying so hard to keep her mind busy for weeks to not let the curse take over, but suddenly, she can’t think. 

She doesn’t want to. 

She almost wishes she was insane. 

It’s a trick. It has to be. 

There’s no way it's real. They’re tricking you Hermione, they want to get inside your head once and for all. 

But Narcissa, she wouldn’t…

They’re tricking her too. They have to be. My parents are fine. They’re fine. 

And maybe it’s because she can’t emotionally or physically bear anymore hurt. Or maybe she really is losing it. 

But she manages to convince herself that it’s the truth. 

For now. 

“Tr-trick.” She squeaks, she's crying despite not believing it herself.  

“It’s no trick.” Cissy whispers back, voice strained. 

“Trick!” Hermione repeats like a small child 

Narcissa pulls her close again. “Hermione, I’m so sorry.”

And the way the woman spoke to her. Voice so broken and tender, she almost has to believe it, but she can’t. Now she needs to hear the plan, she needs to get home and make sure her parents are okay, no matter what the cost. 

“H-home.” she croaks. 

Mrs. Malfoy wipes at her eyes, gathering her barings. She could tell the brunette was compressing the news she just delivered, but she needed to set the plan into motion before anything like this could happen again. 

“Tonight.” She says, voice stronger, “we do this tonight. Bellatrix will be here, as will my husband, but they need to be.”

Hermione’s eyes grow wide at the sentence, surely Bellatrix would hex her into next year if she’s caught. 

“No, listen. I need you to listen.” She turns so her eyes pierce Hermione’s, “you need to tell me if you understand.” There’s no room for a mistake. Again, this girl is brilliant, but she can also barely walk as of late. 

“There’s someone I’m meant to meet with in Hogsmeade tonight. Bellatrix and Lucuius along with everyone else, even the Dark Lord,  will not question this meeting.” She assures. “The issue is that I need to be on time, as to not raise suspicions, whilst getting you out.” Narcissa was partially thinking aloud now.

“H-how?” She was determined to set all of her focus on this. 

“I’m going to send an elf to apparate down here with your tray of food. Elf magic isn’t affected by the enchantments.” She clarified, though Hermione recalls reading about that, or at least she thinks she has. “When the elf comes, you need to grab on as tight as you can. From there, you’ll be in the kitchens.” 

Hermione nodded in understanding, easing the woman. 

“I’ll be in the kitchen, from there I’ll side-along you to Hogsmeade with me. My meeting will not be long, you need to stay hidden the entire time.” 

Narcissa had planned a meeting with Severus Snape under the pretense of checking Draco’s progress. Trouble was if he, or anyone saw Hermione in the village, someone may put two and two together, knowing she got her there. 

“Y-yes.” She promised, sensing ths fear in the woman’s tone. 

“When my meeting is done, we’ll apparte away. Right outside St. Mungo’s then I’ll have to leave, I can’t risk being seen. I’m taking a spare wand we have, I can leave it with you, just in case.” This part was faulty, she was reluctant to leave Hermione alone. 

“D-don’t l-leave.” She cried. 

“I have to dear, it’s for the best. You’ll be safe, they’ll call your friends. They’ll take care of you better than I can.” Narcuissa says with watery eyes. 

And though Cissy has been the closest thing she’s had all this time, she knows she has to go on. For Ron, for Harry, for her parents. She has to know they’re okay more than anything else in this twisted world.

 “T-tonight.” Hermione said as string as she could muster in hopes to convey how ready she was. 

“Tonight.” Narcissa nodded in response. 

...

After that, Hermione sat alone in the corner the rest of the day. 

Sobs wracked her bodies ever now and again at the prospect that her parents were in fact killed. However, she narrowly managed to convince herself it was a lie every time until the cycle repeated. 

She had nothing better to do then to worry herself sick as she waited for the elf. 

As a few tears streamed her cheeks at horrific visions of unforgivable curses being used in her home, her minstraions were cut short by a loud crack. 

But there was no elf. 

Instead, she heard a commotion sounding upstairs. 

Loud thudding footsteps. The yelling of spells and counterspells. The sputter of magic leaving wands. 

She did her best to stand, hoping to get a better grasp on the situation. 

What was going on? 

Bellatrix was taken to cursing anyone. Perhaps some Death Eater crossed her, yes. 

However, this rationzaliation was thrown out the window as Narcissa came hastily running down the steps. 

With a sense of unwavering urgency, she throws open the cell door, not being as cautious as she always is. 

Soon, she grips Hermione’s arm roughly, making her wince, “they’re here, The Order, they’ve found you.” Narcissa helps her stand. 

Any pain shooting through her body was extinguished. Instead, Hermione’s eyes fill with hope. 

“You have to leave. Get out. Now.” 

They soon fill with fear at her hushed words. 

“Bella, I heard her and the Dark Lord, he said if they were to come, that he would kill you. You have to go.” She said frantically as she dragged her up the steps despite Hermione’s whimpers and inability to move. 

At the top, she can vaguely hear the yelling and hurried footsteps. 

“Move quickly. To the kitchens.” She whispers as they reach the top, practically dragging the limp and exposed girl.��

With a deep breath Hermione let’s her aching leg carry her there as the other drags along. 

She knows everyone in the room is distracted by the raid, but for how long?

Once inside the large room, she can see the house elves retreating for protection. Narcissa shuts the door and casts a locking spell. 

Then, she steps forward and holds her wand out. 

“Take it.” 

Hermione shakes her head. 

“Yes, take it. Disapparate. I know you can do it.” She tells the young girl with fervor. 

“N-no.” Sure her mind is fuzzy, but she’s sure she’s never apparated before. Only read about it. 

“Yes.” She assures, curling the girl's small hand around her wand, the very one she’s had since age eleven. “You’re Hermione Granger. You’re the Brightest Witch of Your Age.” 

It doesn’t seem to convince the girl. 

Narcissa hears the curses being thrown. She vaguely hears someone call to retrieve Hermione from the dungeons. 

She needs to think and fast. The first thing that comes to mind is something she knows grounds the girl. She’s heard her whisper it many nights in broken words. 

“You’re Hermione Granger. You’re seventeen years old. Your parents-” she chokes a little, “your parents are Hugo and Jean.” The young girl's eyes begin to water,  “You go to Hogwarts School of WitchCraft and Wizardry. Your best friend is Harry Potter,” someone bangs on the kitchen door, making them jump, “you’re in love with Ron Weasley. And-“

At the words something surged through her. She needed to do this for her parents. For Harry. For the Weasley’s. For Narcissa. For Ron. 

For herself. 

“I’m g-going t-to b-b-be oh-kay.” She finishes shakily. 

She has to be. To see Ron again and Harry and Ginny. And to see her parents alive. God please be alright- 

“Where the hell is she?” Dolohov’s hiss carries from outside the doors. 

Hermione’s scared eyes look where the sound came from beyond the door. 

Narcissa ignores it and softly cradles her cheeks to redirect her attention, “yes, yes.” The banging on the door sounds again. 

The woman squeezes the wand in her hand further.

“Think of a place. Any place. Focus on that.” She encourages. 

And for the first time in weeks she feels like herself. Her mind works wildly to figure this out. 

The Burrow and Hogwarts have wards. I can’t go home. I don’t want to go somewhere and have them follow me. Think Hermione, think-

“I h-have it.” She promises. 

“Okay, do it, you can do it.” She says to the girl as she lifts her weak, shaking arm to hold the wand. 

Hermione shakes her head. She couldn’t leave Narcissa, not like this. Not after all she’s done. “C-come.” She chokes. 

Sadly, she shakes her head and lets a tear fall down her cheek, “I can’t.” 

“P-please.” She whimpers. 

“Quick, undo the locking charm!” A voice called from outside 

“I promised you I’d get you out of here.” She reminds, “Now go.” Narcissa kisses her gently on the forehead and wipes away a tear on her protruding cheek bone. 

“Th-thank you,” she takes a deep breath to say more, “Cissy.” Hermione manages with a pained smile

“This isn’t the end.” Narcissa promises. 

The brunette nods. Willing herself to focus on where she needs to go. 

Destination. Deliberation. Determination. 

She was determined to get out of this hell. 

To go home. 

Closing her eyes, she turns. 

Crack. 

Just as the boom of apparition sounded the kitchen door was thrown open. 

Narcissa stared with an astounded smile at what the young woman just did, but was soon drawn away at the sight of her husband. 

“Where is she? The girl?” He demanded from her. 

Doing what she’s done for years, she decided to put on her best face and continue living a lie. 

“My wand! She took my wand!” She pretended to cry out. 

“Fuck!” He pulled at his hair, “he can’t know. The Dark Lord. No one.” He told her, gripping her shoulders harshly. 

Narcissa nodded, the less people to lie to the easier it would be. 

“I need to get you out of here. I’ll have to side along you.” He told her as he grabbed her hand. 

“It’s not like she could go anywhere right? She can’t even apparate.” He justified to himself just before he twirled his wand. 

Narcissa hid the smile that fell on her face, “no, she can’t.” 

And just like Hermione, they were gone with a crack. 

[carolyncaves]

And here we are: the 5th and final installment of WWX Goes to Gusu, aka What Actually Changes As A Result? This AU went a lot farther than I ever expected it to, and I’m so glad it did, I had a lot of fun writing it - thanks to everyone who’s taken the time to join me in it, now or in the future! 4812 words + postscript, the gang’s all here in this one, vague mental illness Wei Wuxian and now-married Wangxian, minor background pairings, some angst and sadness (I couldn’t completely save Wen Ning from his canon fate), a terrible party (that CQL staple) but in a potentially better way this time

part one | part two | part three | part four | also on ao3

“I thought I told you not to overdo it,” Jiang Cheng said to him lowly, as he and Wei Wuxian made their way together back down the mountain toward Jinlintai.

“Didn’t you hear that Jin-gongzi at the opening ceremony, though? He practically begged me. I wasn’t blindfolded, but I think I lived up to his invitation.”

“So it was on purpose, then? You set out to catch half the mountain in our nets? It wasn’t because you didn’t know your own power?”

Wei Wuxian didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t at all. There would be time for that later, when they weren’t sharing a hillside with a hundred cultivators – or never, if he really had his preference.

“It’s fine,” Jiang Cheng said, before the question or its answer could agitate him. “We’ll work with it. It certainly made a statement, and if the point is to remind the Jin sect they don’t rule the world, a ridiculous display of power from the Jiang sect head disciple isn’t the worst thing that could have happened.”

Wei Wuxian thought ‘not the worst thing that could have happened’ was a low bar to set, but wasn’t about to argue with him about it.

At that point left Jiang Cheng left Wei Wuxian’s side and made his way over to confer with Shijie. That was for the best. She would probably be clearer in the retelling of the previous tense confrontation than Wei Wuxian would be. Somewhere in the middle the Jin cousin had said something too far, something about Lan Zhan and a demonic cultivator like him, and Wei Wuxian’s brain had gone white and his core had gone black, black, black with smoke. He didn’t know why he hadn’t torn that blowhard to pieces. Lan Zhan and Shijie must have stopped him.

And then Shijie, Shijie, stood in the center of a bunch of loud, arrogant men and cut every one of them down.

A part of Wei Wuxian was itching to abandon this banquet – to get away from the Jins and particularly that one, with his lousy attitude and even lousier manners, and from Yao-zongzhu and his ilk. He imagined forgoing a stuffy room full of fake, stuffy people and walking the public boulevards with a bottle of baijiu, agreeably alone in that crowd instead of under a thousand eyes in the customary one. He hadn’t forgotten the welcome ceremony, the archery range with its human targets. He’d been furious since then, in a way he’d started to think maybe he’d grown too cold to be anymore. Furious at the treatment of the Wen prisoners, furious at his impotence under the shake of his brother’s head.

Lan Zhan had taken his headband from his forehead and given it to him. Right in front of the entire world. He and Wei Wuxian were married, so he was allowed to do that. And he wanted to.

Wei Wuxian had stepped up to the targets – innocent people in front of him, guilty ones behind. Lan Zhan watching him, Jin Guangshan watching him, Shijie and Jiang Cheng and the peacock and Jin Guangyao. He had no golden core, just euphoria and fury swirling in his blood. He had to nock his bow and do this right. There were innocent people in front of him. There was no other option.

It was enough. He was enough. He just had to keep being enough.

He’d felt like too much on the mountain, when everyone was arguing with him. He felt like too much now. To make himself feel better, he looked over at Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan, who today wore blue, a darker color than Wei Wuxian had ever seen him in. Darker than the baby blue of his forehead ribbon. Light for a Jiang, but unmistakably something that placed him with them – though the white wasn’t gone, showing in his inner layers and the embroidery down the sides of his collar. Wei Wuxian liked it. He looked … Wei Wuxian’s and himself at once. It was exactly how Wei Wuxian wanted him to look for all their days.

Lan Zhan, who despite not knowing about the flute playing advance, had immediately jumped to Wei Wuxian's defense when Jin Whoever accused him over it. Who’d said things like, “You stand before us and think we should know your name. How can you say Wei Ying is too proud?” “Wei Ying doesn’t need to carry his sword. I carry mine.” “If you think you have more capability than Wei Ying or myself, show me.”

Lan Zhan, who’d stood next to him, right next to him, and maintained a steady grip on his arm even as tears leaked out of Wei Wuxian’s eyes and he didn’t know how he was going to bear standing there and continuing to exist from one second to the next. That feeling had receded fast, fortunately, and Lan Zhan hadn’t let go of him until it was gone.

Lan Zhan, who was now looking at him.

Wei Wuxian made his heart settle, banished any remaining errant thought of leaving the group. He couldn’t be anywhere else when his husband was here. He smiled back at him.

Lan Zhan moved toward him like a river moved downhill.

As soon as he reached his side, he put a hand under his elbow, so they were walking as one.

“If you’re not careful, Lan Zhan, people will think something scandalous.” Nothing could be scandalous between them, really, but Wei Wuxian felt compelled to tease.

Lan Zhan did not rise to the bait, nor did he remove his hand. It was amazing how a few lifelong vows had emboldened him. “You did not need to play,” he said. “To use your cultivation today.”

Ah, that. “It was for the hunt, Lan Zhan.”

“The crowd hunt is a game.”

“Yes, and I did it for show, for helping Jiang Cheng secure power. He asked me to do it, we worked it all out in advance.”

“Jiang Wanyin has no call to ask that of you.”

“Lan Zhan, are you jealous? You are! You both really are two pieces of work. Jiang Cheng is my shidi and sect leader. You are my beloved husband and partner – in cultivation and all other things. I know I am not quite a whole man, but still, surely there is enough of me to spread between you." This routine was meant entirely in jest, but as was sometimes the case with jests, Wei Wuxian felt like he'd struck himself somewhere vital saying it.

Lan Zhan still seemed dismayed as well. “You are your whole self. But what of you? How much of you do you retain?”

“The whole part you have, I have,” Wei Wuxian promised, leaning closer into Lan Zhan, letting him carry his weight. “This modest, simple Wei likes how much you have of him.”

Lan Zhan hmphed. “You are not modest.” Then, with no humor: “You chose not to tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan. I didn't want you to worry about it the whole time. You can play Cleansing for me three times this evening to make up for it.”

Lan Zhan’s face took on a look of despair, and Wei Wuxian realized that was probably not a kind thing to have said. This wasn't banter.

“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” he said again, and this time he tried to say it seriously. “I needed to do this for Jiang Cheng. I’m going to have to use it sometimes. But I’m sorry I didn't tell you beforehand. I shouldn't, we ..." He stopped and grabbed Lan Zhan's hand, turning it palm-up and putting his hand overtop of it. The others would get ahead of them, but they could catch up. "I should have told you. I know. I just don’t like to make you sad."

"You are harming yourself."

"It's my way of doing good in the world, Zan Zhan." It's the only one I have left, he didn't say where someone might be around to overhear them, but he knew Lan Zhan understood it. "Would you really begrudge me of it?"

Lan Zhan's hand tightened around Wei Wuxian's own, like he was fighting a violent internal war and Wei Wuxian was his lifeline. That wasn't quite true – Wei Wuxian himself was the one putting Lan Zhan through this in the first place. There was nothing to be done about it, though. The other person's battles were unavoidable now that they occupied shared territory.

Wei Wuxian wouldn’t terribly mind letting Lan Zhan eviscerate all his enemies for him. He certainly wouldn’t mind lying down somewhere small and private and listening to Lan Zhan play sweet healing music for him. Then he would beckon him over and take his husband in his arms. He shook those thoughts out of his head. They still had work left to do here today.

"Never mind it now, Lan Zhan. We have a banquet to attend. Afterward, we can talk all night.”

“You must sleep.”

“And so must you, but if my Lan Zhan needs his husband to soothe him, that will of course take precedence." He caressed his free hand down Lan Zhan's shoulder, a gloriously intimate gesture for a public space, one he could make because they were married.

“I am always soothed, simply being with you," Lan Zhan replied – though he wasn't arguing. He said it softly, like an embrace.

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I think if you look back to our younger days, you will find that is fundamentally not the case!"

Jiang Cheng, who’d apparently hung back, called over his shoulder that they were being sickening, and Wei Wuxian hastened down the slope so he could shove him. Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan glowered at each other. Shijie smiled and scolded them.

She scolded Lan Zhan sometimes, now – not quite the way she scolded Jiang Cheng, the free and easy way of people who'd been doing this all their life (scolding and being scolded respectively) and knew exactly what it meant between them. Lan Zhan was too new for that, they were too much strangers, so when she chastised her Difu it was gently, politely, obviously affectionate. She was inoculating him to the play-biting that went back and forth between the three of them, indoctrinating him into having a elder sister who knew better. Lan Zhan, for his part, seemed baffled by both the behavior and his own unquestionable yearning for it. The first time it happened, he was very disoriented, wounded and remorseful and bewildered. She had sat with him and touched his hand and cooked some traditional Lan food for him afterward, in apology. But now he was easing further and further into it with each exposure. He never argued back – perhaps never would, since it wasn't really like him, at least with anyone who wasn't Wei Wuxian – but he was absorbing the lesson that affection could sound like chastisement when it was meant right.

Coming from the Lan sect, where affection took the form of 3000 severe and limiting and unfun rules, Wei Wuxian would have thought he would have grasped it more quickly.

When they reached Jinlintai, the peacock was waiting at the top of the steps for them. Well, for Shijie, but he bowed to the rest of them to be cordial.

Jin-furen had asked Shijie to accompany her privately back to Jinlintai, saying she would convince Jin Zixuan to come see her and apologize, and Shijie had said, “I must go with my family to the banquet, as a representative of the Jiang sect, but I would be quite pleased to speak with Jin-gongzi there.” And apparently Jin-furen had made it happen. The peacock escorted Shijie inside with sure, careful honor, even after making a complete fool of himself over her in front of everyone on the mountain.

That was the first time Wei Wuxian was willing to consider that – perhaps – the peacock might love Shijie enough to be worthy of marrying her.

The rest of them filed in and found their seats – Wei Wuxian’s with Lan Zhan on one side and Jiang Cheng on the other. Jin Guangshan toasted Jiang Cheng, and Jiang Cheng gave all their prey to the other sects. This was probably necessary, after the way people had reacted, and Wei Wuxian made himself stand up and say a few empty pleasant words. He probably came across a little stiff over having to act like what he’d done and what he’d learned were nothing. It was fine, though, would be fine for Jiang Cheng. Anyway, let them think it was nothing. Let them underestimate him – or let them know he could do far more if he wanted.

Then, Wei Wuxian turned his back for one moment – to share a quiet snicker with Nie Huaisang over something unrelated and entirely too lewd for this formal setting – and when he turned around, Jin Zixun was deeply overcommitted in harassing Lan Zhan.

He started out ostensibly harassing Lan Xichen, but Lan Zhan had gone over to speak with his brother, and Jin Zixun was targeting both of them. Wei Wuxian restrained himself for the count of three, the count of five. Maybe Lan Xichen would dissuade him. The rest of room was quiet, but Wei Wuxian’s blood was loud. What was the matter with this man? Everyone knew the Lans didn't drink by doctrine. Was this revenge for Lan Zhan's words on the mountain, an attempt to humiliate the Lan sect in retaliation? Jin Guangyao tried to talk him down, but he was toothless, had no bite. Why in the world was Jin Guangshan just sitting there watching the First Jade of Lan consume alcohol against his will instead of calling his uncouth nephew to heel?

Jin Guangshan's eyes flickered to Wei Wuxian, just long enough they couldn't avoid meeting.

He'd been making sure Wei Wuxian was watching. This was retaliation, but not against Lan Zhan. Maybe Jin Zixun was truly an idiot, a petty, small man bullying polite people thinking it would win him face – but Jin Guangshan was letting him, the same way Jiang Cheng had excused him catching thirty percent of the prey on the mountain.

If it would hurt Wei Wuxian to see his husband suffer out of Jin Zixun's rudeness, if it would weaken him to embarrass the Lans, Jin Guangshan wanted it.

Wei Wuxian was taking the cup out of Jin Zixun's hand before he was even conscious of crossing the hall. The black rising energy must have gotten him there.

Wei Wuxian drank for Lan Zhan. Wei Wuxian spoke smooth and briefly to Jin Zixun. There was fear in the man’s eyes when he looked back at him, and he stepped away. Good. Jin Guangshan was the only other person he could see, and he looked much less relaxed and haughty than he had a moment ago. Very good. A servant came up beside them.

Except it wasn't a servant. But the moment he spent sorting that out, the half second it took his humming brain to identify dust-covered red from burnt orange, was all the time she needed.

Wei Wuxian would have recognized her in short order anyway – he’d spent a desperate week in her compound and two terrible days under her hand on a mountain, so he knew her carriage, her breath, and a simple disguise wouldn't have fooled him for long. But the hood of Wen Qing’s cloak fell back when she swung Jin Zixun around and pressed her knife to his throat, saving him even momentary confusion.

///

Lan Wangji would later have to recognize he did not notice Wen Qing's approach because Wei Ying had been the center of every thread of his attention.

Lan Wangji had wanted to disappear when Jin Zixun extended him the cup of wine. It put him in a position where he had no good path. Refuse, and coldly insult the host sect. Drink, and make a mockery of himself. Both would reflect poorly on his family, of birth and marriage. Both would diminish him, which would endanger Wei Ying. He had never been good with words or people, had few informal relationships. What he had was his reputation, and he was going to damage it here, one way or another.

Shufu had asked him if he was willing to have it dragged through the mud for Wei Ying. He was. But he had intended on preserving it long enough to be able to spend it on his behalf. This humiliation would be pointless.

Then Wei Ying stood above him.

The dark, bold lines of his form stood out against the colorful backdrop of Glamour Hall. His bold actions did likewise. The decisive movement of his hand. The contraction of his throat. His possessive words. Even the cold voice he spoke them in – those soulless tones sent a shiver down Lan Zhan’s spine like they always did, but he would at some future point grapple with the truth that this time, directed as they were at the detestable Jin Zixun in Lan Wangji’s open defense, that shiver was touched by something magnetic.

Lan Wangji was watching Wei Ying, as he always was, when it happened, with a contradictory mixture of alarm and awe.

He returned to himself immediately once he understood there was an intruder. He moved to draw Bichen. Wei Ying’s hand wrapped around Lan Wangji’s wrist, staying it.

“Wen Qing,” Wei Ying said.

Wen Qing.

She looked hollowed and worn, was covered in dirt and mud like a vagabond. She did not carry her sword. Lan Wangji tried to decide if he was personally moved by her hardship. She was the one who agreed to maim Wei Ying, tore that golden light out of him with her own skill. On the one hand, Wei Ying begged her to do it, and Lan Wangji faced the same struggle every day – between what Wei Ying wished to do and what would be good and safe and well for him. On the other, if he could not forgive himself for his failures there, why should he forgive her?

Her grip was ferocious on her knife and on Jin Zixun’s collar, but the blade never brushed his neck. “Tell me where the Dafan Wens are, or I'll kill you.”

Jin Guangyao had lurched far back when Wen Qing struck. His hand had flown to his waist and frozen there. Several Jin disciples who had been standing guard had hurried in, and every guest had risen and exposed the steel of their swords, but no one had made the decision to approach yet. Wen Qing had no escape, but a confrontation would surely end Jin Zixun’s life along with her own. Lan Wangji almost wished someone would be bold enough to take the initiative – but Wei Ying spoke of Wen Qing like a friend. And if she had some argument against Jin Zixun, Lan Wangji had to consider the possibility he would agree with her.

Wen Qing did not jerk Jin Zixun or twist his clothing. She just repeated her demand. “Tell me where they are. The old women and young children, the people who have never known how to fight. The disciples you attached lure flags to so they could serve as live bait in Ganquan. My brother, Wen Ning, Wen Qionglin. Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jin Zixun pled.

“Then you’re no good to me alive,” Wen Qing said, and Jin Zixun flinched.

“Do you think I know your brother by name? Do you think I have time to remember every disciple from the Wen sect?” He tried to sneer despite his obvious pathetic terror. “Besides, I thought your breed of Wen didn't kill people.”

“Who told you that?" The fear and fury rang through in her clear voice. "Who said to you that my family doesn't kill people?"

He said nothing, but the answer was plain enough.

“You’re right, Wen Qing doesn't kill people,” Wei Ying said. “But I do.”

“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Wanyin interjected, alarmed.

“I don't mean anything by it. Only that we of course need to see this out. Wen Qing and Wen Ning did not fight against the allied sects during Sunshot – in fact, they sheltered Jiang-zongzhu and I from their own family. They saved our lives. In that respect, the cultivation owes the defeat of Wen Ruohan’s puppets to them.” And to Wei Ying himself, he was subtly reminding them. “We all know a great many Wens have been detained, but if they are being mistreated and used as live bait, if Wen Qionglin is in danger, I know Lanling Jin will be just as eager to get to the bottom of it as the rest of us." Wei Ying looked past Wen Qing, past Jin Zixun, and stared Jin Guangshan dead in the eye. Daring him to argue.

Dangerous. That was dangerous. Jin Guangshan was a man accustomed to being in power. Still, Lan Wangji admired it.

“You really brag about your use of Yin Iron?” Yao-zongzhu asked him from one side. “About hurting so many cultivators in the process on the battlefield?”

“She’s still a Wen, isn’t she?” Nie Mingjue said from the other. “Dafan Wen, Qishan Wen – it makes no difference. She did not act to stop Wen Ruohan. She is complicit.”

“She did shelter us,” Jiang Wanyin interjected, setting his shoulders nervously against his fellow sect leader. “She and Wen Ning took that risk.”

“The Dafan Wens have a long history as doctors who eschew violence,” Lan Xichen added, meeting Nie Mingjue’s gaze. “Both their skill and strong code of ethics are well-attested in the cultivation world’s histories.”

“Then you all see her hypocrisy,” Yao-zongzhu cried. “Is she threatening to perform a surgery on this Jin-gongzi?”

Luo Qingyang spoke out in reply. “If he takes her brother and treats those people like they aren’t people, why shouldn't she do the same?”

“Jin-gongzi,” Wei Ying said, sounding chillingly bored. “Why don’t you tell Wen-guniang where her brother is, before anyone in this room gets more agitated.”

Jin Zixun looked to Lan Xichen, to Jin Guangyao, to Jin Guangshan at the head of the room. No one came to his rescue. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” he snapped at Wei Wuxian. “Who are you to side with her in front of all these people?”

“I am Wei Wuxian. If I want to side with someone, who could stop me?”

Jin Zixun revealed that the relevant Wens were being held in a place called Qiongqi Path, and Wen Qing then made it clear she intended to take Jin Zixun with her as a hostage when she went there. Jin Guangshan looked like he’d eaten an unexpectedly sour plum, but seemed prepared to cut Jin Zixun loose. Wen Qing would likely be apprehended and stopped at some point in the unfolding of things – she would have few options even if she managed to get to Qiongqi Path with Jin Zixun, and nowhere to go with her brother if she secured him – but the odds were similarly poor for any hostage that went with her. Jin Zixun seemed aware of all these things and his behavior was growing increasingly distressed in response.

“Don’t worry, Jin-gongzi,” Wei Ying said, in a voice that would have deeply worried anyone. “I will escort you every step of the way.”

“As will I,” Lan Wangji intoned. He would hardly let Wei Ying go alone.

“And I,” Luo Qingyang asserted.

“And I,” Xichen said.

Lan Wangji’s head turned with the majority of the heads in the hall, including a bewildered Wen Qing’s.

“There are Lan sect disciples guarding the camp at Qiongqi Path,” Xichen explained. “I will go to ensure their safety, and to see with my own eyes what’s transpired there.”

Nie Mingue was staring at Xichen, his brow slightly furrowed. “I as well,” he said. “To ensure justice.”

“I will also come, with a group of disciples,” Jiang Wanyin declared.

“Then there is no need to drag me along on this wild hunt,” Jin Zixun wheedled. “This Wen bitch has her pick of hostages.”

“I will have a Jin,” Wen Qing said to Jin Guangshan, ignoring his waste of a nephew entirely. Jin Guangshan stared calculatingly back at her.

“I have better things to do with my time,” Jin Zixun argued back. “I won’t go along with this farce. You’ll have Luo-guniang if you want so badly to kill a member of the Jin sect.”

“Jin Zixun,” Wei Ying barked, hand straying dangerously toward Chenqing, which made Lan Wangji’s heart rise in his throat.

“I will go,” Jin Zixuan said, which stilled both of them.

“Wait,” Jin Guangshan said. He looked worried, now, for the first time. “Everyone, calm down, and we will take our time to discuss this.”

“There’s no need to be hasty,” Jin-furen simpered from beside him.

“I will discuss nothing until Wen Ning is safe in front of me,” Wen Qing replied icily.

“It makes sense. An elder sister will of course feel protective of her brother.” Jin Zixuan stepped forward, glancing over at Luo Qingyang and then at Jiang Yanli as he did so. “We will go without delay, and I will offer myself as a hostage, because I am sure Wen-guniang’s account is not wholly accurate. The truth of the situation will resolve it.”

The looks on Jin Guangyao’s and Jin Guangshan’s faces did not encourage Lan Wangji to agree with him.

Jiang Yanli had made her way silently over to Jiang Wanyin, and her hand curled around her brother’s arm. It seemed she intended to come as well.

It was this eclectic group that left the stunned remainder of the assembly at Glamour Hall and set off for Qiongqi Path. Wen Qing had no sword, so she instructed Jin Zixuan carry her on his. She vowed to kill him if someone tried to move against her, but it was obvious no one would. Despite all manner of vague political excuses, Wei Ying was going to help her recover Wen Qionglin, and the majority of the people in the band were going along to support – or at worst, keep a protective eye on – Wei Ying.

It turned out to be a very good thing they had all made the journey.

The camp was a disgrace. The guards were liars and cowards. Lan Xichen stayed back at the main encampment with the Jiang disciples, holding the Jin sect guards there at the point of Shuoyue. The rest of them proceeded down the slope and found the Wen dead – out in the open and unburied, tangled wherever they lay, half-submerged in water churned muddy by the torrential rain.

Wen Qionglin was among them. The lure flag still protruded from his corpse.

The crimes of the Jin sect were laid bare before them. Jin Zixuan looked as stunned as if someone had snatched his heart from his chest. Lan Wangji believed it was authentic. Jin Zixuan had often seemed to him self-absorbed, but not cruel. He remembered his brother’s words. The uninformed are not guilty. He wondered if he agreed with them. He wondered how anyone could be innocent after this. Luo Qingyang was speechless with fury. She threw her sect robes on the ground and stepped on them, grinding them into the muck. Nie Mingjue had left, gone back to the main encampment, trembling in unstable rage. Lan Wangji wondered what they would find there when they returned. Jiang Yanli wept silently. She had stayed out of the cesspool, but she did not look away. Jiang Wanyin’s face was drawn and pallid. He stared at the dead form of Wen Qionglin with a dull, slow horror. Wen Qing howled.

Lan Wangji was glad. He was glad for the mud. He was glad he was here in the driving rain. He was glad he could stand beside Wei Ying when he tore people apart for this. Because he would, surely. Wei Ying was going to cross many lines tonight, and Lan Wangji was glad he could go with him, without reservation or any regret.

///

Wei Wuxian looked for Lan Zhan through a blinding haze. There would be no healing music today. It was time for another kind, the kind Wei Wuxian played. This wasn’t showing off. This wasn’t a game. This was what he was here for. He found him, finally, and Lan Zhan nodded his infinitesimal agreement.

Wei Wuxian reached for that seething pool within him. It was overeager and insistent on a good day – now it surged over its borders and coursed through him. That would hurt later, as it had before, but he would deal with it then. When this was over, Lan Zhan would take care of him.

He put Chenqing to his lips and began to play.

/////

[So technically that’s the end, and this AU can go wherever you like from there. But if you’re interested in my opinion:

Wen Ning still gets zombified. Wei Wuxian probably doesn’t kill anyone he doesn’t want to kill while he’s doing it. Nie Mingjue doesn’t have a qi deviation.

With the exception of Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue, who have to go back and be Sect Leaders and sworn brothers and play reasonable with the cultivation world, everyone else flees to Lotus Pier with the Wen remnants, and it’s like a third iteration of the increasingly messed up inter-sect summer camps.

Things are a little tense – technically they’re in rebellion against the Chief Cultivator, Jin Guangshan. But he’s not just gonna … march into Lotus Pier and burn it down. What, is he Wen Ruohan? Terrible optics, Jin Guangyao keeps reminding him, especially after this whole torturing-prisoners thing.

(Plus he’s not actually sure he’d be able to, against Wei Wuxian and his amulet. He’s heard some pretty fantastic things out of the generally reasonable mouths of the Lan and Nie sect leaders. He’s not sure what would happen to him or his sect if he went up against that force and failed, and he’d rather not find out.)

Wei Wuxian is still going a little crazy from going all in with the demonic cultivation and working night and day to bring Wen Ning back, but instead of aloneish starving in a cave, he's at Lotus Pier and everyone’s around. He's taken over a pavilion and plastered it with nets and talismans. Lan Wangji doesn't make him stop or sleep if he says he really can't. He does make him listen to Cleansing a lot.

Auntie Wen gets a nice guest room. Fourth Uncle helps refine the lotus wine. A-Yuan is absolutely still a miracle, and he also gets to eat good wholesome food whenever he wants it. Maybe Jiang Cheng is rich-gege this time. Or maybe that’s Jin Zixuan. Lan Wangji can be quiet-gege. He has several amazing jiejies. This new place with all the water is delightful.

Jin Zixuan is there as a ‘hostage’. "Yes, I'm definitely here against my will," he says, making puppy eyes at Jiang Yanli. It does offer Jin Guangshan additional motivation to not attack them.

Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng probably never have to stab each other.

Jiang Cheng spends an awkward amount of time watching Wen Ning be dead-ish. He keeps spending time with him once he’s undead. He’s always liked Wen Ning, some kind of baby sibling solidarity. In the long term, it turns out he did want a gentle admiring Wen sibling to go on dates with, he just started with the wrong one. The ghost general thing does not phase him.

Meanwhile, Wen Qing and Luo Qingyang are getting along like a lakehouse on fire: swimmingly.

Maybe Nie Huaisang saunters up to Lotus Pier about a month in and says ‘I’m here to negotiate, and perhaps to spy, yes, certainly’ when really he’s there to join the others! How could they leave him out! He was at the last two summer camps, and he knows he’s not the most obviously valuable player on their sorts of teams, but he thinks his wit and jovial spirit merit him a return invitation! (“You didn’t even invite me to your wedding, Wei-xiong, Lan-er-xiong.” “Jiang Cheng said I couldn’t because it would make the Jins mad – looks like that was a waste, huh, Jiang Cheng? We should have had a rude and extravagant affair after all.”)

I couldn’t really get any of this into the fic itself because I’m not trying to write a 100k epic, it had to end, but I’m attempting to eat my cake too by putting it all here.

I’m not sure how it might unfold after that, but my preferred interpretation is that everything generally turns out better. In canon, Wei Wuxian’s disruption of the banquet at Jinlintai is extremely scorched-earth, but in this scenario where Wei Wuxian doesn’t have to be the one throwing fighting words at the Jin sect and Jin Guangshan doesn’t have an opportunity to really demand the Yin Tiger Amulet, it might at least leave the door open for an eventual resumption of friendly relations between Wei Wuxian/the Jiangs and the Jins. Jin Guangshan can throw Jin Zixun under the bus and come out clean in the prisoner debacle, and if he’s frustrated the Jiangs now have ‘custody’ of the Wens and his sect has lost its elite status and his window for removing the Yin Tiger Amulet from a weakly-positioned Wei Wuxian is closing … there’s not much he can do about it.

And if he starts to take those frustrations out on the only son left in his house and/or he gets a little (self)destructive in his attempts to recoup power, and Jin Guangyao becomes his best self by committing patricide before he gets set up to marry his sister and then quitting while he’s ahead … I don’t think anyone’s going to complain. Jin Zixuan might be a little sad. Jiang Yanli can comfort him.]

[keeroo92]

Be My Nightmare Ch4

Focus

Welcome back, everyone!!! I am so, so sorry this took so dang long. I wanted this chapter to cover so much and yet it feels like nothing happens at all, a tough one to nail down. Anyway! Hope you enjoy!

Word count - 4,415

~~~Previous Chapter~~~

__________________

---Reader---

The rest of your weekend passed uneventfully. Once V was stable, he didn’t have any further issues and you were able to catch up on tedious housework. You kept rehashing his words in your mind, dissecting every possible meaning until you could barely see straight.

After so many years of boredom, it was a delight to have the murderous artist in your care. Staying engaged had always been a struggle for you, even as a child. Most situations and people simply didn’t hold your interest. It wasn’t always easy to hide, but you managed most of the time.

You knew from experience what it cost if you failed.

Don’t think about that. There’s no point.

You sighed and set down your bag, reaching over to power up the CPU on your desk. Time to get to work. It was Monday, so your first patient would be Kelly Williams.

A classic case of bipolar disorder, the poor woman had been stuck in a major depressive episode for three months. She was so predictable you probably could have written up your notes for the session before she even arrived, but you followed protocol and checked your email as you waited for Kevin to deliver her anyway.

You minimized the browser as she shuffled in, eyes downcast and limp hair hiding her frown. You pursed your lips as she settled on the couch with a morose sigh. Kevin gave you a nod and left, clicking the door closed behind him.

“Hello, Kelly. How are you feeling today?” you began.

I’d bet my next paycheck I know her answer.

Her sad grey eyes lifted to meet yours. “Hanging in there.”

Yep. This is going to be a long hour.

You covered all the same topics, reviewing her trauma and possible causes for her illness. Diligent notes filled your notepad, but the words didn’t stick in your mind. It might be worth shifting Kelly to another doctor, considering how little you cared about her treatment. Dr. Malphas wouldn’t be happy, but he’d understand. You only wanted to make sure she was receiving the care she needed, right?

A soft knock interrupted your musings as Kevin returned. You said your goodbyes and promised your patient some menial reward, nothing important but something that would be meaningful to her.

The moment the door closed, you released a deep sigh. Honestly, there were only two or three patients here that interested you. A man with detailed visions of the future that occasionally came true, a woman who spoke a language of her own creation, and your favorite murderous artist. The rest you could deal with in your sleep.

On that note, who’s next?

Jacob Miller. The infamous serial killer who targeted women that resembled his mother. How utterly mundane.

It didn’t surprise you to realize how little the well-known madman interested you. His spree of kills thrilled and horrified the state of Utah for months until he was caught, all from a scrap of fiber he’d missed when disposing of one of his victims.

But his profile was quite basic. A broken home, absentee father and disciplinarian mother. Run of the mill patterns of animal abuse and rejection from potential sexual partners, the same fuel that brought about the likes of numerous big names. There was nothing new or unique about him.

As Kevin brought Jacob in, you tried not to let your eyes glaze over in disinterest.

“Good morning, Jacob.”

“Hello, Dr. Waras. How was your weekend?” the twisted man replied.

You pursed your lips. His manners belied a twisted core. “Nothing special, but we’re here to talk about you.”

His lips twisted into a dark grin. The man was an arrogant prick, always happy to talk about himself. Sometimes you wondered how he managed to avoid death row, but it wasn’t your problem.

“What do you want to know, Doctor?”

About you? Nothing.

“Let’s talk about your childhood a bit more,” you said instead.

---V---

The ceiling truly was a monstrosity. He’d been staring at it for hours, trying to pinpoint exactly what about its beige visage disturbed him so much, and he thought he finally had it figured out.

It was the bumps.

Little dapplings of the plaster, random and unintentional. As if whomever built the room had no idea patients would spend almost all their waking hours staring at their work. A few sections resembled faces or vague outlines of familiar objects, but the majority was an expanse of rough mediocrity.

He wanted to splash blood across it in sweeping arcs of color, break the horrible monotony with crimson streaks of life.

At this point, he’d settle for sidewalk chalk.

Someone’s coming.

The artist tuned to the hallway and sure enough, the familiar scuffle of Kevin’s feet approached. It must be time for his meeting with you and he smirked. What perfect timing.

Remember the plan.

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware,” he replied to the insistent tone rattling in his skull.

He arranged his features in a neutral expression, feigning indifference as the heavy door creaked open. Kevin’s signature shuffle came closer and the strap at his left arm loosened.

“Time for therapy,” the orderly informed him.

He resisted the urge to strangle the bumbling idiot as his arm regained its freedom. “Wonderful.”

Moments later, the artist stood beside Kevin rubbing his wrists and cracking his neck. Someday he would tear the man apart for stealing his autonomy, but not today. Today, he needed to gain an ally.

“So… Kevin. How did you end up here?”

Watery brown eyes blinked at him in confusion. The artist’s fingers twitched.

Don’t do it…

He clenched his hands. Kevin’s day would come and what a delight it would be…

“I… uh… I transferred from the hospital a few years back.”

V hummed and held his hands forward for the damned cuffs. They clicked into place as he replied, “Fascinating. Do you enjoy the work?”

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s all right, I guess. Gets weird now and then.”

He followed Kevin into the hallway, white soles squeaking on the linoleum. Nine doors identical to his own dotted the walls, useful information for later. Clever emerald eyes paid special attention to where the guard’s hand went to buzz them through to the offices.

“You’ll have to tell me some of your more interesting stories sometime,” he replied with a convincing twist of his lips. Child’s play.

Kevin grunted and gestured forward, inviting V to lead the way. “We’ll see.”

The thick door to your office already stood open, welcoming him in like an honored guest. He smirked as you nodded at Kevin and dutifully cooperated as the man latched him to the wall. You looked lovely, as you always did. Pen tucked behind your ear, a hint of excitement in your eyes.

“Thanks, Kevin. See you in an hour,” you said, dismissing the man.

And then there were two…

Stay focused. You’ll need your wits for what’s to come.

You offered him a smile as the door clicked shut. He mirrored it with ease.

“So, V. How are you feeling after last week? I haven’t seen you since your episode.”

He hummed and leaned back, settling his weight onto the couch. It was impossible not to indulge his aching body in the soft cushions after the maddening position he’d been stuck in all day.

“Truthfully, I’m bored. One can only stare at the same patch of ceiling for so long before it grows tedious.”

You tapped your pen against pursed lips. How lovely you’d look in red…

Focus.

“I can definitely understand that. I may be able to help, if you’re interested,” you replied.

There was no hiding the curiosity in his eyes, nor did he bother trying. You were too smart for that. “Do tell.”

“I can give you an assessment, and if it goes well you might be cleared to be left unrestrained. All you have to do is answer a few questions and be honest.”

He smirked. How adorable. “I’m ready when you are.”

You picked up a clipboard and read the first question aloud. “You find a lost young boy one day, and he appears to have stolen property. Would you A, hug and reassure him; B, take the property by force and leave him there as punishment; C, pick his pocket and leave him to his fate; or D, lead him home and call the authorities?”

He almost laughed. The entire basis of the question was absurd; what action he took depended on what the stolen property was. Why bother taking the item if it wasn’t something that appealed to him? Not to mention the lack of a ‘keep walking’ option.

“A,” he said. You made a note and continued.

None of the following questions were any better, all based on faulty logic or lacking the detail needed to truly make a decision. He chose his answers based on what he imagined his mother would do, using her kindness and empathy as a model for normal behavior. With each response, you marked your sheet and nodded approvingly.

“Okay, last question. Your house is on fire. What do you save on your way out? A, your little brother; B, your prized collection of baseball cards; C, whatever clothing you can carry; or D, the family photo album? Assume that anything not chosen is destroyed.”

For heaven’s sakes, only an imbecile would fail this.

“A, of course.”

You made a final mark and your brows furrowed as you tallied his answers. He occupied himself with images of you with a blade to Kevin’s flabby throat, grinning as you slashed it open. Blood would stain every inch of your clothing; never would you look so beautiful.

“Interesting… According to this, you shouldn’t even be here, let alone in high secure,” you began. Suspicion bloomed in your gaze as you met his eyes. “You weren’t being truthful, were you?”

No shit, Sherlock!

He gritted his teeth to keep from shouting at Griffon, searching for the right words. How had he missed this, how could he be so foolish as to expect you to believe a good result?

Take it again. As many times as it takes.

He had to take it another three times before you surrendered with a deep sigh. Not once did his answers change.

“I’ll have to clear it with Dr. Malphas, but I can’t justify stopping you.”

He smirked. Victory was sweet, indeed. Even this tiny increase to his freedom would do wonders for his plans, not to mention he’d no longer need to bother Kevin for a bathroom trip to indulge himself. It didn’t matter that there was a camera in his room, watching his every move. He knew where it was, it would be easy enough to hide his activities from its view.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he said. A tiny smile graced your lips at his gratitude. Progress.

“Just doing my job. Now, let’s get back on track. Do you remember anything from last week?”

He brought his legs onto the couch, drawing his knees to his chin as was his preference. “Fragments.”

Ink marked his answer on your notepad and he almost growled in jealousy. His fingers itched to create, to design and defile. It took all his will power to remain seated and keep his hands from reaching for the pen. The sketches last week had left him needy and craving more time to hone his craft, the pull growing stronger with every reminder.

“Would you care to elaborate?” you asked.

He didn’t bother to consider the ramifications as he opened his mouth. The need was too strong. “I’ll tell you about it if you give me a pen and paper.”

You idiot! Now you appear weak, willing to succumb to her will if she only throws you a treat. What are you, a dog?!

He flinched. Vergil had a point; he should have been more careful. Somehow, he needed to shift the scales back in his favor, or at least back to equality. To let this stand would be unacceptable. But how?

The rumble of an opening drawer stole his attention as you withdrew the same hunk of charcoal he used before. A clipboard with several sheets of fresh paper occupied your other hand and his eyes glittered in excitement as you handed them over. He licked his lips and quivered in anticipation, considering his options and refining several ideas.

“May I make a request?”

His gaze shot to yours. A request? So, you wanted to see more of his work. It fed his ego and he nearly purred at the image of you begging him to draw you, dripping in viscous blood after your first kill.

“I cannot stop you,” he said. It wouldn’t do to betray his thoughts, not yet. Caution was a worthy ally.

“Can you draw Griffon, or Vergil? I’m curious what they look like,” you replied.

Don’t you dare!

Speak for yourself, asshat! You do your thing, Van Gogh.

Lips twisting in amusement, he nodded and drew the first line. Griffon was always interesting to draw, though he still hadn’t managed to get his eyes right. Something about the triple-iris was irritatingly difficult to capture. Not to mention how much he hated feathers.

Still. An enjoyable challenge.

“So, tell me about last week.”

Now’s your chance. Do not waste it.

The artist hummed in acknowledgement, eyes locked on his work. He kept his hand elevated so as not to smudge the charcoal unintentionally, his fingers swiping across the pristine page to leave shadowy streaks behind. But how to utilize this opportunity? How best to regain his control of the situation?

Perhaps a quid pro quo?

He smirked and lifted his eyes. You were staring at him. “I seem to be having trouble remembering. Maybe you can jog my memory?”

You pursed your lips and narrowed your eyes. He didn’t bother trying to hide his Cheshire-like glee. He had you, how could you possibly refuse him?

“What, exactly, are you suggesting?”

He leaned back, casually adding another series of marks to his artwork as if your suspicion meant nothing to him, as if he didn’t care if you went along with his ideas. “I’m suggesting, Doctor, that you provide me with incentive to share.”

“Such as…?”

“For now? Blue.”

You stared at him as if he were an alien. “You want… blue?”

“I cannot do Griffon justice without the proper color,” he replied with a teasing smirk.

An easy trade, a small token to get you used to the idea. What harm could there be in allowing him more colors to use in your own office? It was a simple request, one not worth refusing and as you reached for your drawer, he congratulated himself for his cleverness.

“I don’t think I have any blue pens or anything, let’s see…”

“I’ll make do with whatever you have available,” he replied as you rummaged.

The drawer looked moderately chaotic, as if you put some effort into keeping it organized but you didn’t care enough to maintain it. Post its and paperclips were strewn about, pens and highlighters shoved in the corner. A thumb drive resided amongst a collection of pins.

A single flash of sapphire drew his gaze. Your delicious fingertips hesitated at the item, but you pulled it out a moment later as nothing else offered itself up. He almost laughed as you held it out to him.

This will be interesting to work with.

A makeup compact, full of blue powder. The color was dark and rich, serendipitously close to the exact shade of the demonic bird.

“This is all I’ve got,” you murmured.

The artist schooled his features into a look of disappointment, playing down his excitement as he accepted the small container. “It will suffice.”

He tested the substance on a fresh sheet of paper, swiping it across with the tip of his thumb. Discerning emerald eyes judged the depth of the hue, analyzing how much he’d need to achieve the proper coloration. If he layered it with the charcoal, it might just work.

You cleared your throat as he began, pen held at the ready for him to speak. That’s right, he was expected to describe last week in exchange. He’d nearly forgotten. Visions ricocheted in his mind, echoes of the night that became his ruin. He didn’t remember everything, but there was enough to recognize the memory. Enough to relive the delightful experience.

But it wouldn’t do to share every detail with you. He chose his words with care, selecting a few key details and adding meaningless drivel for good measure. The day may come when he recounted every moment, but you were nowhere near ready.

“I remember red, a great deal of it. Someone was screaming, but I don’t recall why. Yellow walls and a rhododendron.”

He paused to let you note his every word, swirling blue across the black outline of feathers. The sparkles were a bit much, but he couldn’t do anything to fix that. By the time the scratching of your pen ceased, he was almost finished.

“That sounds intense. Did it feel like a dream or more like a memory?”

He paused, wondering how far he could press you today. It was worth a try; even if you refused it would help him regain a position of strength.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any purple, would you?”

Your eyes sparkled. A slight twist of your pink lips was all the confirmation he needed that you knew what he was up to and you didn’t even glance at your desk before you responded.

“I’m afraid not.”

Despite the setback, he couldn’t help but smirk. There was something odd about you, and every time he interacted with you it became clearer. You got the same amusement from the mental battle as he did, the same thrill every time you scored a point. The same rush of fascination and curiosity.

You were more than just another sheep.

All he needed to do was draw out the wolf.

“That’s a shame, Y/N,” he purred. Your chair squeaked as you shifted.

A soft knock on the door signaled the end of your hour with him. He sighed and handed you the clipboard, his drawing of Griffon’s proud flight on full display. Your eyes widened, a slight inhale escaping your lips that would fuel his fantasies for days to come.

“So that’s Griffon?”

He nodded as the door opened and Kevin approached, handing you the makeup and charcoal. It pained him to surrender the supplies, but this way you didn’t have to ask. A subtle difference, but one that reinforced his autonomy instead of your control over his life.

But there was one last gesture he wanted to make.

The moment Kevin freed his hands, he extended one to you with a soft smirk. The orderly’s meaty fist wrapped around his wrist and he didn’t fight back, content to wait for your response.

Suspicion tinted your eyes, mixing with interest as he parted his lips.

“I wanted to thank you, Doctor. I look forward to sleeping unrestrained tonight.”

You shared a glance with the orderly and he let go. The urge to strangle the man for his interference was powerful, but he ignored it. In due time, the man would pay. For now, let him imagine he had won. Far more interesting was your reaction.

You looked startled, but not fearful. More intrigued than anything else.

Perfect.

The same hand he licked the first time he met you clasped his own, shaking it in a gesture of mutual respect. You didn’t need to know his true goal; to feel your skin and memorize its texture. The knowledge would add depth to his fantasies and he focused on the smooth warmth, hungry for every detail he could glean from such brief contact.

The hands of one who works indoors…

He brushed his index finger across your wrist as you pulled back, a more intimate touch not immediately apparent to the accursed third party watching his every move. The barest twitch of your fingers revealed your awareness of his boldness, but you didn’t say a word. Another victory, then.

“Until tomorrow,” he murmured.

---Reader---

The heavy door clicked shut and you released a deep breath. Your heart was pounding, mind consumed with the artist’s simple caress. Those same hands that were capable of such artistry had taken at least three lives; you couldn’t afford to forget how dangerous he was. The mind games, the trickery and bargaining, none of it mattered if you lost your focus.

What is my focus?

You leaned back and pursed your lips. In broad terms, your goal with other patients was to help them reach a point where their ability to function in normal society was no longer impaired. If they weren’t capable of that much, you were meant to guide them to stability so they could at least have appropriate quality of life.

To envision V in normal society was close to impossible. You couldn’t picture him in a suit, sitting at a cubicle like ordinary folks. Imagining him on a commute was anathema; with a family, unthinkable. The man was an outlier and no amount of treatment would change that.

So how can I help him?

You growled in frustration and rubbed your eyes. The flesh he touched still tingled, the nerves jangling with odd enthusiasm. It made no sense; the man was a murderer and here you sat like a schoolgirl with her first crush. Absurdity. You were smarter than this, better than this.

This isn’t a comic book or some crappy romance novel. Life doesn’t work that way. He was trying to manipulate me and I cannot let him win.

You glanced at the drawing of Griffon, marveling at the unearthly beauty of the creature’s forked beak and massive legs. A demonic bird, the hallucination of a crazed murderer, and you found it beautiful. What an incredible mind he had, to come up with such a thing.

How sad to imagine all the things he could have done with that mind, instead of slaughter. He could have written the next Lord of the Rings, painted the next Sistine Chapel. Manifested something profound instead of destroying the lives of a young family.

Maybe he still can. If I can help him, who knows what he’ll create?

A subdued knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. Was it already noon? Time flew right by you, more proof of the ridiculousness surrounding you. With a final sigh you grabbed your purse and locked your computer, heading to join Kotomi for lunch.

“Hey Y/N! How was your weekend?” she asked as you entered the hallway.

Charlie buzzed you through the security door; Ben must have called out sick. “Pretty boring, to be honest. How about you?”

Her eyes sparkled as she described a trip to the museum with her mother, skimming over any interesting parts like she always did. The elder Ishida was legendary in her hatred of psychiatry, and every time she and Kotomi got together she had a new story of her mother’s lectures. You grinned as you reached for the button to call the elevator, all too aware of her heels.

“So, did she disown you for working here yet?”

“Y/N! Not so loud! Wait, what’s that on your wrist?”

You hadn’t noticed before, but a streak of charcoal marked where the artist touched you. It was just dark enough to draw attention and you rubbed it against your pants, grateful you wore black today.  A pale grey outline remained no matter how hard you tried and you huffed in annoyance.

“It’s charcoal,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. “The artist?”

You nodded and stepped forward as the elevator arrived. Her heels clicked to join you as she crossed her arms and gave you an intense stare.

“You let him touch you? Have you lost your mind?!”

Did he do it on purpose? Was this why he wanted to shake my hand?

Lithe fingers grasped your shoulders as almond shaped eyes met yours. Her concern was sweet and you wished you had the right words to reassure her.

“Y/N, I’m worried about you. I know how you get with these people; you need to be extra careful with him. I’ve heard rumors, he sounds really dangerous,” she insisted.

You managed a small smile as a ding announced the elevator passing the second floor. There was no change in its motion and you licked your lips, searching for the right words. Of course he was dangerous; you weren’t an idiot, you knew that. And yes, maybe you shouldn’t have let him touch you, but Kevin was right there and you couldn’t let him have control by refusing.

“Look. I know, okay? I know what he’s capable of. I read the police report. But I have to take a few risks to help him, he’s too smart for the standard approach. It’s my job to work with the dangerous ones. I know what I’m doing.”

Her eyes softened and she dropped her arms, though she still looked troubled. The second ding marked your arrival at ground level and you stepped off in silence, wondering what else you could say to ease her concern.

“Do you want me to sit in on your sessions? Maybe I can help somehow,” Kotomi offered.

How did she do that? How did she make herself seem so genuine? Was she actually that genuine or was it all an act? It was impossible to say for sure, but you had no reason to doubt her sincerity. Her offer meant all the more considering her aversion to violent offenders, her fear of being around the most twisted minds.

You smiled at Lenny as he buzzed the two of you into the administrative wing. The echoes of Kotomi’s steps rattled through the air as you neared the staff lounge.

“That’s really nice of you to offer, but I’ll be alright. I promise to be careful,” you said.

The remaining charcoal on your wrist drew your eyes as you opened the door. You couldn’t deny the rush his touch gave you, despite the alarm bells that rang in your head. Maybe Kotomi had a point, maybe you were being reckless. No other patient had ever touched you so intimately, with or without permission. Was this response normal?

Did it matter?

~~~Next Chapter~~~

[pixieungerstories]

Darkness - 5

Brie gasped as she stepped into the foyer.  It was a huge, grand entrance full of dark wood paneling, sweeping arches and an impressive staircase leading upstairs with huge cut glass windows letting the sunlight in.

It was also filthy.  There was footprints in the dusk leading up the stairs, but the house looked abandoned.  Brie hesitated.  It looked like the kind of place serial killers brought their victims.  Somewhere out in the country where no one would hear them scream.

Mr Lynn coughed.  “Yes, I know.  I keep encouraging him to hire a housekeeper as well.  But he lives alone in a small suite in the northwest corner of the house and doesn’t really care about the rest. Come on.”  He headed up the stairs but stopped a moment later when he realized she hadn’t moved.  “What is it?”

Brie swallowed, then coughed at the dust.  “I… just…  it is really creepy, Mr Lynn.”

He sighed and hung his head.  “I understand completely.  I’ll let Mr Herne know you aren’t coming.”

“I could wait here.  He could come meet me here.” Brie offered.

Mr Lynn shrugged, “I’ll go ask, but he feels safest in his own rooms.”

Brie nodded slowly, “So do I.”

He didn’t say anything.  He just waited patiently.  Brie took a deep breath and headed up the stairs.  She stayed a couple of steps behind Mr Lynn in case she needed to make a run for it. Up the stairs, down a long hall and into a brightly lit sitting room where the lead glass windows were floor to crown molding in the corner room with 15 foot ceilings.  The lawyer waved Brie to sit on the sectional in the corner.  It was thick with dust, so she stood and looked out the window.

He left via the huge oak pocket doors.  Unlocking the latch then squeezing through and latching it behind himself.  Brie was vaguely aware of voices on the other side as she considered the woodwork around the windows.

------

Gobynn startled as he found his master still sitting by the fire.  “I thought you were going to look human for this,” he hissed.

“I can’t.  I haven’t hidden my form in more than a century.  I can’t do it anymore.”

Goblynn stared at him.  He know what it cost Darkness to admit that.

“Send her away.  Tell her I changed my mind.”

“Lord, I don’t wish to question you, but-”

“Then don’t.  Send her away.  I will speak to her later.”

Goblynn didn’t think he would be able to talk Brie into entering the house a second time.  He turned and unlocked the pocket doors and stepped out nervously.  She turned to face him.  He smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat.  “Mr Herne… That is… Mr Herne has… he is… not able to see you at this time.”

Brie frowned and stretched up to try to see over the lawyer’s head.  She raised her voice a little and called out, “Did you want to talk to me anyway?”

Mr Lynn startled at that, “What do you mean?  I told you he couldn’t see you just now.”

“Yeah, I got that.  I was wondering if Mr Herne wanted to talk to me through the door.  Without seeing me, I mean.”

From behind him, Darkness’s voice rumbled, “I want to know if you are well after… what happened.”

“I’m fine.” Brie assured him.  “The man who drugged me won’t be back.  I don’t know who came after him, but they weren’t interested in me, so I wouldn’t think they will be back.”

Darkness rumbled something unintelligible. 

“I’m sorry?” Brie said.  “I didn’t quite get that.”

“I understand you … were injured.”

“I uh… I was drugged.  That wore off by the next morning.  I had… some cuts that needed stitches.  There will be some scarring, but not where-”  she froze and blushed the forced herself to continue, “not where anyone will see.”

“When I hired you and brought you here that was not a danger I could foresee.”

Brie replied, “It isn’t really the kind of thing anyone plans for.  I mean, I know it happens, but everyone thinks it happens to someone else.”  She thought for a few moments then added, “Thank you for the time off.  I promise this will not affect my ability to do the job.”

“Your ability to work is not what I am concerned about.”

“What happened to me will not put you in danger,” she assured him.

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a deep rumbling laugh.  “You are right, it won’t.   I am worried about the danger for you.  Being out after dark on your own.”

Brie shrugged, “That is a danger anywhere.  I can’t spend my life-” she stopped before she said ‘hiding in my bedroom’ and tactfully changed it to “worrying about the one in a million long shots.”

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“Yes. You have a beautiful property, Mr Herne.”

There was a long enough pause that Brie wondered again about the name.

Then the reply came, “Not yet, but you are getting closer, Ms Moreno.  Good day.”

There was something odd about the way the footsteps sounded as he walked away from the pocket doors.  Brie let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.  Mr Lynn hustled her out of the house.  As he was locking the door he muttered, “Well that was more tactful than I could have hoped.”

Brie was offended.  “I do have some manners, Mr Lynn.”

“You weren’t the one I was worried about.  Mr Herne has spent a very long time in self isolation.  He doesn’t  always remember how to behave around human beings.”  Then he frowned at her, “If you need to take the rest of the day off after that, I completely understand.”

“I still have half the lawn to mow.  I’m not going to start slacking off now.”

“Sometimes people have a headache or feel ill after meeting Mr Herne.”

Brie snorted, “Given the amount of dust in the house, I can see that.”  Mr Lynn followed her back to the tractor.  Since he was there she asked, “I never see any grocery deliveries, Mr Lynn.”

“They are timed for after you are done for the day.”

“Oh.  Only, you could email me a list and I could pick things up while I’m in town.  Maybe save you some delivery fees.” Brie offered.

“I will keep that in mind,” and with that the little lawyer left.

It was a fight to finish mowing the lawn.  Mr Lynn was right.  Her head hurt and where she previously had no trouble ignoring the house, now it felt like it was sucking at her eyes.  Brie had a hard time focusing on her work.  Once the lawn was mowed and the bags were emptied for the final time, she drove the tractor back to her cottage and parked it in the garage.  It was still a little early to go to the pub to eat.

She wasn’t happy with that idea.  Objectively, she knew it was fine and that if she didn’t get back into her life she would end up a shut in as well.

 -------

She took her car.  She got groceries to cook for herself and came home without visiting the pub.  It was fine.  She made spag bol and salad. The recipe was more than she needed, so she packed up half and messaged Mr Lynn that she would leave it on the step for Mr Herne.  If he wanted some.  

And she did.

By the time she walked to the house, dropped off dinner and walked back to her cottage, she had four messages from Mr Lynn telling her not to.  She thought about that then replied.

--Too late. I already dropped it off.  He can ignore it . I’ll pick up the dishes tomorrow.--

She ate her meal with a glass of wine, sitting on the little back deck watching the sun go down.

Darkness looked at the meal on his table.  He didn’t cook.  He didn’t usually eat cooked food.  Or vegetables.  Or… whatever this was.  He frowned then looked at the imp who had brought it in to him.

The imp cowered.

“Why would she bring me this?” he demanded.

The imp flinched.  “Should I throw it away, Master?” it grovelled.

Darkness sniffed the plate before him.  “It can stay.”

It was not the offerings of old.  It did not taste of pain or fear or humans trying -and failing- to manipulate him to their own ends.  It was peasant food.  It tasted like empathy.  That was not a flavour he had experienced before.  The plate was not fine china.  The flatware was not silver.  The food itself had been packaged in some sort of plastic container.  By all rights, he should reject it as far too shabby of an offering.  If it had tasted like pity, he would have.

But it tasted empathy.

And he wondered what Goblynn had told her to make her think they had anything in common.

[aloice-talks-about-games]

The Hoperai Salt Masterpost, OR: Hope deserved better in Lightning Returns.txt

I’m not going to put this under the Hoperai tag because yes, it is ship salt... I am aware that Hope has his own flaws and problems as well in LR (that warrants a whole other masterpost by itself) so the salt doesn’t just go to Lightning, but I’m going to focus on Lightning in this post. 

Thesis: Hoperai is a great ship that can, under certain circumstances, work out (and work out beautifully!) in the post-LR new world, but it has a lot of issues within Lightning Returns and I highly, highly doubt that Lightning reciprocated Hope’s feelings within LR, or even treated him well as a friend, partner or surrogate family member.

I’m going to address this in three and a half parts, with the parts discussing  Lightning’s knowledge, Lightning’s heart/compassion, Lightning’s plans and possible dev intentions respectively.

Part One. Lightning’s Knowledge

Argument: Lightning doesn’t show a lot of care RE: Hope’s well-being in Lightning Returns because she couldn’t tell he was in a lot of trouble.

Answer: uhhhhh, about that.

In the beginning of LR, Hope shows confusion about who he is or why he’s at the Ark, saying:

Of course Lightning is also a little dazed at this point since she also just woke up, but at least she knows her terms with Bhunivelze, while Hope doesn’t seem to be aware of his. She doesn’t think or comment much about Hope’s confusion (or his suddenly-child-again-form, or why he, as the most human-oriented of the entire XIII cast who was the only cast member in XIII-2 to not be granted time travel by Etro, is suddenly serving God) and simply goes on as if it’s normal. Perhaps this is because she doesn’t yet have reason to think that Bhunivelze means ill towards the two of them (she did serve Etro willingly, after all) - so let’s give her the benefit of the doubt for this one.

She does learn about what actually happened to the adult Hope she knew from Vanille (mysteriously disappeared from the world 169 years ago before ending up in his current situation with no memories of anything), but makes no comments about it.

She also has this conversation with Snow regarding how odd it is that Hope is barred from leaving the Ark to do things such as talking to Snow (which, from the tone of this conversation, both Snow and Hope would enjoy), but doesn’t comment on it.

She also makes no comments about this.

She acknowledges and feels hurt that he has forgotten, but doesn’t think about why that may have happened.

Here she learns that even Hope’s colleagues have no idea what happened despite wanting him back, but no comments either.

She also doesn’t say anything when he blatantly talks about dying.

She also doesn’t seem to catch on the meaning of this (”It’s really nearing the end now. Soon it will be over.”) being Hope’s existence will also be over.

Sure, we can argue that Lightning is just not the most astute of people and these hints all flew over her head. But then there’s the nail on the coffin:

If she didn’t know before, Lumina’s forced her to know now - that Hope is wrong somehow and that to achieve her goals might mean turning on him and killing him. Which, of course, is fine if Hope is a fake - but where is the real Hope then, the one she knew she cared for and could trust, and shouldn’t she care about saving him, since she puts so much effort into saving everyone else and tries to save even Caius?

Or, alternatively, if she believes the real Hope is dead/gone, shouldn’t she show some sign of grief or disappointment over it?

This is the first and only time in LR Lightning explicitly discusses the problems with Hope before Hope’s final farewell; she does not talk about (her thoughts on) him to anyone otherwise.

Part II. Lightning’s Heart/Compassion

That brings us to our second point.

Argument: Lightning’s a fine companion to Hope during LR. If she was cold to him, it’s because her heart (Lumina) was missing, so you can’t fault her for that, and she’s cold towards everyone, really, it’s just a part of her character.

Answer: uhhhhh, about that.

Let’s put aside her lack of reaction towards all the alarming stuff covered in Part I for now (especially the part where her heart, Lumina, seems particularly sardonic in tone while grilling her about the possibility of killing Hope). Let’s just look at the moments when Lightning showed she was perfectly capable of compassion in LR, even to street NPCs.

To the boy playing Serah’s theme (I think) in Yusnaan, she makes a remark that shows caring for Snow:

She shows empathy regarding the ghosts of the murdered women in Luxerion, wishing to save them despite knowing she had no powers over the dead:

She is quite unhappy about that one fireworks guy’s story in Yusnaan:

We know how emotional she got in person with Snow:

She understands Luka’s pain about crying solely for others:

She helps the girl who claims that she used to be a chocobo despite agreeing that it’s logically absurd:

She quite obviously cares for Sazh and Dajh:

And so on and so forth (too many screenshots.)

In short, Lightning’s perfectly capable of caring and worrying for others, especially her friends and allies. She even muses about love and dependence, but those thoughts are purely introspective, making no mentions of Hope even though he could fit right into them:

She explicitly wonders if she’s unable to love. She likely comes around to the idea by the end - I’m in no way against Hoperai post LR, I’ve written fics on it - but here, she isn’t there yet, and her thoughts don’t even drift to Hope when she thinks about her feelings (even though mutual dependence is like, basically the nature of her relationship with Hope in LR).

Now, her lack of action or commentary regarding Hope’s impending problems with Bhunivelze notwithstanding, (and Hope deliberately trying to mislead her into not trusting him notwithstanding - that still doesn’t explain why she wasn’t more upset and proactive with either him or the “real” Hope, though,) she also snaps at Hope a whole lot. Of course Hope goes overboard with protectiveness and I’ve also heard that some of it is due to the translation from Japanese to English, but just look at this.

She isn’t very subtle when she lies to him about trusting him, even though she was trying to keep her agenda secret:

She basically blows up on him when he circumvents a lot in his explanation of where Serah might have gone, and doesn’t say anything even after in response he makes the extremely morbid promise to look for Serah and reunite the sisters after his own death:

And, of course, even though Hope sounds absolutely dejected with this line, no investigations or words of comfort either:

Part III. Lightning’s Plan

Argument: Lightning did all of that above because it didn’t matter, she had a plan and she saved him in the end.

Answer: I don’t like thinking of “murder” as a plan.

Lightning makes a vague mention of a “last resort” when talking to Lumina. The problem... this occurs right before the conversation regarding killing Hope, which then means

1) Her “last resort” involves willingly killing Hope (which really does not show her care for his well-being) OR

2) She knows Hope’s going to end up needing to be saved somehow (in which case she’s... basically waiting for the end to happen, and risking the success of saving him in the process) OR

3) This is strictly talking about her ability to fight Bhunivelze and has nothing to do with Hope (which also doesn’t help our case RE: caring about Hope).

I’m inclined to think she didn’t really have much of a plan, going by how shocked she seemed to be at their final conversation:

She straight up admits that she’s not been the greatest with him even just as a friend and partner.

... And even when she goes to fight Bhuni it seems to be more about Serah and the world than about Hope.

And this is not even going into how Lightning feels about Bhuni’s more lewd words to her in JPN, which she definitely knows to have come from Hope because she tells Bhuni that his downfall is due to having a human’s heart within him...

Part III.1/2 Possible Dev Intentions

Now, perhaps a lot of these happened the way they did because the devs 1) didn’t want Hoperai to become “too” canon (due to pedophilia reasons and to keep Lightning open for fandom to ship her with others) or 2) wanted to keep Hope’s problems mostly a surprise until the end. However, I’d argue that you can easily still do 1) while showing Lightning to care about him even just as a friend (asking him if he has any theories of his own on why he ended up the way he did at the beginning, for example; Hope doesn’t even have to answer correctly, but just showing her asking shows that she cares). As for 2)... I’m really upset with the Lumina scene LOL if they’re going to be so explicit about Lightning having to (at least try to) kill Hope, then why don’t they give us a single throwaway line where either Lightning OR Lumina considers some kind of alternative? They really don’t talk about saving him at all before they actually do save him, while everyone else (Sazh, Snow, Vanille, Noel) etc all have a lead up section where Lightning contemplates how she used to know them and how they may have been affected by everything that’s happened. As LR was made by the devs, we skipped any potential thoughts Lightning could have had regarding Hope’s adult life, his feelings of abandonment, and extremely difficult leadership for hundreds of years. It would have been so interesting to read. But we didn’t get any of that - and nothing explicitly romantic from Lightning, either. So anything between them has to fill in those gaps on their own - and they have to do it in the new world, after that train arrives, and after they see each other again. Within LR Lightning and Hope are not romantically linked, but that should not stop anyone from exploring their romantic future together in the new world they both fought so hard to create, especially when it’s filled with so much potential for soul-searching, for honesty, for understanding, and for happiness.

[showmeaheroarchive]

  TW: depression, self harm, suicidal thoughts, etc.

thor has a tough time of things after the snap

          he sleeps.

          it’s all he can bring himself to do. he can’t bear to see the others, to read the accusations in their eyes. this is his fault. entirely his fault. he’d had thanos. he could have stopped him, he could have, but he had failed. he had been thinking only of his revenge, and now the universe was deprived of half its life. so many of their friends… gone.

          he wishes he was gone, too.

          it’s unfair that he should have been spared. there is nothing left for him. his home is destroyed, devoured by primordial fire. his family — dead. all of them. and his friends, too. he is the king of nothing. he’s not sure that he even deserves to wear that title.

          look at you. the mighty thor, loki hisses in his ear. with all your strength. what good does it do you now?

          loki is gone, and yet he remains. he never leaves. thor doesn’t want him to go. loki tells him things he already knows: he is a failure. everything that’s happened is his fault, his death included. you were supposed to protect me, he says quietly one night. thor does not have to look at him to know that he has taken the form of his younger self, the shy little boy who’d kept to his books and his magic. i was your baby brother. you were supposed to keep me safe. why didn’t you?

          “i tried,” he replies, and tears spring to his eyes. “loki, i tried.”

          yes, says loki, and he’s older now. colder. thor looks at him and regrets it; there is naught but mockery in his brother’s gaze. you would have protected me by slaughtering the jötnar. you promised me that, didn’t you? when we were children? imagine what i felt when i learned the truth.

          “i would not have hurt you. you know that.”

          did i? he wants to reach out to loki, wants to embrace him. but loki is only in his mind. these are merely the thoughts that have tormented thor for years. what did i know, save that i was nothing compared to you in our father’s eyes? what did i know, thor? i knew that i was the monster you would have slain without remorse, the monster that you were exiled for trying to exterminate.

          “you were my brother.”

          it was a lie. the word is venom on his tongue. thor flinches. you deluded yourself into believing that we were equals. we never were. yet… i loved you more dearly than anyone and you took my love for granted.

          “that is the true lie, brother.” but is it? is it? he’d been selfish and arrogant, and oblivious to others. he’d thought he’d treated loki kindly, but had he been wrong? he doesn’t know. all he knows is that he’d been helpless to save him from his madness. he knows that loki had felt as though he had nothing to live for, that he’d let go. he knows that it’s his fault, all of it. he couldn’t help him. he couldn’t —

          “you deserve this guilt, brother.”

          loki says nothing more. thor weeps.

          “who are you talking to?” asks bruce, appearing in the doorway with a cup of tea.

          “loki.”

          “thor…” his voice is impossibly gentle, the way one speaks to a child who’s had a bad dream. “loki isn’t here. is he?”

          thor points vaguely to bruce’s left. loki is standing there, his lips curled into a smirk. “he never leaves.”

          he feels the bed dip as bruce sits down at the end. “you’re spending too much time alone. we’re worried about you.” bruce leans over to place the cup on the nightstand. “drink that. it’ll make you feel better.” thor burrows deeper into his blankets. “thor, you haven’t come out in a week. you can’t stay in here forever.”

          “your concern is appreciated, yet unnecessary.”

          you should listen to him, says loki softly. you know this is unhealthy, brother. you know that i’m only in your head. you could get rid of me, if you so chose.

          “i don’t want you to go,” thor whispers.

          “then i’ll stay,” says bruce. thor doesn’t tell him that he was speaking to loki. he doesn’t want to worry his friend. and, perhaps, it is a comfort to him when bruce lays down by his side and pulls him close.

          he feels as though he has aged a thousand years in the course of a single season. asgardians can live for millenia. time means little to them. a decade can pass and it will seem so brief, so fleeting.

          in the span of six years upon midgard, he has lost his mother, his father, his brother, his home, his hammer, his people, his friends…

          he has closed his eyes for but a second, and reopened them to find his entire world changed.

          “mother told me it was my job to look after him. he was so much smaller, so much more fragile than i. he tired easily. i suppose now it makes sense, why he was so prone to overheating in the summer days.”

          “thor…” bruce shakes his head. “i know what you’re doing. you’re wrong. what happened to loki, everything he did… none of it is your fault.”

          “he was my brother. i was supposed to protect him.”

          thor… his name comes from two places: from his right, where bruce is perched on the edge of the bed; and from the doorway, where loki stands with his back to thor. it is to loki that thor looks, and bruce follows his gaze with undisguised concern. “is somebody there?” he asks softly.

          you know he’s right, says loki. his shoulders are trembling. why will you not let me go? why do you torment yourself?

          bruce moves to put himself between thor and the vision of his brother. “there’s nobody there, thor. it’s just you and me, alright? god, you’ve… you’ve got to get out of this room.”

          thor curls up onto his side and says nothing. bruce sighs.

          he cries out in his sleep. he always has, for as long as thor can remember. his brother has always been haunted in the night by monsters he cannot often recall in the waking hours. thor knows what mama has told him. he is meant to look after loki. it is thor’s job to keep him safe. and so it is thor who shakes his brother awake and curls up at his side, clutching his trembling body to his chest. loki is always so cold.

          “it was just a dream,” he says, and loki burrows closer. “nothing is going to hurt you, brother. not while i’m here.”

          “i know,” murmurs loki, but thor can hear the trepidation in his voice. he is lying. loki is usually lying, but it hurts to hear it, all the same.

          “do you?”

          “i dreamt of the frost giants,” his brother whispers. “they were here, in asgard, and they wanted to steal me away.”

          the frost giants would not dare attack asgard, thor thinks. not after the defeat they’d suffered at their father’s hands. he does not say this. dreams follow no logic, and trying to ease his brother’s fears with logic will do no good. “one day,” he promises urgently, “i will hunt those monsters down and destroy them. i would not let them harm you, loki. never. i promise.”

          loki says nothing, for such a long time that thor begins to think he’s fallen asleep. but when he moves to rise, little arms scramble to pull him back. “don’t let go.”

          so he doesn’t.

          the first time bruce sees him cry, a month has passed since the snap that tore their world apart. he’s left the bed, at least. that comes as a comfort to the scientist, who was beginning to fear that his friend would waste away beneath the sheets. he’s not sure if thor has eaten lately. he doesn’t know how long an asgardian can go without food, and the only one left to ask will likely not tell him the truth.

          he’s in the shower when bruce finds him. how long he’s been there, he doesn’t know. the water has gone frigid, and thor sits beneath it, reclined against the shower wall. he’s shaking, bruce thinks at first, from the cold. but, no… he’s sobbing, knees drawn to his chest, face buried against them.

          once, it might have embarrassed bruce to find him like this. he might have blushed and ducked out of the room, might have pretended that he hadn’t seen his friend naked. but there is nothing sexual about this, nothing arousing. this is painful. he doesn’t know what to do. he’s been watching thor unravel for a month and here is the proof of it. when thor lifts his head, he sees a shallow cut across his forearm. it was bleeding before, but has stopped. any trace of the blood has disappeared down the drain. he doesn’t ask if thor made the cut. he already knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to hear it said aloud.

          “come on,” he murmurs, shutting off the water. “let’s get you dressed and back to bed.” he’s wanted thor out of that bed for so long, but he’s likely to make himself ill if he doesn’t get warm. at least, that would be the case if he were human. thor listens more readily than he’d expected.

          “he told me to,” he says quietly, when he’s once again curled up beneath the blankets. bruce doesn’t ask who told him, or what he was told to do. he knows. he remembers the cut. he remembers thor’s small voice telling him that loki never leaves.

          “why would he do that?” whatever he’d once thought of loki, he’d come to reevaluate his feelings, at the end. nobody loved thor more dearly than his brother. he doesn’t think loki would want to see thor like this any more than he does.

          “i deserve it. i was his brother, and their king, and now they’re gone. but i’m not.” his voice quivers. “i should be.”

          “he wouldn’t have blamed you, thor,” says bruce, and there are tears brimming in his eyes, too. “none of them would. they loved you.”

          you know it to be true, brother, says loki. the only one who lays the blame at your feet is you.

          yes, he knows it to be true, because loki is in his head and loki could not be saying these things if thor did not believe them.

          let me go, his brother urges gently. we will meet again, brother, in the halls of valhalla. ‘neither shall we mourn, but rejoice, for those who have died the glorious death.’

          “i am alone,” says thor brokenly. “if i let you go, i have nothing.”

          he wakes screaming, and cannot remember what he’s dreamed. but then bruce is there, holding him and stroking his hair with such gentleness that the horror of the moment passes.

          “is there — any news of my people?” he has not asked before because he is afraid to know the answer. he is still afraid, but he knows he cannot hide away forever, shielding himself from the truth he already knows. if there had been good news, he would know already. bruce would not have kept him in the dark.

          “no. thor, i’m sorry… if they made it here, they haven’t tried to send you a message. so far.” it’s admirable on bruce’s part, trying to give him hope where there can be none. it has been a month. if they were here, they would have sent him word by now. he must accept that he is all that is left of his home.

          just thor, and his brother’s specter.

          he comes to breakfast the next morning, for the first time since the snap. it’s a relief to the others, who have tried in vain to coax him from his room, to comfort him for his losses. bruce alone has managed to get through to him at all.

          even so, thor does not speak. he sits sullenly at the table with a cup of coffee before him, absentmindedly stirring the hot liquid even after the sugar has finished dissolving. loki is standing behind steve, watching him. thor fixes his eyes on the table.

          “we’ve missed you,” says steve. “now, more than ever, we need to stick together.”

          “you missed me,” thor repeats. had the words come from his brother, he would have immediately called his bluff. from steve, who never lies, he doesn’t know what to think. he knows only that it can’t be true. this is his fault. why would they miss him?

          “of course.” steve frowns. “thor, whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. none of this is on you. we all made mistakes, we all—”

          thor is shaking. when he lifts his mug to his lips, he drops it. the coffee cascades across the table, the clay shatters, and all he can think about is the blood of his people spreading beneath his feet, the sickening crack of loki’s neck, the vacant look in his green eyes.

          before anyone can react, he is gone.

          bruce follows him and finds him seated on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “we’re all struggling with this,” he says softly. “i know you think you’re alone, but you’re not.”

          “i could have killed him. i should have aimed for the head.”

          “you can’t blame yourself,” argues bruce. “there are a lot of things we should have done. all of us. not just you.”

          “i can blame myself because i am to blame,” says thor, and when he looks up at bruce, his expression is terrible. “i should have aimed for the head. i would have, but i wanted to see the light leave his eyes. i wanted him to suffer as i have suffered, as he made my people suffer, and my brother. i wanted revenge, and the universe has paid the price of my selfishness.”

          “you couldn’t have known…” he puts out a hand to rest on thor’s shoulder, but the asgardian jerks away.

          “i know that revenge accomplishes nothing. i knew that, and i didn’t care. i just wanted to hurt him.” his eyes flicker to the doorway. bruce wonders, is loki here again?

          “i know.”

          “this is my fault.”

          “it’s not. it’s really not. did loki tell you that?” thor hesitates. bruce takes it as confirmation. “he’s not here, thor. and if he were, he would tell you to stop blaming yourself, and start finding a way to fix this. because we can fix this, together. don’t you believe that?”

          he does. but it does little to ease his distress. “and if we do, what then? repairing what’s been done cannot save asgard. it cannot save loki. i am still alone and i am terrified, bruce, i—”

          he is suddenly in bruce’s arms, face buried against his shoulder, and bruce is kissing his hair and what little restraint he has tried to show shatters. “you have me,” whispers bruce, and the tears come hot and fast. he’s clutching to the scientist as though letting go might kill him. maybe it will. he feels that if he loses just one more thing, he will break irreparably. “you have me,” says bruce again. “you have all of us, but — god, thor, i thought you were dead and i… i just kept thinking that i should have told you before, i should have…”

          “told me what?”

          a kiss is his answer, and he finds that words are unnecessary. he’s known all along, he thinks, and told himself it was impossible. because bruce is good, so good, and after everything, thor doesn’t feel as though he deserves it. but he can’t doubt this, can’t bring himself to disbelieve bruce’s affection when the man’s lips are crushed against his, and his hands are in his hair. “you’re not alone,” bruce murmurs. “you have me, thor, you have me.”

          and thor believes.

          a phantom stands in the doorway, a smile tugging at its lips.

          “goodbye, brother,” it says, and fades into mist.

[vampbait-a]

|| Cemetery Roses - Ch. 8

|| co-written with @cynaram    Posted with permission.    Previous:  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 

In Which Lessons Are Learned And Tea Is Had

Horst opened his eyes in the dark enclosure of his coffin. He noted the sounds of the house: the ticking of the clock in the hall above, the sound of a human heart.

So he is alive, Horst thought as he rose to dress.

Horst’s pocket square smote at Johannes’ sensibilities, as usual.  This time he kept his feelings to himself; he was going to need Horst’s help, and for once, he wasn’t sure what Horst would say.  He buttered toast and greeted his brother. “Good evening.”

"Is it?" Horst paused to regard his brother. There was an additional adjective in the greeting, and Horst had learned long ago that the younger Cabal's good moods were suspect.

"I'm glad to see you're alive and still mostly human. I was beginning to think you'd eloped with that vampire girl."

Cabal contained his urge to correct Horst’s understanding of the species Llamiae as opposed to the genus Vampire.  “I have seen her, yes.  She is going to assist my work.”  He wondered if he should lie and say that Laurelai had enquired after Horst, but any advantage gained by that fiction would not survive their next meeting.

"Assist in your work? That does sound personal. What are you up to?" Horst's misgivings about his brother's activities deepened.  "What happened while you were away?"

“It was eventful.  And it has become personal,” Cabal said with grim understatement.  He narrated recent events: the possession, the murderous gardener, the bizarre empathic experience.  He tried to distil it down to the most relevant and appealing points. He didn't often talk to Horst about his work.

“Mademoiselle Laurelai is able to channel her ghost.  Berenice’s ghost.”  He had to say her name.  Clarity was important.  “I have spoken with her twice.”  He heard himself say it, and his speech slowed.  “I have spoken with her, Horst.  I could not be deceived.”

As much as Horst often did not like his younger sibling's work, he was intrigued. Hearing what had happened caused him alarm and curiosity. What sort of relationship was his younger brother building with this mysterious Laurelai?

Horst was silent for a moment, weighing what he had been told against what he knew of his brother. He tapped his fingers on the tabletop, considering.

"When you spoke with her," Horst began, choosing his words carefully; "Did she know where she was? Was she conscious, or was it like the soldier you told me about? The one you found in the station?"

Somewhere, there was a faint feeling of relief; he had expected Horst to condemn the situation, to insist he stop.  "It was something like that at first.  Toward the end she became more aware.  She knew the body she was in was not her own.  I believe she may become more aware with repeated contacts."

"I see." Horst looked thoughtfully into the fire, frowning. He saw so little of his brother these days, heard little of what he was doing in his work, and Horst had begun to worry that Johannes might never emerge from the lab.

That he might never heal.

Laurelai might be an odd person, but she had saved Johannes’ life. Horst sighed, looking back at his brother. That had to count for something, he hoped.

"And she can just… have ghosts in her head without ill effects? I saw one of those stage performances once, a séance. The actress was carried offstage." Horst looked seriously at his younger brother.  "And what are you doing for her in return? I have the feeling that you aren't telling me everything."

Cabal smiled thinly.  “For one thing, she wants clothing to replace those leather things.  I will acquire something.  Unless you want to help?”  He felt a rising of his hopes; maybe this could be Horst’s problem, not his?

"Oh, no, you go right ahead. Enjoy the experience." Horst straightened, looking at Johannes with barely contained mirth at the idea. He covered his mouth with one hand, suppressing a giggle at the idea of Johannes muddling through a Ladies’ catalogue.

Fine.   He would leave some sensible catalogues around and wait for Horst to break, as he inevitably would when it came to fashion.  “Also, she will be coming here for lessons in reading and in passing among humans.  It is my responsibility, but she would benefit from your guidance.”

"Wait what's that?" all traces of mirth vanished, and Horst sat up straight. "Me? A mentor? To her?"

Cabal tilted his head.  “She knows nothing of humans, obviously, and I think she is the only one of her kind. She is completely isolated.  She could be no more than an animal if she wanted, yet I saw her feed three times, and she left the men alive.”  Cabal never said it; he rarely thought it, but he was proud of his brother.   “She could be like you, to a degree.”  He picked up the marmalade jar and inspected the marks in the glass.  “I can teach her to read; she is intelligent, and I think she can apply herself.  I can teach her to attract less attention among humans.  I cannot teach her not to be a monster.”  He looked up at Horst, his eyebrows raised. “Think of it as a public service for the pub-going population.”

Horst had misgivings, but thought it best to let Johannes give his explanation. Horst heard so few of them. He was surprised more by what he saw in Johannes' expression and heard in his voice then he was by anything else.

Slowly, Horst smiled. Johannes liked Laurelai, though how much was uncertain. He did not bother to bring up the fact that making Laurelai more like him would actually be doing her a great disservice, as she appeared to be mostly-alive. He envied her that, and wondered about it. Thoughts for another time.

"You're curious about her. Was this tutoring her suggestion, or yours?" Horst asked, arching a brow. "Do you… do you perform experiments together? Is she your laboratory assistant?"

Though he was gently teasing, Horst hoped the answer was yes.

Cabal felt that Horst had missed the point.  “She is a psychic medium.  I am not going to have her washing test tubes.  No, she will attempt to channel Berenice’s spirit.  It is a rare talent.  Literacy is not, but few tutors would tolerate her supernumerary fangs. I am curious about her subspecies as it contrasts with yours.  Over the next few weeks, I will ask her to provide some blood and saliva samples for comparison.”  Cabal’s expression was bland; he hadn’t caught the innuendo.

"So your answer is yes, then." Horst had sobered, but still felt that it would be wrong to discourage Johannes. There were so few things that could excite his younger sibling, it seemed. It was nice to see him talking again. Socializing.

"Alright, I'll play nice when she comes to call." Horst stood up again, intending to make the long-avoided trip to town. He turned to leave, then paused- a thought occurring to him.

"Do you think she might be able to help you, in my case?" He asked, trying to seem casual. "She is alive, you know. I've been thinking about that, and while I won't interfere with this... thing you're proposing now..." Horst sighed.   "You won't hurt her."  

It wasn't a question.

Cabal did not reply.  How could Horst expect anyone to promise that?

Instead, he answered the earlier question. “It is my hope studying her half-vampiric condition may cast light on yours.  She still lives on blood, cannot eat, must flee the sun.  But all data is good data.”  Cabal squeezed a lemon slice with an air of frustration.  There was never enough time.  What of his experiments with the gas?  What of Horst?  What of Bea’s spirit, flickering in and out?  The weight of it pressed upon him.  He drank his tea and blotted out the thoughts.  One thing at a time, in order.  

“I will consider her clothing today.  Perhaps I will find something in the village.”

Horst stared hard at his little brother. He knew that trying to extract reassurance would glean nominal reward at best: Johannes was a scientist. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Do you know her size?" Horst experienced a sudden urge to look at Ladies’ fashion catalogues, his eyes glazing momentarily. Then he remembered his shredded waistcoat, and the feeling fled.  "Helena has a dress shop in town, she's very good. I'm sure you'll find something lovely."

Oh.  Was that who owned the dress shop?  Cabal recalled an incident with an escaped laboratory failure that had nested in her yardage.  He removed the village from the list of possibilities.

“I do not have her size, but….”  He could measure the Llamia. He imagined himself doing so.  On the other hand, he could buy everything in three sizes. Problem solved.  “I will handle everything.  She will arrive after sundown on Friday.”

"Friday?" Horst made a face; he had plans for Friday. "Can't you do it on Monday or a Thursday? Why Friday?" He sighed, remembering who he was talking to.  "Alright, I'll chaperone your playdate. But next week either choose a different day or call Zee to help you."

Cabal had prepared himself for Laurelai’s first reading lesson.  He had acquired materials, which he set out upon the library desk.  He had even decided to wear his cardigan instead of his jacket, as it seemed vaguely in keeping with the role of tutor, and besides, he had a chill.

Horst had busied himself in the kitchen upon waking, having put off his trip to town for a night. He had chosen to bake - anything to keep him nice and occupied and away from his brother's guest.

Shortly after eight, Laurelai arrived carrying a small rose bush in a broken pot. After scattering the garden pixies with a growl and flash of fang, she crouched beside the herbaceous border. Discarding the broken crockery among the stones, Laurelai planted the black-velvet flowers in the soft earth bordering the wall. Smiling with satisfaction, she stood, dusted her hands on her bottom and knocked on the door.

“Good evening, mademoiselle.  Please, come in.”  At this point, a courteous host should offer to take his guest’s coat and hat, but Laurelai travelled without either, so that part of the implicit lesson was abandoned. She didn’t even appear to own shoes.  “You appear to be in good health.”

"Bonne nuit, mon ami." Laurelai had bathed and cleaned and repaired her clothing as best as she could. Normally wild curls hung in smooth ebon waves; combed back over her shoulders and still damp. She smiled pleasantly and nodded, gesturing behind her.   "I brought you this, for your garden."

The black roses shouldn’t have been visible in the moonlight, but they were, as if there was a sullen sheen to the plant.  “Thank you. It is an attractive plant,” he admitted. “I hope it will survive.  The conditions are unforgiving.”  

Laurelai wiped her bare feet on the mat and stepped inside.   "They like the climate, and acidic soil suits them, unlike your unfortunate Carsons." She had identified the blossomless bramble that housed the pixies and had begun to formulate a strategy for reaching an understanding with the creatures, or exterminate them as blight. Garden infestations aside, her expression was warm in reply to Cabal's gratitude.

“I am pleased that you like them.  Your home is very bright. Are you very blind when it is dark? Why do you have dark glasses in your bag, if you like light?" The gas lamps were harsh, and she blinked and squinted in discomfort, unaccustomed.

“This is not as bright as daylight.  I do not often wear the glasses indoors or at night. Though my night vision is good by human standards, it is nonexistent by yours.  Follow me.”  Cabal led her to the library, bypassing the odor of vanilla and a rustle of parchment paper coming from the kitchen.   There, her directed Laurelai to the desk and its paper, pencils, and colorful alphabet book.

"Oui, I am often surprised that humans go outside at night. You act like you are invincible; it is almost sad." Laurelai's tone was conversational, even sympathetic of his mortal limitations. How fragile her fearless human friend was! She admired his salt, and his posterior, as she followed him through the house.

Cabal was perplexed by being cast in the role of the brave but vulnerable individual who gallantly transcended his weakness.  Of course, everything supernatural was stronger and faster and more fatally toothed, but… he was certain there was a flaw in her reasoning somewhere.  

The library was not as brightly lit, and Laurelai paused in the door to examine a sconce.  "How do you make them work? Where is the flame?" Without waiting for an answer, she perused the room. Pausing to look at a framed picture, hands clasped behind her back to prevent curious exploring. It was difficult not to touch such amazing things, and she forgot herself several times despite her best efforts.

“Why will you not call me Laurelai?”

He took a moment to compose his answer.  “With the exception of Horst, I address people formally.”  Was this coming back to flocks and him being welcome in her nest?

"I shared my bed with you, Johannes," Laurelai's lower lip threatened to pout. "You saved my life, and still you doubt me."

There was a loud clang from the kitchen at the word “bed.”  He might have to address that misconception later.   “And you, mademoiselle, accuse me of doubting you when I refuse intimacies.  I will not be bullied, but it does not mean I expect you to attack me.”

"Bullied?"  Laurelai turned away from the shelves, frowning in dismay. She did not understand why the idea of familiarity upset him- she had made no advances, despite her natural playfulness and desires.  Had she misspoken?

"I have not made myself clear. Forgive me, I do not know how to make you understand, cherè." Laurelai sat down in the chair before the desk, and folded her hands in her lap with a sigh. The intricacies of human socialization escaped her experience, and she had little choice but to concede to his greater wisdom. Even more frustrating was her limited grasp of English; too many nuances lost in translation.

"It does not matter. Call me as you like." Laurelai gazed off at the hearth, her expression unreadable.

"May I ask why Monsieur Horst is a vampire, while you are not?"

Cabal gave the books and paper a longing glance.  She was prepared to discuss anything awkward and painful, it seemed.   “In a minute.”  He disliked the paranoid feeling that she had agendas and wishes in this partnership he did not understand, however harmless they were.  

“Mademoiselle Laurelai, try to make me understand what you want from me and why. With reference, if you please, to the significance of given names and llamia nests, as well as any other subjects you find relevant.  And what, if you please, is a flock?”

Laurelai's lower lip quirked irksomely, and she looked down at her hands. He was quick to demand answers of her, and yet many of her simple queries went ignored. Not for the first time, she considered shaking him violently.

Instead, she took a deep breath and examined her fingernails for traces of blood or dirt.

"When we met in your garden, we became friends, no? I returned your silver, and we played a game. This is known." she looked up at him evenly, spreading her hands as she presented the facts. "I respect that you do not want my kiss, and those other rules you made. I have not betrayed the things you confide in me, nor would I wish to pry in affairs that are not my own."

"But then that man tried to kill us. I do not like to remember that." she lowered her voice; her tone earnest. "I was afraid for you. You did not have to fight for me. What am I to you? Nothing."

Here, her hand pressed over the sliced leather at her ribs- the wound healed but present in memory. Laurelai looked up at Cabal, frowning.  "I do not know the word for it. But I treat you as one of my own, and you address me as a stranger. It is offensive, to me."

Cabal’s eyes unfocussed as he made mental notes.  “So by ‘flock’ you meant you were considering me ‘one of your own.’”  He was unashamed when thinking it through as an abstract concept.  “And a flock shares the nest?  So by rejecting the nest I was implicitly rejecting your offer of kinship status?”

"Oui. After a fashion." Laurelai's lashes lowered and rose in catlike agreement, and she lounged back in the deep leather chair.  Her lower lip threatened a pout.  "I treat you as an equal. You treat me as a stranger. Is that not doubt?"

Cabal was silent.  He knew she would wait for his answer, and he needed time to express it.  “I brought this house here more than ten years ago, stick and stone.”

“In that time, four people have been allowed to enter.  The police sergeant from the village, Horst, one other, and yourself. Alone of that group, I have invited you into my home, into my work, and, briefly, into my mind.  It does not seem to me like I am treating you as a stranger, however I address you or wherever I sleep.  I regret that this bruises your sensibilities, but you must not ask more of me.”  

Laurelai's brow lifted as Cabal explained his point of view, her expression open. She nodded when he was finished, collecting her thoughts. Perspective gained, the perceived insult eased.

"I am not easily bruised, cherè." Laurelai smiled a little and laughed as her posture relaxed, and combed a hand back through her hair.  "I am glad you told me this, it is much different from what I was thinking. Call me as you like, I do not mind so much."

Cabal nodded, unexpectedly relieved.  “Shall we continue to your first reading lesson?”

"Oui, I would like that." Laurelai's eyes brightened, and she sat more upright, the arch of her torso causing the slashed side of her leather vest to gape. Pale ribs showed beneath, unmarked.

Clothing next week, Cabal thought.  "Are you familiar with the letters of the alphabet?"  He had bought the book he thought would appeal most to Laurelai. It had colour illustrations and touches of gilding.

"No, but I know my name. It is how I found my cemetery." Laurelai smiled a little and tugged the edge of her vest down as she moved to the edge of her seat.

"This is - hm.  An English book.  It might have been easier to start with French, but there are advantages to starting with the most untidy and irrational language, and besides, it is where you live."  

"Oh, it is pretty!" Laurelai was enticed by the illustrations, and she leaned close to look over Cabal's shoulder. He opened the book so she could see it and started to read.  

“A is for….?”

“Une pomme- ah- apple?” Laurelai liked this game. “Brioche! No, bread!”

Cabal soon realized that some of the examples were more familiar to her than others.

"Carousel.. I like those."

Cabal pictured Laurelai on a carousel, surrounded by children and their parents and suppressed a smile.  “D is for duck.  E is for elephant.”

"Fleur?" Laurelai touched the next page, recognizing the illusion and drawing a conclusion. Her fingers traced the F, and she lingered on the page, tracing each letter.  She moved on to the next page, frowning at the illustrated greengrocer. The rows of vegetables and smiling family meant nothing to her.

"What is that?"

“A greengrocer’s.  They sell fruits and vegetables.”  

There were these odd lacunae in her memory, he thought.  Things she must once have known that she had forgotten.  Vampires rarely experienced a loss of memory with the change, though the memories were often incomprehensible to them as they lost the ability to feel love or loyalty.  Laurelai’s psychology seemed human, if foreign.  

He continued reading, pausing to allow her to make the connection between the shape of the letter, the sound, and the example given.

"The sounds are different, in here." Laurelai tapped the side of her head with her index finger, looking puzzled as she took the alphabet book into her lap. She flipped backwards through the pages, sounding soft consonants under her breath as she sought examples on each page.

She seemed to forget that Cabal was present.

“Are they?” Cabal was bemused for a moment. “What sounds do they make in your head?”

She didn't answer at first, quietly repeating the sounds under her breath. Puzzled, she sat back and shook her head. "Different, it is like.. I do not know how to describe."

"Hullo Miss Laurelai," Horst smiled warmly from the doorway, carrying a tray of Assam tea and freshly baked currant scones. He nodded to Johannes, and placed the tray on the edge of the desk. "Thought you might like to have a little snack while you work."

Cabal gave his brother a narrow look.  “Miss Laurelai does not eat… scones.  As you well know.  Is this purely for my benefit?  How kind. How completely unmotivated by anything but brotherly affection.  How unsuspicious.”

Laurelai had fallen quiet as Horst had entered, watching him warily. She held her book closed upon her lap, lavender eyes flicking from one brother to the other. She neither acknowledged the greeting, nor replied, watchful.

Horst was unaffected by his younger brother's vitriol. He smiled pleasantly and nodded, looking at Laurelai. Seeing that she did not smile back, his confidence wavered; an unfamiliar feeling.

"I wanted to say hello, and knowing that you're not likely to feed yourself without a reminder, I thought I'd do something nice. People do nice things for each other all the time, did you know that? Funny old world." Horst winked at Laurelai, hoping she would enjoy his humor.

She did not, and gazed balefully back before looking at Johannes. "It is me he is curious about. Vampires always are."

“I have never known Horst to be overburdened with curiosity.”  Cabal was beginning to get the feeling that Laurelai actively disliked his brother.  Was it some natural antipathy of species?  “We were working, Horst.  But… did you bring lemon?”

"Well, I might be a tiny bit curious, but only because I'd like to get to know you." Horst smiled at Laurelai. He felt that he was on unsteady ground with her and wanted to fix whatever social misstep he had made. "I like to get to know my little brother's lady friends."

Laurelai did not respond, but looked vaguely uncomfortable. She nodded, and looked down at her book.

"Lemon? Oh, back in a mo'," Horst had never felt so awkward, and his smile felt like a mask as he returned to the kitchen.

“He always forgets the lemon.”  Cabal straightened the papers.  “You are under no obligation to socialize with Horst.  Although.  People do generally want to.”

Laurelai watched Cabal, silent for a moment as she considered whether or not to reply. After all, he had not asked for an explanation.

"I have not had good experiences, in the past." she confided, looking back down at the elaborately drawn ‘T’ upon the page. She did not like anything that made her feel weak, which Horst most certainly had at their first meeting. She traced the gilded illustration with a finger.

"Why does this page show a Horn, and yet the letter is not that sound?" Laurelai attempted to change the subject.

Cabal disliked straying from the task at hand, but she had piqued his curiosity. "You have been mistreated by other vampires?"  

Laurelai's gaze turned inward, her shoulders slouching slightly. She was silent a moment longer- her thoughts faraway.

"Oui."

"How did they...  that is, in what way...."  The cross-examination forming in Cabal's mind came to a jerking halt as he took in her bowed shoulders.  "That is...."  There would be a better time, he told himself, to learn about vampire-llamia relations.  "A trumpet.  That is a trumpet, a type of horn."

"For sex, or blood. Sometimes for sport- how should I know?" Laurelai's gaze remained unblinking, fixed upon Cabal's. His answer to her question was either disregarded or assimilated- it was impossible to know.

She tilted her head, apparently waiting.

After a moment, Cabal nodded.  "Then naturally you are wary."  He tried to stop there, but could not.  "Horst is a good man.  You are safe here.  And if he could not protect you," Cabal had a feeling this sentence was getting away from him, but there was no way to divert it now, "then I would.  Under the terms of our agreement.  Now, the letter 'U.'"

Laurelai's expression turned querulous for a moment- confusion and surprise mingling. His vow was heartfelt. She could not recall another instance where she felt such camaraderie.

Standing in one fluid movement- book toppling to the floor- Laurelai cupped Cabal's face and kissed his forehead. Then she sat down with a happy coo and retrieved the book from where it had fallen.

Cabal wasn’t sure she saw the severe look that rewarded the kiss; it was not one of his best efforts.  He had cobbled it together hastily from a confused expression, and it came from a desire to remind her of the rules, not from genuine ire.  “Mademoiselle,” But her gesture had not felt threatening. Inexplicably, she was happy again. It struck Cabal that she was like Horst in that way; nothing clouded her temperament for long.  It baffled him.  “May we return to work?”

"Oui." Laurelai favored the scientist with a fond, fanged smile- tinted with a hint of mischief. Legs folded beneath her, she perched on the edge of Cabal's desk and peered at the book.

"Umber-alla?" she blinked, frowning. "Parasol?"

"Indeed. But waterproof."

The next few letters passed without incident.  Cabal sipped his tea as they arrived at the final page.  "Are you familiar with this animal?"

No sooner than had Laurelai turned the page, the book went flying--

                --the Llamia hissing down at the offending illustration from atop the bookshelves.

         "Zebra."

Unperturbed, Cabal placed his cup back in the saucer.  "Indeed.  An impractical and unpleasant animal.  That concludes today's lesson.  I will not detain you with such simple material next time.”  She had been able to read once, he suspected; she was already sounding out words.  “You may take this book with you, if you wish."  He withdrew his notebook.

"I need to hold our next lesson a day or two late.  I find I have a commitment.  Is that acceptable?"  He glanced up.

Satisfied that the illustrated embodiment of nightmares would not gallop off the page and harm her, Laurelai lowered herself to the floor. She lifted the book and folded it closed, considering Cabal's proposal. She placed the book atop his desk.

"One night? Or two?" she asked in return. "I must have care for my roses. It grows colder."

He shrugged. "I should return by daylight on the Saturday, and I will be rested by that evening.  We may meet then, or a later day."

Laurelai's expression became thoughtful as first she had to recall what day it was- counting on her fingers. She nodded solemnly, rocking from heel to toe as an idea bloomed.

"I could go with you? I could protect you, or be helpful in some other way? And my lesson would be to travel. As a human woman."

Cabal did not dismiss the idea out of hand.  He believed in the value of applied learning.  "The idea has merit, and were I tutoring you in theft from mid-range British museums, I might require you to accompany me.  But you wish to learn to pass among humans." Her acrobatic skills might be very useful, he thought.

Laurelai nodded, and, in an effort to persuade him, she smiled, clasped her hands politely before herself and subtly batted her eyelashes. "I have no need to learn how to break into the museum, cherè, I go there quite often. I like the ghosts."  She smiled, her tone softly pleading.

"If I promise to wear a dress, and speak only French, could I not also provide you with security of alibi?"  She had heard the term over the wireless, and found it intriguing. What games humans played!

Cabal’s eyes narrowed as he considered the advantages and disadvantages of her offer. He had planned to go in while the museum was closed and smash a case open with a hammer.  If he was interrupted, no number of be-gowned Frenchwomen would provide a sufficient alibi, although a llamia might be of some use. He might be able to accommodate her wishes while gaining her help.  Laurelai was a habituée of the building; at least she would not slow him down. 

“Perhaps. You might accompany me to the town,” it was unnecessary for the theft but would be good practice for her, “and assist me during the acquisition.  After, I would return here alone.”

"You mean I would not have to stay and watch you growl at your notebook?" This was a bonus to the plan, which would also allow the time she needed to acquire certain chemicals she needed for her roses.  Perhaps she might practice her new skills in a tavern or two. "Oui, this is acceptable."

Cabal was confused.  Growl at his notebook?  Possibly her English was faulty.  "Very well, then."  This was an excellent development: an efficient use of both their time, and advantageous to them both.  There was no reason to feel any misgivings.

Laurelai smiled at Cabal's agreement, a gesture that complimented her features and showed off deadly dentition.

"Oui, bon. I will arrive at the customary time." She paused, a thought occurring. "You may tell your brother I will need a dress, hm?"

[loversandantiheroes]

Jigsaw - a Whouffaldi fic - Epilogue

Author’s Note: Here we are at last.  It’s taken two years to get to the end of this story, but we’re here.  Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story, and with me, for this long.  This is my early Christmas present to you all.  One last hurrah.

Summary: Because some pieces can’t be kept apart forever.  Post- Hell Bent reunion fic.  Epilogue.

Rating: PG-13ish

Warnings: Brief and vague shower funtimes

Word Count: 1844

AO3 Link: here

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

The shower takes awhile, to the surprise of neither of them.  It’s been a long time and Time Lord biology is deeply resilient.  The Doctor almost manages a concussion in the course of trying to do something rather ill-advised in conjunction with wet tiles.  In the end the only thing bruised is his ego, which she does her best to soothe while she tries to stop laughing.  This just makes him try the thing even more doggedly, this time with more success, and her laughter turns to breathless gasps.

Time wanders, but only slightly.  They extract themselves piece by piece, trailing fingertips and kisses, rearranging to fit.  He helps her into clean, fresh clothes; she does up the buttons on his conveniently TARDIS-laundered shirt.  By the time they make it out of the console room and into the diner they’re a pace apart, a distance not so much respectful as gravitational, a slow orbit.

Me leans over the counter, nursing an espresso and chatting with a young and rather extraordinarily punkish black woman.

“Good to see you, old man,” Me says with a dry sort of fondness.

The Doctor pauses, mouth pursed.  “And you, Ashildr.”

For once, she doesn’t correct him.  “Was starting to think the two of you got lost in there.”  She smirks at Clara, utterly insufferable and completely right as always, damn her.

“We had a lot of catching up to do,” Clara says.

The punkish woman at the counter snorts laughter behind half of a sandwich.

The Doctor’s eyebrows are scowling magnificently, but his eyes are crinkled.  “Hattie, this is Clara.  Clara, Hattie.”

“Y’know you could’ve just said you’d gotten a booty call,” Hattie says, still chuckling.  “Hung a sock on the door or something.  I was starting to think you’d gotten eaten by a rabid grease monster until this one filled me in.”  Hattie gestures at Me, who is trying valiantly to control her smirk before it takes over the entirety of her face and half of the greater London area besides.

“Oh you are terrible,” Clara gripes.

“And quite frequently right, though that’s never much helped your judgement of me before, has it?”

The Doctor turns to Clara, still scowling.  “‘Booty call?’” he mouths.

“Later.”

“Ok.”

“So is this you, then?” Me asks.

Clara’s heart does a small backflip.  “Yeah.  For awhile I think.”  She glances around, running a hand over the formica countertop.  “But you never know, might need a weekend away from time to time.  Someone should hold down the fort, I think.  Look after her while I’m away?”

Me’s smile is so broad it almost breaks Clara’s heart.  “Absolutely.”

Hattie looks slowly between the three immortals.  “I think maybe this is where I get off, then.  No offense, Doctor, but I’d hate third-wheeling it.  That’s no fun for anybody.  Probably about time I went home.”

“I can drop you off, if you’d like,” Ashildr offers.

The other woman pauses, considers, then grins.  “Yeah, alright.”

“You’re sure?” the Doctor asks, trying and failing to not sound disappointed.

Hattie nods.  “Keep him outta trouble, yeah?” she says to Clara.

“Really not likely, but I’ll do my best.”

Hattie laughs at that one.  “You really do know him.”

There are hugs.  Promises to take care.  To keep in touch.  A few tears, most of them Clara’s.

Me puts a kind hand on the Doctor’s shoulder.  “It’s not all bad, travelling with immortals.  At least if you get the right ones.”

“I suppose I’ll find out,” he says.

“She needs you.  That’s never really changed, but it’s different now.”

“There’s a difference between life-everlasting and life after death,” he muses, eyes downcast.

“You know that better than most.  Who better to teach her how to be a Time Lord?”

At a loss for a response, the Doctor holds out his arms stiffly.  “C’mon.  Quick before I change my mind.”

The embrace is fierce and quick, the Doctor’s voice rumbling out haltingly.  “I’m glad I saved you.”

“So am I, old man.”

Clara waits in the doorway, hand outstretched; the Doctor clasps it with reverent familiarity.  The Universe trembles the slightest bit, then settles back into its endless orbits.

***

Not everything ends.

***

First stop.  

Clara insists, but the Doctor hardly needs persuading.  Outside the TARDIS doors, a baby cries.  For a wonder, Clara realizes she can understand it.  Frequencies resolve into thought-forms that rearrange into words.

What has happened Mother, why does Father cry?

The Doctor makes for the door, but Clara lays a hand on his chest.  Me first.

They’ve landed back in the nursery.  The baby is all scrunched face and flailing fists in her crib.  The Doctor scoops her up immediately, cradling her against his ribs, and begins whispering reassurances.

The baby quiets.  More stifled sobs beyond the door to the hallway.  Then, a beat later: “Doctor?”

Rigsy bursts through the door and stops so abruptly his wife almost bowls him over as she runs up behind.  His eyes are tear-stained and wide as milk saucers, his jaw agape.  There are paint stains on his fingers and his jeans, and the fumes of the aerosol cans still clings to him.

Clara beams.  “Hey Rigsy.  Long time no see.”

And then he’s whooping, laughing and crying, scooping her up and twirling her around.  “I thought you were dead!”

“Nah,” she says, giggling madly.  “Takes more than a bird to put me down for good.”

They stay awhile.  Not long.  Long enough for hugs and tears and tea that goes cold and forgotten while Clara talks and the Doctor shifts about with the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” Rigsy says, at last.

Clara shakes her head vehemently.  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.  Wasn’t your fault to begin with, and it all worked out in the end.”

“Your TARDIS,” he starts, staring up at the Doctor.  “I-.”

“I know.”  The Doctor smiles sadly.  “Clara’s memorial.  It was…” he fumbles for the word, then sighs, “it was beautiful.  Thank you.”

Rigsy shifts uncomfortably.  “I think I wanted you to be cross.”

The Doctor tuts.  “Well I can still get there if you like, but I might startle the baby.”

“D’you want to maybe stay for dinner?” Rigsy asks, eyes darting between his wife and Clara.  “I mean it’s the least we can do.”

Clara smiles.  “That would be lovely.  But we’ve got a stop to make first.  Important...time business…thing.”

Rigsy’s face falls a little, sensing the brush-off.  “Right, no, I understand.”

“So, back in half an hour?” Clara offers, standing up.

Rigsy brightens.  “Yes!  Yeah!  That’s, we’ll be here.”

Smirking, the Doctor passes the baby off to her father.  “She needs changing.  Also she told me to tell you she really hates the strained peas, so if those could be stopped it would cut down on incidents at the dining table.”

As the TARDIS departs, Rigsy again falls to tears, but this time, at least, they are of relief.

***

Not love.

***

He shouldn’t be here.  He knows.  If he’s caught, by his superiors, this could mean court martial.  If he’s caught by the Cloister Wraiths, he’ll be filed.  Curiosity got the better of him.  He remembers Skull Moon too clearly to not be curious.  That a human could elicit that sort of response from the Doctor of War was astonishing; that any of them had seen that feral glittering in his eyes and lived was nearly unbelievable.  The Matrix was his best chance to understand why.

The recent data influx is massive.  Reams of information.  The Doctor and Clara Oswald…

The sound of a landing TARDIS makes him wheel, hand falling instinctively to his weapon...only…

Has the fool left the handbrake on?

A brown-haired head pops out of the doors of the blue police box as soon as it solidifies.  She catches his eye and smiles as if she’d expected him.  “Thought it might be you,” she says.  “Gastron, right?  The Doctor told me about you.”

He opens his mouth, but for a moment he can’t talk; his hearts are in his throat.  Then, in a hoarse whisper: “Ma’am it’s not safe for you to be here.”

“We’re not staying long.”  The Doctor eases out of the TARDIS behind her, tight-lipped and grim.  He gives Gastron a nod.

“Sir, you need to leave, quickly.  If you’re caught -”

“We won’t be,” he says simply.

The soldier looks helplessly between the two of them.  “Can I...can I ask you something, sir?”

The Doctor raises his eyebrows.

“Why’d you do it?   And why’d you come back?”

Clara points at the console behind him.  “Part of your answer’s in there.  But you knew that, that’s why you’re down here, isn’t it?”

“The rest is in here.”  The Doctor pulls a bronze disc from his pocket.  There is a deep groove in the center of the console, and he slots the confession dial into it.  “I think between the two you’ll find the answer you’re after.”

4.5 billion years worth of information; the data transfer is immense.  “No bells, no whistles, no alarms,” the Doctor points out after several minutes as Gastron scrolls through endless pages, face growing ever more fascinated and ever more troubled.

“I’ve disabled them,” Gastron says.  “You’re still President, sir.”

The Doctor scoffs.  “Oh that’s no excuse.”  His eyes narrow, dusty grey in the shadows, and a chill wanders up Gastron’s spine.  “You trust my orders?”

“Yes sir.”  No hesitation.

“Then in that case, allow me to give one last order.”

The console beeps.  There’s a whirr and a click and the confession dial ejects itself.  The Doctor catches it deftly and tips it at Gastron.  “Read it.  All of it.  And then take it with you.”

Gastron blinks.  “Sir?”

“The story that’s in there is one that needs telling,” Clara says gently.  “It shouldn’t stay down here in the dark.”

“Tell it,” the Doctor says.  “That’s your order; tell the story.”

There’s no short of confusion on the soldier’s face, but he nods, stiffly saluting.  The Doctor takes it with a grimace, and salutes back.

And then...the universe shifts.  The Doctor turns to Clara Oswald and Gastron can see everything in the periphery fall away.  Orbits and rotations stutter and slow, and for a moment that is the barest thousandth of the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, everything stops.  Their eyes are locked; their hands clasped.  They are as much a fixed point as Trap Street.  Maybe even more so.  They are The Fixed Point.  The origin; lynch-pin that locks them all together.  All others spin endlessly off of them like a spider’s web.

And then it’s over, and the universe resolves itself into motion again.  Clara offers a small wave in parting and Gastron is left trying to remember how to breathe in the face of something so profound.  Words glow and shift on the console, a story waiting to be read.  Gastron feeds a blank data cartridge into the console and begins the download as the TARDIS de-materializes behind him.

He has his orders.

***

Not always.

[saeranlover]

Why give rika a good ending? she doesn't deserve it

Okay, anon... I understand where you’re coming from. Yes, Rika did some pretty bad, disgusting stuff in her life. However, that does not mean that she is 100% not worthy of any sort of redemption.

I’m going to probably end up doing some sort of long analysis on Rika here, so stick by me...

Note: THERE WILL BE SPOILERS FOR THE SECRET ENDINGS IN THIS.

Rika was mentally ill. Of course, all of what she did cannot be pinned upon just that. All of the RFA members seem to hold some semblance of mental issues, but I’m going to be talking about just Rika here.

From what it sounds like, she has worked persistently through her life to improve the quality of the lives of others over her own. You can tell by some of the CGs in the game. For example, this one with Yoosung:

The thing is, her life wasn’t perfect, perhaps leading to why she wanted to help others. It is indicated that her adoptive parents end up disliking her, meaning that in terms of family, Yoosung was the only one who wanted her around. That must have been horrible, knowing that not even the parents who wished to grant her a second chance to have a family in life don’t want her, with it only being her adoptive cousin who feels as though she was worth something. That could have made her depression so much worse than it could have been if she had a proper, full family wanting to support her.

Also, to add on to this, her life becomes worse following the death of somebody important in her life: her pet dog, Sally. This is like a trigger for her, as she blames herself entirely for not letting Sally get surgery to fix her eyes, leading to Sally running out in front of a car. She must have felt like it was her own dog committing suicide just for the sake of getting happiness that could only be achieved otherwise by receiving the surgery.

This leads to (what may be coincidental, because of Sally’s blindness) V’s eyes being attacked by Rika. However, he is not innocent with this matter. I do feel sympathetic for V, and believe that he was dumb for not taking up Jumin’s offer for surgery... But he did bring this upon himself.

This is a conversation which they had in part 3 of the first section of the secret endings:

And for just in case it doesn’t load:

V: You can never hurt me, Rika. I love you more than you can ever imagine. I don’t have a single shroud of doubt in my mind. I love you, I desperately want you.

Rika: You want me when I’m like this? I’m always depressed. I have so many problems...

V: They are nothing compared to my love...

Rika: I can’t believe somebody would love me so much. V... are you real?

V: You can test me until you believe me. Even if you strangle my neck, BLIND MY EYES, and destroy my limbs... I love you. I am your sun.

V is genuinely trying to help her, but is going the complete wrong way about it in my opinion. He says that she can never hurt him, but feeling hurt is good in a natural, healthy relationship, so long as the hurt isn’t constant or permanent. He then, as I emphasised in bold, italics, and capital letters, says that Rika can blind him to prove that he is real and that his love is real. V, for god’s sake... That will not help in the slightest. He did feel as though he was doing good for her, and proving his love...

But still, in a way, that may have been another trigger for Rika in setting her off in her delusions of achieving happiness. Being able to influence V’s happiness in such a way may have made her feel she had the power to bring about happiness for all.

On top of this, this was most likely at a point after V had influenced Saeyoung into joining the intelligence agency. That meant that she had somebody else to test out her happiness ideals... Saeran Choi, a vulnerable, abused, and sickly teenager. Her promises to him for happiness through assisting her and getting his revenge on Saeyoung for leaving is what led to him becoming completely loyal to her, in turn making her feel more powerful in terms of achieving power, and making her delusions of power worse, leading to her calling herself a ‘Saviour’.

On top of that.... Rika used the RFA to assist in the creation of Mint Eye, her ‘Paradise’. Chances are, she used the lists of guests to find people who would be willing to join and support the group. This can be supported by something which V, who is aware of Rika and Mint Eye, says in the Christmas DLC to Jumin. He asks for Jumin to illegally obtain information about people who attended the first RFA party... Specifically the bank details.

He’s vague with his reasons, but I have a feeling that this is to fund Rika’s Mint Eye. I mean, the ‘medicine of salvation’ which Rika ends up with must have been created through some sort of funding, and I have a feeling that V knew that if he could get the support of those who are no longer associated to the RFA - AKA those who could tell Jumin, etc. that something is going on, he could support Rika’s paradise.

Again... Not the best thing you could’ve done, V. And even then, I think Jumin still does it for him, because of his loyalty to his friend.... V is so blinded by his love for Rika, he just wants her to be happy. I understand that feeling which V has of being so in love with somebody that I would want to do literally anything for them, but if Tobias started a cult which drugs and brainwashes people? Hell nah, I would never help him with that, I’d try to talk him out of it!

But even then... He probably knew that Rika now had the power to kill him. She has disciples at this point, people who would be willing to kill him just to make her happy. He can’t lie to her...

But anyway, I want to kind of go into Rika’s delusions of power now. As I mentioned earlier, through (most likely) Saeran and V, she feels powerful and as though she is one of the only ones who have the power to make people happy, hence her taking on the title of ‘Saviour’. She attempts to ‘save’ people, and ‘cleanse’ them from the ‘sins’ of society. As she has influence by this point, she feels more and more powerful.

She has nothing to ground her to reality.

She abandons the RFA, which V covers up at a suicide to protect the lives of the RFA. He doesn’t want them to know, he can’t afford to let them know, or else their lives would be put in danger by her pulling them into Mint Eye. But it was the RFA who grounded her to reality. People who supported and loved her, and became a second family to her who relied upon her.

Yoosung, her cousin who looked up to her. Jihyun, her lover and fiancée. Jumin, a close friend or both her and Jihyun. Zen, the rising musical actor who she had supported since he was nothing but a small name in the industry. Saeyoung, the boy she assisted in church before he became a hacker. Jaehee isn’t so closely tied to Rika, only being a part of the RFA through association to Jumin, but chances are she probably understood and empathised with the love and adoration which the others had for her.

The only way in which she could be brought back to reality...

Was being made to witness something which could only happen in reality, and not in her paradise.

V being killed by Saeran.

In her paradise, V would have remained a ‘loyal’ disciple by her side (it is indicated at times that he is simply just a mole in Mint Eye under the premise of a disciple who does as she asks to avoid his death at her hands, trying to gather information to protect the RFA), until his natural death He would have been made to stay with her as he turns blind, and have been at her every whim.

He didn’t die how she intended for him to die.

It breaks her. She doesn’t know how to react. But unfortunately, that is how she can be grounded to reality.

After this, Rika is completely silent. Even when Zen and Yoosung are watching over her, she remains mute. She’s in shock. She is too shocked and horrified to react to Jihyun dying, and her only way of reacting to that is smiling and being silent. I assume that she is smiling and happy because that’s what Jihyun wanted her to be like when she was alive. Happy.

It’s only at his funeral, where people are talking of V in a positive light, that Rika begins to speak again. She talks about the sun - what she and V called each other.

Then, of course... She was able to be sent to Alaska for a year of residential therapy by Zen and Yoosung, before she is arrested for her crimes as a cult leader. She doesn’t resist, as she likely would have done if she was still at Mint Eye.

And we can only assume, due to how the secret endings finish, that one of two things happen.

She is helped with her mental illnesses in Alaska

The therapy doesn’t help, and makes things even worse for her.

I, in my honest opinion, hope that it is number 1 which occurs.

But anyway... That’s enough of my rambling... I’ll summarise what I said here:

Rika is mentally ill.

Yoosung is her only family member who supports her, not even her adoptive parents.

Sally’s death is one of the main triggers of her worse actions, as is V’s attempts at helping the one that he loves.

She feels that, through doing her best to make V and Saeran happy, she can make everyone happy, leading to delusions of power.

Mint Eye is a result of that.

The RFA was what grounded her to reality - leaving them to work on Mint Eye completely separated her from reality.

Only one thing was possible to ground her to reality, making her see the problems in her actions - V’s death

She becomes mute, but comes across as happy - WHAT V HAD WANTED FOR HER THE WHOLE TIME.

She doesn’t resist being sent to therapy in Alaska, but it is unknown what the outcome of that is.

Aaaaaaaand... Thank you for sticking with me.

[goreadabook2102]

What Remains of Elizabeth Clove {chapter 1}

so i really don’t like posting my writing on here, but i would really like some writing criticism and critique.

so here goes nothing.

quick summary this book is about a girl, elizabeth, who recently died. her best friend finds a notebook full of instructions of what to do in the events of her death, and it seems like elizabeth had it all planned…

chapter 1:

Boxes.

Her room was filled with boxes. Most of them had labels reading words like, ‘Clothes", or ‘Books’, or something along the lines of a cliche title for a box. This wasn’t her room, at least not the way I had seen it.

Liz’s mom pointed to her empty bed as she stood in the doorway next to me, holding another cliche titled box in her hands.

“That one is for you. It’s her school and personal items.” She adjusted her grip on the cardboard. “We figured you should go through it first, you know, just in case there were any photos or things you wanted to remember Liz by.” She sighed and patted my shoulder lightly. “Stay Strong Max.” Saying nothing, I nodded and walked slowly towards the bed, memories flying past my eyes. I could almost hear her laughing on the bed next to me as I sat next to the box that held whatever remained of our friendship.

UPDATE: The bed wasn’t as comfy as I remembered it being.

I set the somewhat small box, (which had been dubbed, 'personal’) onto my lap, the pieces of our friendship rattling on the bottom. At the top, I could clearly see the picture of Liz and I at the winter dance last year. I had worn a black dress and she white. Yes, we had everything planned out. Smiling through the tears, I set down the photo next to me. I’d save it, cherish it, even though in a few years we’d probably forget about Elizabeth Clove.

It’s funny that when you die you always get forgotten. The people around you promise that they’ll always keep you in their hearts and in their minds, but they always just,

f o r g e t.

There were old stuffed toys won from carnivals and fairs past sitting in the corners, which I placed beside me. I wouldn’t keep all six of them, maybe just one or two. A half empty bottle of black nail polish that Liz had forgot to give back to me laid on its side, along with a CD full of early 2000’s hits. We had called it “The Liz and Max Mixtape”, which was creative when we were ten, I guess. As I moved through the photos and various items of our memory lane, I quickly had one item left on the bottom. A small, black notebook, complete with her name etched on the cover in silver Sharpie.

Now this was something I had never seen before. Since when did Liz keep a diary? Turning it over in my hands, I set it down in my pile of friendship, and picked it up, making my way downstairs to the Clove’s front door. Thanking her parents, and declining some cookies (Mrs. Clove always hid raisins in them), I threw on my headphones, drowning out the rest of the world.

Of course when I shuffled the first song to play was our song, House of Memories, by Panic! At the Disco. It’s a long and complicated story. I’ll get to it later.

With the box full of Liz in the backseat, I drove towards home.

Not the word I’d use to describe it, but I don’t know what else to call it but that.

I went straight towards my room, not bothering to answer to my screaming mother. As far as I was concerned, that notebook needed to be read, it was the only thing that mattered. I desperately wanted to dissect the secrets that that black book contained.

Does that make me a bad friend?

There it was, sitting at the very top. Scrambling as I reached for it, I nearly dropped it as I opened the cover.

And then I started reading.

Hello, all who dare read this. If you’re reading this because you’re snooping, leave, or face my wrath. If you’re reading this because something happened to me, or you’re Maxine Rudd or Cameron Guchal, then my plan worked.

“Plan?!” My thoughts became speech. Liz had died in a freak biking accident. She hadn’t killed herself as far as I knew. We still hadn’t found her body, but that didn’t mean anything, did it?

If you’re reading this, Max, Cam, or some random snooper, then I’m about to tell you why I did what I did.

“What did you do Liz…?” I muttered to myself, flipping to the next page, and some answers. ’

There are rules to reading this journal though, so listen up. Feel free to write these rules down or refer back to this page if you’d like. I only feel like writing these down once.

Rule #1: You tell no one about this journal, unless your name was mentioned in the beginning. Looking at you Max and Cam.

Rule #2: If the book tells you to do something or go somewhere, you go there, and you do that thing.

Rule #3: Make sure whatever secrets that are held within this journal DO NOT get out into the public. This is my private shit.

Rule #4: You obey ALL journal rules. ALL of them. No exceptions. No ifs, ands or buts.

These rules being said, read on, you deserve to know the truth. What is the truth? Well, you’ll find that out later. Now onto the intro.

“Maxine!” My mom burst into my room, a wooden spoon from making dinner still in her hand. “How many times do I have to tell you?! Come to the table when you’re called!”

My mom hadn’t really grasped the whole grief concept. The way she had seen it, Liz had just died. I was the only person who had lost someone important, and let’s face it, she didn’t really care about me or my feelings. All that mattered was work, work, work, my father, and my brother Jeremy.

Personally, I think she hated Liz, secretly.

In the weeks leading up to the accident, there was always a sense of coldness in the air around them whenever they crossed paths. Most of the time it was extremely awkward.

I picked at my green beans in front of me, not really in the mood to eat at the current moment.

“Max?” My father said, looking at me. “How was your trip to the Clove’s today? He said that like nothing was wrong, like I hadn’t gone to collect my things from my dead best friend’s house. “It was fine.” I vaguely answered. “Got some old photos and things.” My mother nodded. “Everly holding up fine?”

Everly was Liz’s younger sister.

“She wasn’t there.” I mumbled. Having enough, I suddenly said, “Can I be excused?” I had had enough 'quality’ time with my family. Mumbles of an answer were heard, so I took that as a yes.

Back to the notebook.

Back to Liz’s secrets.

•••

PLEASE give me criticism! it would help me so much!

thank you!

IF THIS GETS 100+ NOTES ILL POST CH 2

@rrriordan @thatsthat24 @writing-central

[siverwrites]

Dangerous Games in which Gant is an ass and yay for the Pigeon Man’s existence

Oh look more. I should consider expanding backwards at some point just maybe. Part 1′s not really a start. But speaking of:

Part 1

Part 2 (directly connected to Part 1)

Pissing off Lynne (a small reference to this one in this chunk below)

Fake drunkenness, quick investigation and speeches

Cabanela knocks at the office door of the last man he wants to see before he enters. Gant sits at his desk. Cabanela finds his eyes, as is ever the case when he’s forced to come here, drawn with distaste to the pipe organ against one wall. Loud, stuffy, ostentatious. It fits in with the rest of the office in that regard and possibly the owner. He’s all for a good show, but where’s the style?

Gant waves him over and gestures to a chair across from hm. “Cabsy! Come in. Sit down. Done any swimming lately?”

“Not quite my styyyle,” Cabanela replies, lounging in the chair across from Gant.  

“Ha, ha. I’ll convince you one of these days. Now, I didn’t just call you up for a chat. I have a bit of news for you.”

“I’m all eaaars, Chief.”

“The Justice Minister has passed an order onto us, an execution order for Prisoner D-99. Looks like that old penalty is coming back. End of the month.”

No. He manages to force words out and hopes he sounds calmer than he feels. “An execution… why now?” What did you do?

“The Minister has his reasons I’m sure! He was very insistent on it.”

Cabanela feels like static has taken over his brain, but he’s able to catch Gant’s next words.

“Now I know dealing with prisoners is a bit below you, but I had a teeny little favour to ask. I wouldn’t normally bother you with this, but it is a rather sensitive matter. Frankly the whole case was a bit of an embarrassment. If I could trust you to take care of a bit of paperwork for the prison? All those loose ends to tie off.”

Steady… Don’t yell. Don’t shoot. “Of couuurse.” You bastard, you absolute bastard.

“Good, good! Saves me a bit of work, but don’t let that slip, eh? Oh and Cabsy? Make sure there aren’t any mistakes. I know you have many great plans for your career. I’d rather not see it all go to waste.”

It takes all he has to not throw everything away with one well-placed punch.

“No wooorries about my career, Chief.” he replies. One month. This can’t be. How did he let this get past him?

“Excellent.” Gant sighs and with a slight tug on his hair that has Cabanela gritting his teeth, he adds regretfully, “It’s been quite some time since an execution. They’re bringing back the chair. It was such a shame, you know to see a detective toss away a promising career like that. He was a star.” Gant folds his hands. “I’d really hate to see it happen again.”

“So would I.”

“May none of us here follow in his footsteps. How’s Lynne by the way?”

Cabanela searches his face and finds nothing but the return of that friendly smile. “I’m sure you know better than me. You’ve taken quiiite the interest in her.”

“She’s another one I can see going far, much like you! She looks after Jowd’s daughter, doesn’t she?”

Abrupt shift. What are you…? “Yes, she does.”

“Hoho! Connections in the most unexpected of places - something I love about this job. Unfortunately it brings those tragedies as well. You’ll keep Lynne out of trouble, won’t you? It’d be real sad if that poor young girl had to find a third home.”

Cabanela is grateful for the desk between them - a cover for his clenched fists. He swallows the ill feeling at the mirror of his own words spoken to Lynne not so long ago, though now feels like another age.

“As much as any of my team.”

Gant claps. “Well said, well said. Do you know, I had my eye on old Jowdo for Inspector?” His expression darkens. “Before he shot his wife of course, such a disappointment and now look what’s happening to him.” He gives Cabanela a broad smile. “Then you came along and shot to the top.”

He holds out a hand. Cabanela has to unstiffen his fingers before taking it. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate you! I could not have asked for better.” Gant is still smiling, but Cabanela’s bones grind under the force of his grip. “Don’t be another disappointment.”

“Wouldn’t dreaaam of it.”

“I’m glad we have an understanding!” Gant pushes a folder toward Cabanela. “Here’s that paperwork. I’ll see you at our next meeting!”

Cabanela leaves as normally as he can force himself to. Out, get out before he loses the inner battle to go after Gant right there. One punch. Spit out every accusation and force an admission. His gun is a tempting weight in its holster.

He makes it half way down the stairs before he locks up and slumps against the railing, threatening to dent it in his grip. Execution. So soon. Everything coming down to a month with death at the end. Can’t lose. Can’t let him get away with this. Cannot, will not. He will pay.

“You all right up there, sir?”

Cabanela pushes himself away from the rail and stares down at the large and concerned face of Detective Gumshoe.

“I’m fine, Detective.”

Gumshoe rubs the back of his head. “Okay. Just, you didn’t look so good, er, sorry.”

Cabanela finishes his descent and forces a smile. “Nothin’ to worry about. Well dooone on that last case by the way.”

Gumshoe brightens up and Cabanela feels a vague twinge of guilt. While it’s not exactly a lie it is very clearly a distraction method.

“Thanks sir! I was actually coming to see you to drop off a report. But there you were! Here you go!”

Cabanela gives the proffered folder a blank stare for a moment before taking it. It feels meaningless compared to the files weighing him down. Gumshoe moves on and Cabanela makes a hasty retreat to the privacy of his office.

He has a pen in hand and the folder open in front of him. Distance. Treat it as any other piece of work. He’s not actually causing it. It’s just another useless layer of bureaucracy. So, why does it feel like he’s signing Jowd’s life away? D-99 seems to be the only word popping out at him leaving the rest an unreadable blur. He steadies his shaking hand enough to actually write legibly and not viciously stab holes through the paper, only to nearly snap it in half shortly after at a knock on his door.

“What?” Cabanela snaps.

The door opens and Lynne enters. Gods, the last person he wants in here right now. He folds his hands over the papers.

“My report and those files you requested.” Lynne says setting more folders on his desk.

“Good. Anything else, Detective?”

“No… um.” Her brow furrows and he wonders how much he’s letting show. Her eyes flicker to his papers, but he has them covered.

“I’m exceptionally busy, so if there’s nothing else?”

“I…”

“Lynne,” Cabanela sighs, “if you have somethin’ to say, spit it out.”

Her shoulders sag and she shakes her head. Her expression returns to the look of cool detachment she’s been keeping with him. “No. Sorry. I’ll go now.”

He waits until his door is closed before he drops his gaze back to his papers. A dull ache is lurking in his temples not helped by pushing Lynne away, not helped by the upsurge of rage at the sight of the papers, not helped by the man at the centre of it all. He needs to finish before there are more interruptions and then get out before he does something he’ll regret.

***

The professor nearly jumps when the door slams open hard enough to bounce off the wall and he steadies the disgruntled Lovey-Dove. Anger he’s used to, rage even. This is something new. Cabanela storms in and there’s a wild look in his eyes.

“I’d thank you not to break my door.” He lets out the comment without much rancour. On further examination he does not like what he’s seeing in Cabanela’s appearance. None of the usual swagger is there. Any more tension and the professor would expect him to snap in half.

Cabanela’s fists are clenched. His voice is a nearly shaky growl. “He pushed it through. He damn well pushed it through.”

“What is this about?”

His words come out in an unusual sharp staccato. “Death penalty. It’s set. A month from now.” A tremor runs through him. “Gant made sure to tell me himself.”

Diffuse now, worry later. “That gives us some time. You can…”

Cabanela’s fist collides with the wall. “He threatened Lynne! He threatened my position. He dragged Kamila into it! Now he’s got the minister under his thumb! One wrong step and Lynne will get her wish to see Jowd.” He laughs a sharp bitter laugh. “Maybe we’ll catch him on false evidence there. Two wrong steps and we’ll be a crowd. You can take over then, yes? If either of us make it that far.”

His chest heaves and with it something seems to drain from him. He drops into the chair and folds over, his face dropping into one hand while the other grips his leg.

The Inspector can be a holy terror, but the professor’s never known any kind of fear around him until his next words spoken in a low, nearly unrecognisable voice cause his heart to drop.

“I… professor… I don’t know what to do.”

His levels of self-assurance are the stuff a meteorite would glance off of. As irritating as it can be at times it’s his strongest weapon. He can’t afford self-doubt, yet it’s exactly what the professor is hearing and he doesn’t like it one bit. Neither of them counted on a tight deadline like this and in the face of this new side of Cabanela he’s not sure how best to handle him. He settles for what he hopes is a comforting hand on his shoulder. He can feel him shaking.

“Seems to me you’ve pushed him. We’re onto him here and getting closer to solving this.”

“Blackmail,” Cabanela mutters.

“What’s that?”

“The minister. Blackmail or threats. That’s how Gant works.”

“You can stop him. We’ll stop him.”

“Of course...”

The words are there. The tone is wrong – quiet and tired, a tiredness that’s gone too long and too deep, that goes beyond anything simple sleep can cure. If one thing can be said for their sudden deadline it’s that one way or another this long battle will end soon, preferably with them solving it. If they lose this one he doesn’t want to imagine the consequences.

Cabanela’s hands rise to dig into his temples.

“You should get some rest,” the professor says. It’s pointless he’s sure, but let it not be said he doesn’t try.

“I have to get back.” Cabanela’s voice is still low with an odd husk to it. “I’ll see the Minister in the morning. Maybe get a hint if he doesn’t want to talk.” Cabanela’s gaze drifts up toward the cabinet where Jowd’s old coat hangs. His mouth tightens and the professor can feel his shoulders tense. “He won’t get away with this.”

The professor gives him a squeeze before moving away to pour some tea and get a painkiller. It’s not much, but who knows when the man last took some time to take in sustenance today. It’ll have to do. Further small signs are starting to show only noticeable because the professor is watching closely: the look away when he nods his thanks for the tea, the small shudder in his breath when he goes to take a drink, the tighter grip on his mug. The cracks are showing and the professor finds himself wishing he would let himself break here in privacy. It’s a foreign image and he has no idea how he’d handle it (frankly he’d prefer – they’d probably both prefer it – if he stepped out at that point), but this can’t be healthy for so long. Break here or unleash all at once at Gant. As tempting as that particular image is it won’t do them any good.

Cabanela sets his mug down. “I should go,” he says rising to his feet.

“Watch yourself. Don’t let him goad you.”

“I won’t.” Cabanela’s voice sounds strained, but he’s turned away now, back stiff, hands clenched once more at his sides. “Prof I…”

The professor waits silently. Talk, you stubborn fool. I’m 99% sure it won’t kill you. Results untested, but it seems a reasonable certainty.

“I’ll call or come back when I have more news,” Cabanela finishes instead. A few hurried steps take him to the door and he’s gone in a swish of coat. The professor can only shake his head after him.

“It’s going to be one hell of a month, Lovey-Dove,” the professor sighs. She coos softly at him. They lose one, they lose both. He’ll not see that happen.

[ghoulleviathan]

quiet when i’m coming home

When is the next time you will take a shower/bath? Which one will you take? Probably a shower, and probably tomorrow.

Are you currently waiting on someone to do something for you/to you? Mark’s supposed to grab salsa, sour cream, and individual serving bags of doritos for Taco Night tomorrow, but that won’t be until he comes home.

As a child, did you ever get the chance to go to Disney World/Disneyland? Nope. We were poor.

What state do you live in? What’s the best aspect about this state? Pennsylvania. I honestly could probably say some of the history is pretty cool.

Are you someone who is really committed to politics in your area/country? Not overly so, but I’m attentive to current events.

When was the last time you fought with your significant other, if any? Hm. Probably yesterday or the day before that.

Do you know anyone, personally, who is in an abusive relationship? Are you? No and no.

When was the last time you were on a boat? Where did you travel on it? It’s been a hot minute. The last time I remember any boat travel was in 2009, when we rode a boat at Pearl Harbor to go see the USS Arizona.

Are you planning on going anywhere with someone, some time today? Today is over, but I had to take my son to the doctor earlier.

Does your family ever have any kind of weird traditions in your house? Drawing a blank, but probably. When is the next time you will attend a family reunion? Where will it be? We don’t really have reunions.

What would you consider your favorite movie from a different decade? Dirty Dancing or Labyrinth.

Do you ever take bubble baths only to relax yourself in some way? Yeah, sometimes.

Do you have any friends who act like they don’t know you in public? No? Those aren’t friends.

When was the last time you sick? What were you sick with and why? I was sick on Sunday morning due to some shit I ate on Saturday night.

Do you ever tend to pull off any random acts of kindness in public? Sometimes, yeah. If the opportunity presents itself.

Do the things you do normally have to have reasons behind them, or not? This is so vague. Tf.

What was the last job you had? Why are you not working that job anymore? I worked for the local Pizza Hut. I stopped working there due to the fact that I wasn’t receiving the pay I was promised, and despite the manager stating “it’ll come on the next check”, it never came. So I put my two weeks in and left. Do you like cereal? What would you consider your favorite kind of cereal? Yeah, sure. I’d have to say Frosted Flakes or Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Do you find your school to be loaded with hot guys or not so much? I’m in online classes. Don’t know shit about my classmates.

Do you like to watch gay guys’ fashion do’s & dont’s videos on YouTube? If you’re alluding to Jeffree Star’s makeup videos... yes.

What is the most visited website on your internet at this moment in time? Facebook, probably.

Do you like riding roller coasters when you go to any amusement park? Of course! That’s why I go.

Are you waiting for someone to get online on an IM program right now? Mark, kind of. I know he won’t be on until probably 1:30 or later though.

What would you consider the stupidest movie you’ve ever watched, ever? Freddy Got Fingered. Screw that movie.

Who did you last say I love you to? Why did you say it to this person? Mark, because he was leaving for work.

Are there any people you don’t like for your significant other to talk to? I mean, I’d prefer he keep his distance so he doesn’t go to jail.... so does he.

Have you ever forgotten your birthday? Did you soon figure it out? Nope.

When was the last time you held up a peace sign, if you’ve ever done that? I mean, I’ve held up two fingers for “two”, but as a peace sign? Been a hot minute unless I was being sarcastic, seeing as I wave like that if I’m in a semi-shit mood.

Would you walk ten miles just to see the person you like or love? I have a car. My car-spoiled ass is not WALKING ten miles when I have a perfectly fine car.

What, in your mind, would you consider to be the perfect boyfriend? We don’t have all day for that list, but at least: respectful, emotionally stable, and not a douche.

What is one thing most all guys do that tends to make you angry a lot? Scratch their balls in public like no one is looking... especially when they do it so obviously that your eyes just immediately go to them and what they’re doing. Like... be discreet or go to the bathroom please.

Would you beat up anyone at the moment, if you absolutely had the chance? Yes... but that’s a charge I’m not catching. Not worth it.

What color are the curtains in your room if you have any at the moment? Black. They’re black-out curtains, since Mark works nights.

Who last told a lie on you? Did anyone catch them? What happened? I’m legally not allowed to speak about it until it’s out of court.

What would you consider the best kind of food you, yourself could make? Walking taco salad. Bomb af.

Is there anyone you are currently trying to get out of trouble? Why? Not “get out of trouble” like he did what he’s in “trouble” for, but I’m helping his case to prove his innocence. Why? Because he’s fucking innocent.

Are you one of those people who don’t like children of any kind at all? I used to be, then I had my babies.

If you have a television in your room, what color is it? What brand? Used to, but it’s downstairs now that the one in the living room broke. It’s Toshiba or something, I believe.

When is the next time you’ll eat out and what do you think you’ll get? Hmm, not sure. Possibly this weekend, but I wouldn’t know what we’d eat.

Are you planning on going anywhere today? Where are you going exactly? You asked already.

When was the last time you rode a horse, if you’ve ever ridden one? When I was 6-7, I think.

Are you plotting anything at the moment? If so, is this plot against anyone If by plotting, you mean “building a case”, then sure.

Do you hate it when people show public displays of affection in your face? If they’re literally doing it in my face and being obnoxious about it, then yes. But I don’t mind normal, mild PDA. Like holding hands and quick kisses. Nothing wrong with that. <<< Yes. Same.

Have you ever wanted your significant other to get rid of a friend? Okay, so hear me out. If that friend is toxic af, they need to learn to cut that person off ASAP before that “friend” drags them down. So yeah, I’ve asked significant others to cut off really toxic friends, but it’s always been up to them to do so or not.

If you have siblings, have they moved out or do they still live with you? We’ve all moved out other than my youngest sister, and none of them live with me.

Do you ever actually like going to Wal-Mart or is it regularly boring? Eh. I only go if I have to.

Do you have an iPod? What kind is it? iTouch, Nano, Classic, etc. No.

Do you own a computer that is a Mac or a PC? Why is this? PC, because I’m too poor to justify spending the money on a Mac.

Do you own any scarves? How many would you estimate yourself to have? Nope.

What kind of shoes are you planning on wearing today? Why is this? I wore sneakers because I wanted to.

Do you think it’s weird that some people actually shave their arms? I don’t care. That’s their prerogative.

Do you know anyone who has or has had any kind of mental illness/disorder? Yes.

Do you ever go to Blockbuster? How frequently would you say you go? Well let me rev up my time-travel machine!

Is your mother a stay-at-home mother or does she work somewhere? It was a mix. She worked for a while, then stayed at home. Then when my parents got divorced, she worked again for a while before she suddenly developed crippling anxiety & got disability (like her husband) and now doesn’t work at all. I don’t understand why she keeps paying for degrees if she’s unable to work anyway... like, save your damn money instead of wasting it.

What food would you just want to disappear off the face of the earth? Liver. Blech.

Do movies with super heroes intrigue you in any way? Why is this? Not “intrigue”, more like entertain.

Do you watch those late-night talk shows? What’s the best part about them? Not actively, but if a video comes across my timeline then I’ll watch it if it looks interesting.

Do you ever listen to music so you can actually change your emotion?

Doesn’t work, but sure.

[newstfionline]

How Noncompete Clauses Keep Workers Locked In

By Conor Dougherty, NY Times, May 13, 2017

Keith Bollinger’s paycheck as a factory manager had shriveled after the 2008 financial crisis, but then he got a chance to pull himself out of recession’s hole. A rival textile company offered him a better job--and a big raise.

When he said yes, it set off a three-year legal battle that concluded this past week but wiped out his savings along the way.

“I tried to get a better life for my wife and my son, and it backfired,” said Mr. Bollinger, who is 53. “Now I’m in my mid-50s, and I’m ruined.”

Mr. Bollinger had signed a noncompete agreement, designed to prevent him from leaving his previous employer for a competitor. These contracts have long been routine among senior executives. But they are rapidly spreading to employees like Mr. Bollinger, who do the kind of blue-collar work that President Trump has promised to create more of.

The growth of noncompete agreements is part of a broad shift in which companies assert ownership over work experience as well as work. A recent survey by economists including Evan Starr, a management professor at the University of Maryland, showed that about one in five employees was bound by a noncompete clause in 2014.

Employment lawyers say their use has exploded. Russell Beck, a partner at the Boston law firm Beck Reed Riden who does an annual survey of noncompete litigation, said the most recent data showed that noncompete and trade-secret lawsuits had roughly tripled since 2000.

“Companies of all sorts use them for people at all levels,” he said. “That’s a change.”

Employment lawyers know this, but workers are often astonished to learn that they’ve signed away their right to leave for a competitor. Timothy Gonzalez, an hourly laborer who shoveled dirt for a fast-food-level wage, was sued after leaving one environmental drilling company for another. Phillip Barone, a midlevel salesman and Air Force veteran, was let go from his job after his old company sent a cease-and-desist letter saying he had signed a noncompete.

Alan B. Krueger, a Princeton economics professor who was chairman of President Barack Obama’s Council of Economic Advisers, recently described noncompetes and other restrictive employment contracts--along with outright collusion--as part of a “rigged” labor market in which employers “act to prevent the forces of competition.”

By giving companies huge power to dictate where and for whom their employees can work next, noncompetes take a person’s greatest professional assets--years of hard work and earned skills--and turn them into a liability.

“It’s one thing to have a bump in the road and be in between jobs for a little while; it’s another thing to be prevented from doing the only thing you know how to do,” said Max Burton Wahrhaftig, an arborist in Doylestown, Pa., who in 2013 was threatened by his former employer after leaving for a better-paying job with a rival tree service. He was able to avoid a full-blown lawsuit.

Noncompetes are but one factor atop a great mountain of challenges making it harder for employees to get ahead. Globalization and automation have put American workers in competition with overseas labor and machines. The rise of contract employment has made it harder to find a steady job. The decline of unions has made it tougher to negotiate.

But the move to tie workers down with noncompete agreements falls in line with the decades-long trend in which their mobility and bargaining power has steadily declined, and with it their share of company earnings.

When a noncompete agreement is litigated to the letter, a worker can be barred or ousted from a new job by court order. Even if that never happens, the threat alone can create a chilling effect that reduces wages throughout the work force.

“People can’t negotiate when their company knows they won’t leave,” said Sandra E. Black, an economics professor at the University of Texas at Austin.

In 2011, Timothy Gonzalez started working as a labor hand for a company called Singley Construction. He was 18 years old and already a father, and the extent of his education was a high school equivalency test. In other words, he needed money and did not have many options.

Mr. Gonzalez started at a little over $10 an hour in a job he described as “pretty much shoveling dirt.” Nevertheless, he signed an employment contract that included a noncompete clause, enforceable for three years within 350 miles of Singley’s base in Columbia, Miss.

“All I heard--at that age and the situation I was in--was just, ‘If you want a paycheck, sign here,’ and so I signed there and went to work,” said Mr. Gonzalez, who is now 24 and lives in Milton, Fla.

Mr. Gonzalez was later promoted to a job where he operated an environmental drilling rig. After leaving the company two years ago, and subsequently taking a better-paying position with a competitor, Mr. Gonzalez was sued for violating his agreement not to compete.

Mr. Gonzalez’s new boss, Gary Hill, owner of Walker-Hill Environmental, an environmental drilling company, said he ignored the suit for two weeks because he didn’t believe it was real.

“I said, ‘There’s no way this will happen,’ but I’ll be danged if I didn’t have to attorney-up and fight the thing,” said Mr. Hill, who settled the case out of court. “It’s ridiculous--it’s slavery in the modern-day form.”

Representatives of Singley Construction declined to comment.

The surprise Mr. Gonzalez got is not uncommon. Many workers, not just blue collar but people who went to college or have an advanced degree, have only a vague understanding of what a noncompete is, and they are often asked to sign one when they have little chance to negotiate.

In a 2011 paper that surveyed technical workers who had signed noncompetes, Matthew Marx, a professor at the Sloan School of Management at M.I.T., found that employers typically presented workers with noncompete contracts when the employees lacked negotiating leverage, on their first day at work, for instance.

“By then, they had said yes to their company, and no to the other companies they were negotiating with,” Mr. Marx said.

Companies have always owned their employees’ labor, but today’s employment contracts often cover general knowledge as well. In addition to noncompete clauses, there are nonsolicitation and nondealing agreements, which prevent employees from calling or servicing customers they have worked with in the past. There are nonpoaching agreements that prevent employees from trying to recruit old colleagues.

Put it all together, and suddenly some of the main avenues for finding a better-paying job--taking a promotion with a competitor, being recruited by an old colleague--are cut off.

Companies say this is a natural reaction in an economy that is more about knowledge and less about sweat. Data makes up a larger share of many companies’ assets, and the more people work around the clock, and remotely, often switching between company-owned and personal devices, the more difficult it becomes to guard it.

“When a person takes a trade secret and walks across the street to another company, how am I going to know that?” said Paul T. Dacier, a longtime technology executive who was once general counsel for EMC Corporation (now Dell EMC), and today serves in the same position for an agriculture technology start-up called Indigo. “And when I do find out, it’s too late.”

The problem is that it can be hard to distinguish true intellectual secrets from the accumulated skills that make workers more valuable. And since few companies want to lose good workers or give out huge raises, these agreements are making their way down the economic ladder to people like hairstylists and sandwich makers, far removed from what is thought of as the knowledge economy.

Noncompete enforcement varies from state to state, and economists have used that disparity to study how they affect businesses and the economy. The results are almost universally negative: Wages, employment and entrepreneurship are all diminished when workers have little leverage to bargain with their employer or leave a job for a better opportunity.

Some workers end up idle, collecting unemployment and using programs like Medicaid. Many others take jobs well below their means, robbing the nation of their skills.

Two years ago, Phillip Barone left his job doing sales and marketing for a military magazine to take a similar job, with a pay increase of about 10 percent, at a rival publication. A few months later, his old employer sent a letter saying he had violated a noncompete agreement that barred him from working with other military publishers.

Since his new company was unwilling to defend him, and since he was unable to pay the legal bills himself, Mr. Barone resigned and lived on unemployment while looking for a new job, but found nothing. When his unemployment ran out, he took a $15-an-hour job with a landscape firm, where he whacked weeds and planted flowers.

“My whole mission was to do whatever I could to bring in some money to take care of my family and make sure nobody could take my house from me,” said Mr. Barone, who lives in Lake in the Hills, Ill.

Mr. Barone left his landscaping job this year and is now a sales manager elsewhere. And he will be free of his noncompete eventually.