#I’m watching death note right now and this is sending me from accuracy

[queerspacepunk]

Welcome to DADWC!! How about “A lifetime of laughter, at the expense of the death of a bachelor” (Panic! at the Disco, Death of a Bachelor) for Bull/Dorian?

thank u for the patience friend! I hadn't heard this song before but now I have. (Second @dadrunkwriting fill in one day? :0)

“You’re really going through with this, aren’t you?” “I really am. Are you disappointed?” Felix sighs, “I think you’re an idiot, and that this is a terrible idea but I’m also... strangely proud of you.”

To Blackwall, Cassandra, Cole, and 10 others: I was wondering if you would be free to join me tomorrow evening for... a memorial of sorts, for someone quite close to me.

To Blackwall, Cassandra, Cole, and 9 others: Room booked at the Herald’s Rest, tomorrow, 7PM.

To Sera: Room booked at the Herald’s Rest, tomorrow, 6:30PM.

From Josephine: Oh Dorian, I’m so sorry to hear this, of course we will be there! Might I ask, is this a recent loss?

To Josephine: Your presence is much appreciated. It’s something of a complicated story, I’m sure you won’t mind if I wait to tell you all at once, tomorrow evening.

From Josephine: No, of course not, forgive me for prying. Much love.

--

“You’re sure you don’t want to call this off?” Felix says through the phone.

“A little late for that now,” Dorian points out, “they’ll all be here shortly. What else can I do? Call them all and say, ‘sorry lied about the whole memorial thing, never mind’?”

“Isn’t the whole point of this that you’re lying to them?”

“Not lying,” Dorian says, “Misleading. It’s different. And I do think they’ll be a little too preoccupied to be mad, afterwards.”

“You’re really going through with this, aren’t you?”

“I really am. Are you disappointed?”

Felix sighs, “I think you’re an idiot, and that this is a terrible idea but I’m also... strangely proud of you.”

“Now, now,” Dorian admonishes gently, “there’s going to be enough sappiness later on, keep it together for me.”

Felix laughs, and Dorian can just about see him shaking his head.

“You sure you don’t want me to video call you in?”

“I’ll give the game away, just send me the recordings after, and Dorian?”

“Yes Felix?”

“Good luck.”

--

His friends arrive, almost entirely on time for once, in ones and twos and threes. Dorian greets them at the door to the private room, face solemn, and directs them to the seats he’s set out. There’s no faux coffin in the room -- he hadn’t wanted to get quite that morbid, but there is an indulgent spray of funeral flowers set at the front of the room.

Sera tries to ask questions, and is summarily shushed by Josephine. Cole tries to give answers and is dragged aside, informed, and shushed by Dorian. He doesn’t quite get it, but he must have a good feeling about the results because he keeps his mouth shut. Leliana seems to know something’s up, but is entertained enough to not say anything, and Bull gives Dorian a hell of a look, laced with enough concern that Dorian actually feels a little... guilty.

“Thank you all for coming,” Dorian says, once everyone is seated, and pulls out the stack of memorial pamphlets he’s had printed, “I appreciate your presence with me tonight, and your patience with what is a... complicated situation.”

He begins stepping around the circle, handing the pamphlets out.

“Er, Dorian,” Blackwall says, “I think there’s been a mix-up. They’ve put your picture on these.”

“Oh,” Dorian says, turning to the flowers to give him a moment to suppress the grin creeping onto his face, “no, that’s quite correct.”

“You better not be a bloody ghost!” Sera yelps, flinging her pamphlet at him as if to test her hypothesis. It manages, despite being a flat piece of paper that has no business being able to be thrown with any accuracy, to smack Dorian right in the face, which is unpleasant, but does at least seem to reassure her that he isn’t, in fact, a ghost.

None of the others seem particularly concerned that he’s undead, but there is a lot of muttering, and worried looks being pointed his way.

“You need an intervention or something, Pavus?” Krem asks with a frown, “cause I know that cries for help are actually a good thing and shit, and you Magisters-”

“Altus, Soporatus, you know better.”

“-fine, you Altus love your drama, but even this is a bit much.”

“I assure you,” Dorian says to the group at large, “this is not a cry for help.”

“You did just hand us all a funeral pamphlet with your face on it, Sparkler,” Varric points out.

“It’s not a funeral pamphlet, it’s a memorial pamphlet, and-”

“The dates are wrong,” Leliana interrupts, “The death date is a question mark so I cannot comment on that, however this is not your birthdate. You must have been... eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Eighteen,” Dorian confirms, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking a deep breath, “this has all gone rather off-track, hasn’t it. If you would all just hold your questions, and nonsense,” he throws a quick glare at both Sera and Krem, “and allow me to explain things, I think you’ll find it will benefit all of us.”

Bull, Dorian notes, is watching him very, very carefully. They haven’t seen each other since yesterday which isn’t entirely unusual, given Dorian insistence that they maintain their own homes up unto this point, even if he spends most nights in Bull’s bed or with Bull in his own, but he can tell that the fact he’s said nothing about any of this to Bull is concerning him.

Nothing to be done about it now. Nothing but going forward with the plan as intended.

“We are here, this evening,” Dorian says, “to consider, and honour the life of someone I believe we all care about. Someone who has, for many years been the life of our parties, a bringer of spectacular stories and an improver of our collective fashion sense.”

“What happened to ‘im?” Sera interjects. Dorian rolls his eyes but doesn’t grizzle.

“Nothing, as of yet,” Dorian reassures them, “but the bachelor of which we speak has, while not by anyone’s definition a selfless man, has decided that there are certain things worth sacrificing one’s life for.”

They look at him (with the exception of Cole of course, and Vivienne who’s grinning like she knows the answer is is utterly uninterested in giving hints to anyone else) like he’s spouting absolute gibberish. He’d hoped his friends would be a little more advanced in their thinking, but alas. If he has to help them along, so be it.

“How,” he says, “does one kill a bachelor?”

“Shoot ‘im!” Sera suggests.

“Blunt force trauma?” Krem asks, “to the head?”

Leliana hums quietly, “poison?”

“Blessed Maker,” Dorian says aghast, “what is wrong with you?”

“Hate to break it to you,” Herah points out, “but you did invite us all along to what is looking a lot like a fake memorial service for yourself. Your high horse is more of a rocking pony.”

Dorian rolls his eyes, “how long did it take you to think of that?”

Herah pouts, “a couple of minutes.”

“Well done, regardless,” Dorian admits, “now you’ve all had enough time to think. Varric, surely you’ll know. How does one kill a bachelor?

“Explosion?”

“Oh for-” Dorian throws his hands in the air and turns away from them all, trying to come up with a plan B for how he’s going to make this happen. He can tell them the answer, of course, but it won’t be at all the same and someone figuring it out themselves-

“Oh,” Cassandra says, “of course.”

Dorian spins back to look at her, as does everyone else in the room, and she flushes.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she insists, “to kill a bachelor, you marry him.”

They all stare at Cassandra a moment before turning, slowly, to Dorian, who has taken advantage of their distraction to sink to his knee, and pull the ring box from his pocket.

“The Iron Bull,” he says, and he’s not choking up dammit, of course he isn’t, he’s practiced this too many time for that to happen, “I have been a bachelor for over a decade now, and I have thought for some time that it was something I would never give up. That I could not ask for more than what I had.”

“Dorian-” Bull says and there must be something wrong with the acoustics in here, because now he sounds like his voice is cracking and there’s not way that can be the truth.

“Hush,” Dorian says, gently, “let me finish.”

Bull does, closes his mouth and leans back in his chair but not before taking Dorian’s hand in his own, and holding it.

“Right,” Dorian says, “as I was saying. Bull you have come along and swept everything out from under me. Shown me that there is in fact, a whole other life to be had. A life full of laughter, a life full of love, and safety, and honesty.”

And bugger it all he is crying now, and he can only thank the Maker for the fact that he’s a pretty crier.

“I have realised,” Dorian says, “that this is a life I want, even if it comes at the expense of the death of a bachelor.”

He opens the box. It wasn’t easy convincing someone to make an untinted dawnstone ring, or managing to get the measurements without Bull noticing, but he’s done it.

“The Iron Bull, will you marry me?”

[iliveiloveiwrite]

make up lies and say goodbyes and meet me at the door // J.P. (celebration fic)

Request: James, secret relationship, angst 13, fluff 8. The burrow? Idk u can pick. But please let it have a happy ending 🥺. I’m fragile 😂 - @leahstypewriter

Angst 13: “All I wanted was a happy ending.”

Fluff 8: “Marry me?”

A/N: Title is from Emily Kinney - Married (I also use a lyric in this). I think I need to google the definition of ‘blurb’ because I keep writing fics and they just get longer and longer! This is my first time writing for James with anything longer than a headcanon so I’m not wholly confident on this piece - however, I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: James Potter x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none - FLUFF, FLUFF, FLUFF.

Word count: 1.8k

Spring time at the Burrow is a sight that one cannot experience simply on their first visit. It takes a few visits to the home of the Weasley family for it to truly settle in that the home is a home. The christening of the entire Weasley brood was something to witness that once could only witness once; Molly Weasley controlling her children with an expert hand as they all lined up in the church. It was a lovely ceremony to see.

James sat by your side through it all; so close you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. All through the service, you had to restrain yourself from straddling the man in a place of worship. It wouldn’t be good for the vicar, and it wouldn’t good for the fact that you hadn’t gone public yet.

Returning to the Burrow, a marquee had been put up for party-goers. Following the rest of the guests, you find the long dark hair marking Sirius, and make a note of which table he sits down at. You make your way to the buffet table; grabbing a plate and whatever food you can. You only feel more ravenous at the sight of it; barely having time this morning to eat as with each attempt to leave the bed, James only pulled you back down.

You don’t have to see James to know that it’s him standing next to you. The charged atmosphere between the two of you is what alerts you to his presence.

A slight brush of his fingers against yours as he reaches for a plate of food. A slight brush of his fingers and it’s enough for you to crave all of his attention. He quirks his eyebrow at your obvious intake of breath; he knows what he does to you and he enjoys winding you up the best he can.

You take a seat next to Sirius; ignoring the way James sends a pointed look in your direction. Sirius immediately draws you into conversation with him and Remus, laughing over the rim of his drink. Sirius takes it upon himself to point out the members of the Weasley family stemming from the House of Black – he points towards Arthur’s mother, Cedrella and introduces her as his great-aunt somewhere along the lines of three or four times removed. You snort at Sirius’ lack of accuracy to which he points out that for the last few years, he had been living with James until he got his own place.

Shaking your head, you turn away from Sirius, careful not to catch eyes with James for the fear of not being able to control yourself once again. Your eyes dance around the marquee; happy to have been invited to such an event – an added extra by Sirius who didn’t want to face the extended and disowned side of his family alone.

Your eyes continue to travel around the marquee; taking in the decorations lovingly made by the Weasley children as well as the children themselves. The five young boys seemed to be running amok – their laughter filling the air as they race each around the tent. You can’t help but smile at the sight; each boy looking so happy.

It wasn’t something you realised you yearned for. A family. But watching Molly chase after her children with the largest smile on her face; watching Arthur lift young George onto his shoulders, you realise that you yearned for it all.

The wedding, the house, the family. Everything. You longed for it all to be with James; you felt silly for wanting this so early in your relationship, but just by being in his very presence it was hard not to want to spend an eternity with him.

All day it had been hard to find a moment for yourselves even when the party had moved from the marquee to the house; wanting nothing more than to spend a few minutes alone with James, but each time you got close, you were pulled in another direction by a child or by one of Sirius’ relatives to meet another aunt or uncle.

It was draining.

Keeping your relationship secret was a mutual decision; especially in the early months – the relationship was barely three months old; you were still in the process of getting to know one another romantically and work out how well you clicked together. The long friendship beforehand definitely helped, but keeping James to yourself was something you needed to do.

The atmosphere in the house becomes stifling the more you think about your relationship. You stand from your seat, sending a small smile in James’ direction when he looks over to you with a puzzled expression on his face. Your smile does nothing to calm the concern he feels as he watches you walk out the door, wondering what caused this change.

The evening air is warm when you step outside to catch your breath. Sitting down on one of the many benches, you take in gulps of the fresh air.

“Love?” James’ voice sounds. He takes a tentative seat next to you on the bench, carefully placing his hand between the two of you – knowing he cannot reach out to take you in his arms but wanting you to know that he would if he could.

“I’ve never seen somewhere so beautiful,” You murmur absentmindedly; eyes pouring over the horizon of the slowly setting sun.

James hums in agreement, “It is lovely here.”

You don’t reply. You aren’t entirely sure what else to say to him; instead, you keep your focus on the horizon – the sun setting, the bright and sweet smelling flowers, the beginnings of a vegetable patch. It’s a little slice of heaven, you realise.

“Do you want to talk about earlier?” James prompts. Keeping your secret from everyone was not the endgame, but the both of you simply desired some time to yourselves – to learn each other, to get used to each other, to selfishly love each other before letting other people interfere.

“All I wanted was a happy ending, James. I’m finding hard to keep us a secret when I’m so desperate for a happy ending.”

He grips your hands with such ferocity you’re worried he’ll break the bones, “Then let’s have a happy ending.”

“What do you mean?”

“Marry me?”

The breath leaves your body in one huff, “What?”

“Marry me.”

“James, I can’t believe this is happening. It’s only been a few months.”

“And? I’m certain of this and I’m certain of you. Would you marry me and always be mine?”

You bite your lip; thinking of every outcome that could fall from your marrying James. There could be no denying your feelings for the man; they were something you had felt for over a year until he asked you out to dinner. The yearning you felt earlier was back; churning in your gut as begin to think of a future with James as your husband through sickness and health, till death do you part. 

You smile widely at James, “Let’s make our excuses and go.”

“Why?”

“I want to marry you James Potter, and I want to marry you now.”

James’ eyes glisten with unshed tears at your words, and he rushes off to find the lads and the Weasley’s to thank them for the offer of staying, but you both really must rush off as you have an early start at work, and he has an early morning meeting that he cannot miss.

Sirius furrows his brows at James’ words but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns to you with nothing but curiosity burning in his gaze. You smile softly at the man who had become something akin to a brother through your time with the marauders; through your time with James.

“Do you want us to set up a floo?” Molly asks kindly, bouncing a half asleep Fred on her lap.

You shake your head, “We’ll apparate back, we don’t mind. It saves on powder then.”

Molly nods; smiling at the two of you.

You say your goodbyes to the rest of the Marauders; they comment that they’ll see you tomorrow. You hold out your hand to James; he takes it and in less than a second, you’ve left the Burrow.

---------

James runs down the steps of the town hall; puffing slightly from how many there are, “It’s closed. We have to come back tomorrow for a license.”

“I get that, but why do you look so sad?”

James laughs, tugging you to him, “I really wanted to marry you tonight.”

Your thumb rubs across his cheek, “We still can, love.”

“How?”

“Well are the two of us present? We can do the official paperwork and aisle walking another day, but we can always say our vows to one another right now.”

“Right now?”

“Right now,” You confirm, “What do you think? Do you still want to marry me?”

“There’s nothing I want more.”

Underneath the now twinkling stars, vows are whispered, and make-do rings are created from some twine found in James’ pocket. Underneath the night sky, you pull him for your first kiss as husband and wife – the both of you making it difficult from the smiles on your faces.

It isn’t official – far from it. There are no witnesses; no minister. Only you, James, and the stars. But it’s perfect.

“When do we tell the lads? When do we tell our parents?”

“We’ll call them with our news in the morning, but for now…” You trail off with a sly smile.

“For now?”

“You’re all mine.”

-----

You wake up in James’ arms to the sound of crashing in your kitchen and the tell-tale swearing of Sirius Black. “James,” You groan, “Your friends are in the kitchen.”

James yawns, “I know. They woke me too.”

You sigh, opening your eyes, “Do we go down together?”

He nods, “Why not? They’re going to find out anyway.”

You stretch, “I like the sound of that.”

James smiles sleepily, “You know what I like the sound of?”

“What?”

“Kissing my wife good morning.”

You laugh; happily obliging the wish of your husband.

Yawning, you follow James downstairs where you meet Remus, Sirius and Peter clattering about in the kitchen, making a racket as they try to make some breakfast. They each call out their own greeting; their eyes not missing the way you came downstairs together.

“Where did you two rush off to last night?” Sirius asks; a smirk on his face.

“We got married,” James states clearly; leaving no room for any misunderstanding.

Remus chokes on his drink; Sirius drops his mug of tea; Peter silently moves the frying pan off the hob to save the food from burning.

“You did what?” Sirius all but yells.

James reaches for your hand, “We didn’t get married, married. But we will be doing today.”

Sirius remains speechless; eyes flitting between you, James and your joined hands, “When did you get together?”

You look at James, “Almost three months ago.”

“And you didn’t tell us then?”

You shrug, “We wanted to keep it to ourselves for a while.”

Remus nods, “ I get that, but getting married so soon? Are you sure?”

The both of you nod; only looking at each other, “We’re sure.”

Sirius claps his hands together, calling the room’s attention to him, “Then we better get ready.”

********

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[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Prompt List #9 - Historical Aus/Prompts (Requested)

@viseriyen I know your focus was more 18th century France, but I never covered that during my degree, my focus was more 19th century Britain. This has a variety of historical aus/prompts, they won’t all be relevant and I can’t guarantee their historical accuracy for France, but I hope they help, give you ideas etc. 

“I can’t...you know I have no control over my marriage. I can’t even divorce him...I have nothing to hold against him.” “Then give him something to divorce you for.” “And tarnish my good name?” 

AU in which character a is desperately in love with character b, but can’t divorce their husband because divorce laws make it nigh on impossible for ‘wives’ to divorce their husbands without a ‘legitimate reason’. 

Intense heated love letters because we have to keep our distance and can’t do anything that would jeopardise our positions or our reputations. But, I can send you lusty love letters that you hide under your pillow instead. 

Illegitimate child/unwed pregnancy and the trials of being together, loving your child together but knowing they have little standing in society and the way people treat you because of that.

Fan language AU -> https://raulersongirlstravel.com/language-of-fans/#The_Language_of_the_Fan 

My parents are trying to marry me off and you're the latest person they’ve brought to show me off to and I don’t want to like you, but I kind of do. You clearly don’t want to be here anymore than me. 

The smallest touch is the most intense. 

You went off to war and come back after a long campaign the papers have been reporting on. You have appear gruff, mean, and cold to everyone else, but are soft with me. 

The typical trope of hardened, gruff character a who melts around character b. 

(19th c) I’m the town’s school teacher and you’re the gruff wanderer/traveller/cowboy/outlaw/etc. That’s come to town. You help me fix the school house and wrangle the little demons I teach. 

Sweetheart trinkets, like embroidered handkerchiefs, engraved jewellery, hidden message rings, carved trinkets etc. Especially a ‘here I made this for you or I had this made for you’. 

Letters that were never sent. After character a’s death the letters are found and posted to or given to character b revealing the unsaid feelings. 

We compete for top spot in school in spelling, mathematics, science etc. School rivals.

Character a bathing in a river, character b awkwardly stumbling upon them all apologetic or alternatively character a bathing in a river and character b protecting them from some no good ruffians. 

Horse rides; for leisure, maybe character a was stranded and has to share a horse with character b, being stuck in a carriage together. 

Childhood rivals who finally see each other after years of being apart, maybe because of boarding school/finishing school or otherwise. The horrible realisation that your rival is now hot and also can keep up with you in conversation. 

Those gentle kisses to the top of a hand or gentle touches between gloved hands. Gentle hands!!! Gentle kisses!! All demure and totally appropriate but with hidden meaning and heat. 

Childhood friends who haven’t seen each other since they were little and are now betrothed and oh my, you’re beautiful/handsome and I am not prepared for this.

We’re betrothed but have only ever communicated through letters and this is our first ever meeting and i’m petrified you aren’t going to be the person I know through letters

Perfume scented letters, secret code, love poems, and dried flowers. Sent long distances to you with love. 

Contraception catalogues and the very specific packaging of sheaths (aka early condoms) as things like pill boxes, ladies power boxes, cigarettes, etc. to hide them. Do with this as you will. 

I am spinster, you are a bachelor and we have a rivalry because how dare you get paid more than me and while i’m compared to a rotten egg. Alternatively, I am spinster by choice and refuse to marry, but you are making this very very hard. 

Gals being pals, boys being ‘mates’, the known cases of boarding school love between same sex couples and also we’re both spinsters/bachelours and work together in our intellectual studies and we’re totally not in love...no sireee. 

Oscar Wilde had a thing working class and military kink so do with that what you will, i’m sure you could make a upperclass/working class au/couple. One’s rough, resilient, hard working, and one’s dainty, far too spoiled and brattish but they both like each other somehow. 

You’re gruff and rough/snappy, rude, but I can see how sweet you are to horses, animals, kids, and I know there’s a softer side beneath all of that. 

It’s my first ‘season’ and you save me from all these men/women sniffing around me trying to get my attention. 

Scandalous private time i.e. we’re supposed to be chaperoned but here we are in the garden on our own together or in the woods alone or in a small corner without a chaperone and what would people say. 

Character a defending character b’s honour. 

You’re my second in a duel/I’m your second in a duel, please don’t die

All the duels, duelling each other, duelling for the other, defending the other’s honour etc. 

You look beautiful but dear god why are there so many layers! 

I just spent an hour drawing you a bath bucket by bucket because I love you, but i’m a hot mess right now as a result. 

You break social convention for my comfort. I.e. something like you forgo allowing people to watch our wedding night because you want me to be comfortable or you refuse to allow some other stupid tradition that you know scares/intimidates/upsets me. 

Over the top professions of love. 

“I would die, without an answer to my feelings. I would die here. My breath would choke in my throat, my blood run cold, and my selfish heart stop. I cannot live without answer, without knowing whether my feelings are returned or not.” 

Character a being the dotting husband/wife/partner and helping character b get out of all that ridiculous clothing so they can cuddle and sleep. Who needs maids and servants when you have a life partner. 

I want a partnership, a kindred spirit, a soul mate, not a servant.  You want the same thing. I am awed by this.  (possibly + we’re rivals, childhood enemies etc.) 

Your family don’t approve of me, and mine don’t approve of you. I wish we could simply run away, but that’s a foolish dream. 

Educated woman expects man to talk about her wandering womb and how education will make her insane and barren, instead finds man actually wants to hold an intellectual conversation with her and they strike up and unexpected friendship and then love. 

Character a denying themselves of character b because they don’t feel good enough or because they feel it would be selfish maybe because they’re in a war or because they can’t provide what they feel character b deserves. Character b is not here for this bullshit. 

We get trapped in a small cabin in a snowstorm together wild west au. 

We get trapped in any small space in any time period au

I would say we should stop having children but I love each and every one of them and I love you too. Large family AU.

We’ve just lost our child in infancy, grief, hurt/comfort. 

You’re in labour and i’m terrified for you. I am not allowed in the birthing chamber and the midwife would murder me if I tried. 

Alternatively, I refuse to not be present for the birth of our child and don’t care what anyone says. I'm here to support you and will be physically in the room. 

You’re competing for my affections but you never had to compete because you always had them. 

You do not have to duel everyone for me over the smallest slight, look now you’ve gone and hurt yourself and I suppose I’ll have to give you my favourite handkerchief to deal with it.

I am pro royalist and you are pro-republic. I should hate you, you should hate me, but god if you aren’t all consuming. 

You’re one of my suitors and the gifts you bring me aren’t jewels or flowers, but books, microscopes, telescopes, knowledge. I like the way you think and seem to seem me.

I am nearly trampled by someone’s horse in the street, but you step in just in time to get me out of the way even though it puts you in danger yourself

Despite the cost of sugary treats you always turn up to my parlour with some sort of sweet and I know they’re not the cheapest. 

Anything involving a copper bathtub is a vibe. 

I always look for your seal on my letters. Yours is the first letter I read and the one I treasure most. 

I have kept every note, every little, every little thing you’ve ever written or drawn for me.

If images inspire you you might find my other blog @theillustratedmagazine helpful. It has 20th and 19th century illustrations. 

[seihun]

This is just a random request that popped into my head one day but how would a sehun simp over someone he likes? Btw your work always makes my day (and I'm sure several other people's) better🥺

AHHHH you’re so cute 🥺🥺 asks like these really make my day too i hope you guys know that!! i don’t know if you wanted my Thoughts or like a fake texts about this, but i do have Thoughts so i figured i would share some hehe

first of all i want to say that even though sehun might be a brat and will probably wanna call his friends out for being simps, he actually holds his tongue bc he might just be the biggest one himself

(he’s not it’s probably junmyeon, but then again where do you think sehun learned it from??)

i know the word simp is actually like guys making fun of each other for..... literally just wanting to be around and doting on their gfs or vice versa but let’s take in the purest sense of someone who just really wanna be there for their s/o right 

sehun might be the most lowkey simp in the game but he’s still one of them LOL if you take that literal definition

for one, i just think sehun’s someone who likes spending time with you in any form, even if you’re not Doing anything together; which makes you one of his favorite people for that exact reason 

even if he just comes over to nap on your shoulder, he would much rather do that than sit by and watch as suyeol yell at each other over a game of mario kart

so yeah if sehun’s with his friends or other people and you ask him to come over or if he’s free, he’s suddenly very free

nothing could making him happier than going to spend time with you honestly

also on the note of leaving people to be with you, the thing with sehun is that he’s a little babie 

but you probably already knew that

so he won’t Ask you to drop things for him, and will consciously not ask you to do something if he knows you’re busy (and he knows when you’re busy because he’s memorized your schedule) 

(except “busy” doesn’t equate with studying outside of regular school hours aka friday night to sunday evening, if you think you can ditch him for your textbook during those hours you’re wrong) 

(i mean if you have a big exam the following monday he’s not going to purposefully piss you off and distract you, but he will make sure you’re being healthy and going to bed at a decent hour, and he’ll supervise you [re: cuddle you to sleep] himself if he has to)

now he also doesn’t want to pry or come off as whiny (even tho he’s a little whiny), so he also won’t Ask you to spend more time with him than ‘necessary’

which is why if YOU happen to ask him to come over to do something, he’s already on his way LOL doesn’t matter what he was previously doing 

that’s really when the simp in him jumps out lmao 

but he has no shame in his game around his friends

again if suyeol are just bickering about something dumb, sehun will just grab his keys and be like “i’m leaving i’ll see you idiots later”

and when they do in fact see him again later, and ask where he went sehun will just shrug and be like “(name) needed me for something”

(needed is a strong word and really you just asked if he was free but chanyeol and junmyeon don’t need to know all of that)

he’s also very willing to do new things with you, even if it’s something he might not like, or that his friends have tried to convince him of before

“i can’t hang on saturday, (name) and i are going to the drive through petting zoo”

“sehun, i thought you hate and are afraid of all animals that aren’t vivi??”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about. besides s/o already bought the tickets so you’re gonna have to find somebody else to crush you in smash this weekend sorry baek”

he also strikes me as an attentive kinda person like i mentioned with knowing your schedule

the kind of boyfriend (or even just friend) to remember small details about your day, or your general life, or will observe them himself

he’ll take note of what kind of shoes you prefer to wear when going out on dates vs going to class vs doing something else, how many pillows you sleep with, little eating habits, he’ll even remember the names of your profs if you mention them to him 

so the simp in him makes sure all your favorite things are nice and neat and plentiful and in good condition

but he’ll never tell you he did it or if you point it out/find out he’ll just shrug and be like “you needed new pillows anyway. your old ones were getting flat.”

oh and i can’t forget potential drama and gossip you might share with him about your own friends or class

my god does sehun gobble that shit up 

that doesn’t really make him a simp but if you repeatedly tell him about susan from your calc class and he happens to see her on campus he may or may not send her a silent death glare in solidarity with you 

i think if you and sehun both listened to a new album, he’d be able to predict which songs would be your favorites with near perfect accuracy, he’s just that kinda guy

the type to drop off coffee for you while you’re working in the library, kiss the top of your head, and then walk away without saying a word

the biggest sucker for matching items but he kinda just... gets them for you guys and doesn’t say anything about it 

if you point it out eventually like “hey now we have the same scarf” he’ll be like hmm i guess we do and then let you take as many selfies with him as you want

but god forbid anyone of his friends point is out LOL

overall sehun the simp really just gives you all his time and attention which we know we know doesn’t make him simp just a good, attentive boyfriend 

(that's not gonna stop him from getting teased about it tho hehe)

[discotreque]

Disco 3.09: Terra Firma (Part 1)

That scene of [spoiler] flat on the ground getting just systematically pummeled by [spoiler]—punch after punch after punch after punch—was a perfect metaphor for what the themes this season have been doing to me emotionally. It’s been a pleasant, if occasionally heart-wrenching, surprise to feel something about this show besides “whoa, cool CGI!” or bone-chilling dread—but hopefully Season 4 won’t feel quite so much like it’s being aired directly at me.

So I went zero for two on last week’s predictions in the first goddamn scene, lmao. Turns out the post-TNG combadge on Vor’s early-TNG uniform was just a VFX mixup in the trailer, since he’s seen with the correct oval-backed delta in the actual episode—so that’s neither a meaningful plot element nor a cute inside joke about historical accuracy over the centuries, shame. Still got to see Gersha Phillips’s take on a spandex front-zip, though—that piping! *chef’s kiss*

I also thought Georgiou’s condition was “obviously” something engineered by David Cronenberg’s character (subtitles say his name is Kovich). Apparently he didn’t cause what’s happening to her; he’s just here to explain it. Now if only he’d explain what the fuck is up with his tie...

Speaking of the unfortunate Lt. Cmdr. Yor—he was from the fucking Kelvin timeline??? I wasn’t sure they’d ever acknowledge that in prime canon—and I don’t think the mainline Trek universe has ever been called “the prime universe” diagetically until now, either. (“Why not The Mongooses? That’s a good team name! The Fighting Mongooses.”) I especially love what a small connection it is: one guy crossed over from there, a long time ago, in what was apparently a one-off incident. (He also arrived a year before Lower Decks S1 is set—will we see an animated Vor on the Cerritos next year?)

Tilly: *aggressively eats lunch with you*

You can see how the hope and idealism of Discovery’s crew has softened Admiral Vance—his conversation with Captain Saru was so mentorly and almost tender that it gave me the terrible, terrible feeling that his character growth, and especially his soft “See you when you get back,” mean that he’s definitely going to be killed by Ossyra before they actually get back :(

Likewise, Georgiou’s goodbye scene with Saru and Tilly was a transparent attempt to manipulate my emotions, and guess what? I was successfully manipulated 😭😭😭

As a “computer person” myself, I found Adira forgetting to un-pause their descrambling program—then thinking, since it wasn’t running, it had broken—almost painfully relatable 😩 Also in that scene, Stamets sticks up for Gray’s presumable intentions in (sorry for this...) ghosting Adira (...it was right there!), and Adira says, correctly, “but he doesn’t get to decide what’s good for me”—and speaking of painfully relatable moments, I loved Stamets’s reaction there.

When you’re an adult of a certain age and you’re talking to someone a fair bit younger, you’re sometimes confronted with the uncomfortable reality that wisdom rarely comes from quantity of experience alone. To grow wise, you have to experience things that teach you important lessons, and you have to be willing to learn from those things. That can happen at 16 or 46, and realizing it’s more about luck than time when you’re closer to 46 than 16 can give you a little existential vertigo. It’s a lovely grace note in Stamets and Adira’s relationship (and Anthony and Blu’s performances!) that Paul doesn’t always have the high ground when it comes to emotional intelligence.

SPEAKING OF PERFORMANCES, just drive a truck full of Emmy statues up to the Martin-Green household and dump it out on the lawn. Every one of Prime Michael’s pangs of hurt and confusion and desperate affection for Phillipa comes through loud and clear—and Mirror Michael is just unhinged. Sonequa Martin-Green is one of the greatest acting talents any Star Trek production has ever had, she’s clearly having the time of her life sinking her teeth into this role, and it’s a genuine fucking privilege to watch her work every week. I can’t decide whether I want Evil Michael Burnham to have a SUPERLATIVELY AWESOME death scene or show up again down the line as a recurring villain—but this is Star Trek, so you never know, we could easily get both.

David Ajada shows up to collect a paycheque, ask Saru if there’s room in the A-plot yet for Book (not this week, sadly), and walk around looking like the goddamn Wikipedia entry for "compulsory heterosexuality" in yet another long black sweater from H&M’s 2019 "Gender? I don’t know her" collection. (Face it: there’s no man more attractive than a fictional one written by a lesbian.)

I guessed last week (privately; no points) that the barren planet we saw them on in the trailers was going to have some kind of Guardian of Forever situation, but I didn’t expect Paul Guilfoyle to be there, and I did not expect Carl—who, sort of like how Book has a Star Wars vibe, feels right out of Doctor Who.

(The only other headline in Carl’s newspaper that I could make out, by the way, besides the big one about the emperor, was about the USS Jenolan having gone missing—the ship that crashed into the Dyson Sphere with Scotty in its transporter buffer, as seen in TNG’s “Relics.” Easter egg? Or plot point???)

Michelle Yeoh has been so great in so many ways on this show, but she outdoes herself in this episode, in every single scene. Just like Michael Burnham, Georgiou was conceived as a one-season character—she wasn’t designed to have room to grow—and Season 2 didn’t really do anything to write her out of that corner. Season 3, though, has done a really compelling job of giving her interesting things to do and interesting ways to change.

And sending her back to the motherfucking Mirror Universe is possibly the most interesting way to show just how much she has changed, holy shit. (I guess Carl didn’t read about the Interdimensional Displacement Restrictions in that newspaper of his.)

There are two legitimate reasons for sending characters to an AU with extremely out-of-character doppelgangers: to highlight something about our regulars through contrast, and/or to let the actors vamp. The MU arc in Season 1 was grim and almost entirely joyless, and didn’t really shine a light on anything in the prime universe—it was just a generic escalation of stakes for our heroes. The Klingon War was the frying pan, and the MU was the fire.

This time we actually learn things about these people: Georgiou, of course, but also that the “real” Captain Killy has a lot more of Prime Tilly’s trademark nervous disposition than Prime Tilly pretending to be Captain Killy. (Too bad Killy’s destined to get blown up by Klingons with the ISS Disco in the Prime Universe.) It was also a ton of fun to see Rhys and Owo as deadly rivals, Rekha Sharma as Evil(...er?) Landry again, and Bryce throwing knives in the mess hall—at, please correct me if I’m wrong, a brunette Hannah Cheeseman as an un-augmented Airiam?????

Also, I don’t know why they got Mirror Stamets of all people (inventor of the evil spore drive—not, as far as we know, also an evil slam poet) for that dramatic recital at the evil ribbon dance, except I know exactly why: he’s played by Anthony Rapp, who’s a goddamn treasure. And Georgiou changed the timeline here—Mirror Stamets was still alive to get phasered by Mirror Lorca in S1—but I hope we come back to the MU in Season 5 and Stamets is somehow, inexplicably, still around—only to get killed in a hilariously blasé way again, because—again—he genuinely sucks at like, the logistics of betraying people.

Finally, those adorable little DOT-7 drones... but make them eeeeeeeevil.

Next week: We must leave behind all of that which destroys us. A mood for 2021 if ever I’ve heard one. (Plus, Mirror Saru grabs a dude—either Mirror Culber or someone else in medical red—and bodyslams said dude into the ceiling, which... is also a mood for 2021, tbh.)

[ejzah]

A/N: This chapter is a little filler-y, but it felt necessary to move things along. Hope you still enjoy.

***

The Agent and the Lawyer, Part 7

Deeks settled in the low wicker seat across from Hetty, taking in the antiques and pictures that decorated her space. It was an odd, and seemingly random collection of things, but somehow it fit.

Hetty poured two cups of tea, carefully sliding one towards Deeks. She took a sip of her own, scrutinizing him over the top of her teacup. He felt the bizarre urge to fix his hair and check his shirt for wrinkles even though he’d stopped off in the bathroom to straighten up after sparring with Kensi.

“Are you happy with your current position, Mr. Deeks?” she asked abruptly.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean by that, Miss Lange,” he responded after a minute, trying to figure out what she was leading up to.

“Most people call me Hetty,” she corrected with a slight smirk. “And I’m asking if you find providing legal representation to the rich and somewhat famous rewarding.”

“I don’t know if rewarding is the right term, but I certainly appreciate making enough to live very comfortably and provide services to people who can’t afford to hire a lawyer.” He knew it was a non-answer, but it was the best she was getting for the moment.

“Ah yes, your pro bono work. I was very interested in that part of your file.” Deeks straightened, suddenly on full alert.

“Why do you have a file on me?” he asked, instantly on alert and reassessing the woman in front of him.

“Because I’m interested in you,” Hetty said as though it made perfect sense.

“With all due respect, you had no business wading through my life, just to curb your curiosity.”

“I assure you, it has nothing to do with idle curiosity, Mr. Deeks. I always run background checks on people I wish to employ.” Her tone was just as calm as before, but held a faint note of admonishment. Deeks blinked at her a couple times.

“Wait, you’re offering me a job?” he asked and Hetty nodded. “Why? I have no experience with law enforcement. I think my first and last undercover gig the other day proved that.”

“I thought you did remarkably well,” Hetty disagreed. “You exhibited many skills that I admire and in expect in an agent.”

“I have no desire to become an agent,” Deeks told her firmly, surprised when she smiled and tapped his hand. She reached into her desk drawer, pulling out an application.

“Good. Because I’m not looking for a new agent at this moment. Instead, I’m offering you a position as our legal consultant.” Hetty set the application in front of him. “All you need to do is sign your name at the bottom.”

Deeks flipped through the papers in semi-disbelief. She had filled it out, with a level of accuracy than left him feeling vaguely disconcerted and violated.

He set the papers back down, shaking his head.

“Hetty, I’m a founding partner at my law firm. There’s no way I could be here every day. Even if I wanted to.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t need to come in every day,” Hetty reassured him. “I would simply ask you to be present during cases where your legal expertise is required.”

“Why me?” Deeks asked, narrowing his eyes. There was something sketchy going on, but he couldn’t figure out just what. “I bet there are a hundred lawyers who are better qualified for this position.”

Hetty pursed her lips, regarding him for a moment.

“You have skills Mr. Deeks. You are highly intelligent, quick on your feet, and your attention to detail is bar none from what I’ve seen and heard.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to flatter me?” Deeks asked, keeping his voice light. Hetty smirked again and nodded.

“Perhaps I am, but I would very much like to have you join this team,” she admitted, then pushed the application in his direction. “What are your thoughts?”

“I think it’s insane,” he said honestly.

“Well, be that as it may, I would like you to seriously consider my offer.” Deeks huffed out an incredulous laugh and ruffled his bangs.

“Ok, I will consider it, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” He checked his watch, muttering under his breath. “I really need to get too court now. Whatever magic you used on Dansit isn’t going to last all day.”

“Of course. I hope to speak with you again soon, Mr. Deeks,” she said, picking her cup up again and peering at him over the top.

***

“What did Hetty want?” Kensi asked, catching Deeks by the arm as soon as he stepped down from Hetty’s office and dragging him into the hallway.

“She offered me a job,” Deeks told her as the walked farther into the tunnel and apparently away from prying ear. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the last 15 minutes.

“She what?”

“She wants me to act as a legal consultant for your team.” Kensi stopped walking, leading Deeks into a small alcove and shook her head.

“But why?” she said, then hastily added, “No offense, but we already have lawyers we can consult when necessary.”

“I was just as surprised as you are,” Deeks admitted.

“Well, are you going to accept?” He shook his head, having no problem sharing his decision with Kensi.

“Probably not. I mean last week was fun and everything, but near death experiences really aren’t my thing.” He could have sworn there was a brief moment of disappointment on Kensi face, but then it was gone and she was smirking at him.

“Yeah, it’s probably for the best,” she agreed. “I mean, that hair alone is a liability.” Deeks laughed and she looked inordinately pleased with herself.

“Touché,” he said. He realized that once again they had drifted closer to each other. Kensi seemed to notice too and hastily stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ear.

“I’ll walk you out.” They took their time walking to the door, lingering just outside for longer than necessary. Eventually Kensi shrugged and said, “Who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime. It was nice meeting you, Deeks.”

She started to turn away and caught at her hand, pulling her back around. It was a risky move, but Kensi didn’t resist. She actually looked a little relieved.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said, holding his breath. Kensi’s eyes widened slightly and then she tilted her head, eyeing him speculatively.

“Like a date?” she asked, smirking at him again.

“No, not a date date. Just dinner between friends. I mean, unless you want it to be a date.” He realized he was rambling and wondered how Kensi Blye managed to turn him into a bumbling idiot so easily.

“Oh, so we’re friends now?”

“Something like that.” She continued to stare at him, sending a shiver up his spine as her gaze lingered on him.

“I suppose dinner with you doesn’t sound too awful,” she decided.

“Is that a yes?”

“I’ll call you when I get off,” Kensi told him, reaching for the door. “Oh, and I like Mexican,” she threw over her shoulder.

Deeks grinned, feeling happier than he had in a very long time. As he walked to his car, he pulled out his phone to call his favorite Mexican restaurant.

***

Kensi closed the door behind her and sagged against it. She’d just agreed to have dinner with Marty Deeks. She closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath, reminding herself that it most definitely was not a date. As long as she kept telling herself that, everything would be alright.

“Kensi, you ok?” Callen asked and her eyes snapped open. She straightened up hastily, forcing a chuckle.

“Oh, yeah, you know I was just showing Deeks out,” she explained, making a vague gesture. Luckily, Callen didn’t question her explanation. He seemed preoccupied.

“Hetty offered him a job,” he said, frowning at the door. He didn’t seem pleased and Kensi tried to appear surprised by the information. Deeks hadn’t asked her to keep it a secret, but somehow she didn’t think delving into their conversation would be a good idea.

“What did he say?”

“Hetty, said he hadn’t made a decision yet.” He sighed and shook his head. “She says he would be our legal consultant, but I have a feeling she has something else planned for him.”

Kensi certainly didn’t like the sound of that, thinking of Nate Getz, the psychologist who used to be a part of their team. That is until Hetty transferred him with little warning several months ago. He’d been gone before anyone could ask questions and no one knew exactly where he was or what Hetty had him doing.

“Well, I doubt Deeks would want to work here,” she commented without thinking and Callen frowned again. “I mean, why would he want to? He makes millions a year, who would give that up?”

“Well, let’s hope you’re right,” he said grimly. “The last thing we need is to play babysitters.”

[jeidafei]

D.Gray-Man Chapter 234 Translation Notes

I haven’t posted a note for many chapters, but this chapter dropped so many reveal-bombs I just can’t i just can’t aaaaaaaargh gurglegurgle

/regain composure /why am I listening to “Send In The Clowns” on loop while posting this?

Ahem. So, in short, this chapter is super LIT, but also a headache to translate. As with all reveal-heavy chapters, there is no knowing how disastrous the ramifications of one tiny misinterpretation can be on future reveals. Whoops! 

So let’s peruse the story page-by-page, word-by-word, unraveling the story plus a little ramble on the Japanese language. 

Warning: this post is incredibly long

(You can skip to 5 for my wild theory on The Pillar)

1. Gawd, I’ve always hated these opening captions T T

Because they always give me this feeling of I think I kinda understand what this means but I don’t know how to translate this so it makes sense!  

紐解かれるかつての別離（わかれ）

I think I spent time on this one sentence even more than the rest of the chapter. Despite it being the first thing on the first page, this is honestly the last thing I translated this chapter.

Word-by-word, 紐解かれる (himo-tokareru) is the passive form of the verb 紐解く (himo-toku), which by definition means:

1) Unbinding and opening a new book 2) Unraveling (i.e. memories, history, the truth, etc.) 3) A flower blooming

紐 (himo) and 解く(toku) are also actually two separate words used normally in daily life. The first one means “rope” and the second means “to solve, to untie, to unravel etc.”

So, in essence, this word refers to something hidden, a secret being revealed. No surprises here, since we’re talking about D.Gray-Man. 

かつての (katsute no) means “Once”, “Used to be” whereas 別離 (betsuri) means “parting, separation” but the furigana indicates must be read as わかれ (wakare) for some reason, and means farewell or separation as well. 

I take it that as Mana and Nea were once separated by death, but now Nea has returned to Mana as he vowed to, the “farewell” is no more; it just used to be a farewell.

So now that we have all the pieces...

HOW ON EARTH DO I TRANSLATE THIS !!!???

You saw how it turned out above. To be frank, I’m still not satisfied with it, but as my period cramps are killing me and I’m literally typing this to distract my mind from it because I can’t sleep yet with this pain, and my brain is out of ideas, as always...

I’ll leave it to you guys to interpret freely!

2. Nea’s last words 

Just when I thought I’d skip that troubling caption and start on the dialogue right away, manga-kun messes with me again! Who was Nea talking to? In the background, Nea is reaching up to Mana while decaying away. However, on the next page, turns out it is Cross recalling those words. 

So I walked over to my bookshelf and picked up DGM volume 17 and 22.

In volume 17, in their last meeting before Cross disappeared, Cross told Allen that Nea promised him that he’d return to Mana if Cross kept watch over Mana. 

In volume 22, however, Road reveals to Allen that “Don’t stop, keep walking.” were Nea’s parting words to Mana.

Um...so...which is it, exactly?

So if context doesn’t help, then should we turn back to the literal word? If it were some other language I might’ve said great idea! But this is Japanese; a douchebag of a language that assumes all parties must be native speakers and privy to the conversation beforehand. And thus omits subject, verbs, and objects whenever it pleases to screw foreign learners and outsiders alike. 

Why, Nea’s sentence has no subject and object!

まってろ。必ずマナの元に行く。「アレン」が目印だ。 それまでは立ち止まるな。 

Literally this says “Keep waiting/Just you wait. (I will) definitely go to where Mana is. ‘Allen’ is the sign. Until then, don’t stand still.” 

While Nea using Mana’s name might imply that Nea’s not talking to Mana, but to someone else, otherwise he would’ve used “you/your”. But in Japanese, usually people will refer to their convo partner by name as well, i.e. Lenalee and Allen refer to everyone by name instead of “you”. This is considered neutral and politer than the textbook pronoun “anata” (which is kinda condescending actually...so why do they still keep it in the textbooks!?). 

In case you’re not that close with the person you’re talking to, and not sure which pronoun you should use, using their name is the safest bet to avoid offending them. (Don’t go calling your client omae, of course lol!)

So, back to Nea, going by this rule, he also could’ve been talking to Mana himself as well. See? Curse you, nihongo!!! 

Anyway, Nea didn’t talk to Mana/Earl that way when they met in recent(?  I dunno, my sense of time is already warped from too many hiatuses and hopeless waiting) chapters; Nea refers to Mana using the pronoun “anta” which is the shorter, more casual form of “anata”. And judging from his overall language, he’s not that polite or soft-spoken either, so the possibility is lower. 

Also it’s kinda weird to tell someone who’s sitting right in front of you that you’ll “go to” where he is.

So, using my spidey sense plus all things considered, I finally concluded that since it’s Cross’ flashback, Nea was talking to Cross this time. 

Looking back on this, I don’t know if I’d be able to translate DGM even with 50% accuracy had I not read the series from the start and have the volumes stacked on a bookshelf nearby just in case. Screw you, NIHONGO!

3. Pierrot, Clown, Auguste, Whiteface, Harlequin; What’s the difference?

In Lost Fragment of Snow, Mana is described as a Pierrot whereas Cosimo is a Clown. As I’m not well-versed in clown traditions, I did some Googling and Wikipedia, and learned the art is even more interesting and richer than I once thought:

In this informative blog , it’s explained that while in appearance, the Pierrot and the Clown are almost the same, there is one rule that sets them apart: 

The Pierrot has tear marks under his eyes, whereas the Clown does not.

The Pierrot’s tear marks:

(I just noticed Joaquin Phoenix’s Joker also has tear marks)

The blog is long and detailed and very interesting, but in short, though both the Pierrot and the Clown are supposed to make people laugh by doing foolish things, while the Clown intentionally acts foolish to be laughed at, and can also  joke back at and laugh at the audience as well, the Pierrot will always have to be laughed at and made fun of by the audience. 

Deep down, though the Pierrot is hurt and sad, he must act as if he’s not, to conceal it from the audience. Thus the tear marks indicates a deep, profound sadness.

(*pause to sob for Allen and Joker*)

Back to Mana, we can clearly see he has a tear mark on his right eye. But Cosimo has what looks to be a tear mark and a star under his eyes as well. 

So...aren’t they both Pierrots? Grrrrrrr! DAMMIT HOSHINO!!

Anyways, moving on. I think we remember that back in Allen’s epic showdown with the Earl in Edo, this scene happened:

The Earl compares Allen to the White Clown/Clown Blanc and himself to Auguste. In classic tradition, Blanc and Auguste are often paired together, and it is said that this originates from the pairing of the Pierrot and Harlequin.

No no no obviously I’m not talking about this one lol

Ahem, back to serious-ass clown lore: 

Both Blanc & Auguste and Pierrot & Harlequin are similar in that the former (Blanc and Pierrot) is more sophisticated, stern, serious and melancholic, whereas the latter (Auguste and Harlequin) is the happy, clumsy, grotesque, sometimes rude fool that does the former’s bidding, to comical results. 

In Lost Fragment of Snow, Mana is said to always be smiling and extraordinarily kind, and that he is an enchantingly elegant, beautiful clown, but when he smiles, he always looks as if he is actually crying, dying inside. 

I mean, pretty much everyone has had that moment in their lives, no? 

Okay, back to seriousness, again; Yes, Mana is the ultimate Pierrot, the Whiteface, the Blanc. The sad fool who must always be laughed at by the world. 

And now Allen, who has taken on Mana’s personality, became the melancholic laughingstock of the world himself, constantly being pushed down and trodden on and used, but having no choice but to push on with a smile, hiding his pain deep underneath the white greasepaint.

Cue the music!

I started a joke, which started the whole world crying But I didn't see that the joke was on me. I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing Oh, if I'd only seen that the joke was on me.

(Bee Gees - I Started A Joke)

4. Great, Cosimo had a hard life too. One more confirmed-dead character I have to cry for!

I hated Cosimo. Still do. Heck, EVERYONE HATES COSIMO. I mean, until now, the guy totally has no redeeming qualities and no justifying reason behind his relentless cruelty.

But in the recent chapters, there are reveals not mentioned in LFS: 

Cosimo was bought and forced to work as an errand boy, like Red, before he somehow crawled his way out and became the circus’s top performer. While drunk, Cosimo would also complain about how he was actually born a noble (this last one is also mentioned in LFS).

Imagine that. Your parents abandoned you for whatever reason (maybe he’s a bastard child?) and you ended up sold to slavery in a circus. After years of being worked to the bone and abused, you struck it big and thought you had it all, then new guy waltzes in with his stupid dog and takes your spotlight. 

Heck, you don’t even have to live such a rotten life to feel bitter. In Toy Story, even brave and fair Sheriff Woody was reduced to a jealous wreck in the face of Buzz Lightyear stealing Andy’s attention from him, wasn’t he? And I think we can all relate to that. Most of us have been jealous of someone before.

Cosimo’s unforgivable actions towards Mana and Allen the Dog may have been fueled by insecurity, trauma and fear as much as jealousy. His abuse towards Red is a result of long years of being abused himself; his own way to cope. 

While Red/Allen blames himself for his pain and not inflict it back upon others, Cosimo did the opposite, because everyone reacts and adapts differently. However, to be clear, both of these traits are not healthy. 

There’s also the fact that Red was saved by the kindness of Allen the Dog and Mana while he is fortunately still young enough to regain faith; whereas Cosimo suffered alone all through his life, surrounded by selfish, two-faced scumbags like that guy handing out leaflets. Had things been different, who’s to say Red might not turn out the same as Cosimo?

In a nutshell, Cosimo is simply a product of his harsh environment. While I still despise him, I can’t help feeling some pity for him and understanding where all that evil had come from. I don’t believe he is inherently bad. Nobody is. Had he been raised with love, I’m sure he would have been a very different person.

5. The Pillar

I know, this is what y’all are actually here for. I mean who cares about Cosimo’s tragic life or the difference between a Pierrot and a Clown when there’s an honest-to-gods HOLY LIGHT SPLITTING THE SKY APART AND OBLITERATING THIS WHOLE WORLD FULL OF SINNERS!? And it’s even teased, like, waaaaay back in Timothy’s Arc (gawd how old was I back then?) !!

First, a recap of this chapter: 

7,000 years ago, The Pillar destroyed the world (which seems pretty modern). The Noah survived and held a grudge against The Pillar for forever destroying their world, leaving them with nowhere to return to. Once they found the reborn Millennium Earl, they pretended to be his family, but instead are using him to exact revenge on The Pillar, because it is predicted the Earl will one day become The Pillar and destroy the world again. Cross however took pity on the Earl and chided Road for believing in that prophecy and causing the Earl so much misery.

Some IRL tidbits: 

Hoshino-sensei revealed she traveled to Ground Zero of WTC for inspiration, now we finally get to know which scene that inspiration is for. And IMO, the instant obliteration coming out of nowhere on one fine day, the Pillar etching a line from sky to ground amidst the pile of rubble, reminds me of the A-bomb’s mushroom cloud over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And we all know which country Hoshino-sensei comes from, right? Could there be a link? 

Now, my personal analysis (or rather, pointless rant with no answers coming out whatsoever): 

This chapter both confirms, clarifies and also debunks important things we have believed from our time with the Order, listening to the Order’s side of the story. 

1) In the very beginning, Komui tells Allen about the previous end of the world 7,000 years ago. The Bible calls it “The Great Flood”. The Cube calls it “The Three Days of Darkness.” However, we now learn it is neither rainy nor dark. Nope, one day all of a sudden, a blindingly bright shaft of light struck down from the sky, and The Capitol suddenly became The Scorch. How did it achieve that? No clue! 

2) Komui tells Allen that the end of the world was caused by a war between the wielders of Innocence and the Earl + the Noah Family, and the ensuing flood that destroyed the world scattered the Innocence around the world. 

However, in this chapter, we learned there was no war. There was no flood. Just the Pillar that appeared suddenly one day. And surprise, the Noah Family hated The Pillar for destroying their beloved world, their only home (wait, aren’t they supposed to hate the Innocence?). 

Yet now the Noah are working with the Earl, who wants to destroy the new world and would someday become the Pillar and destroy the new world too? Yet Cross says they’re just using him for all this time? 

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE? 

My super duper wild theory is that since 1) The Earl is the Pillar-in-Making,  2) The Noah show hatred for The Pillar as much as they do for the Innocence, 3) The Pillar, like Innocence, could trigger their Noah Memory to threaten to swallow them, then it’s kinda implied that;

Mana = The Millennium Earl = The Pillar = The Heart of Innocence

And the Noah, knowing this all along and wanting to prevent the end of the world from happening again, tricked the Millennium Earl into thinking they’re helping him fulfill his raison d'être of Harbinger of the End of The F***ing World (sorry, another reference, heh), not telling him that he’s actually the Heart of Innocence itself, watch him go after Exorcists he suspects are the Heart, and gleefully accept his orders to kill those Exorcists looking for the Heart, in order to prevent the Black Order from ever getting the Earl aka the Heart on their side. 

They also let the Earl create legions of Akuma to fight the Exorcists and destroy all the Innocence shards, literally using the Earl to destroy himself, keeping him away from his true allies, chipping away at his lifeline one shard at a time, like Harry crushing Voldemort’s horcruxes one by one, not knowing he’s a Horcrux himself. Until finally, when there is nothing left but the greatly weakened Heart with no army to protect it, then will the Noah have the chance to defeat it once and for all. 

And of course while they keep the Earl busy searching for the Heart, old man will never pause and think hmmm, maybe I am the Heart? 

Perhaps this is why Wisely said that all humans who have awoken into Noah will accept their duty once they learned of Noah’s mission. Since Noah’s mission now seems to be preventing the end of the world at the hands of Innocence, which I take as God’s power, and God’s weapon for “cleansing” the world whenever he deems it too sinful. 

After all, we have seen the horrors Innocence can do, the lengths Innocence will go to punish people it judged to have sinned. Innocence is said to be a crystallization of God, and like God, it has been foreshadowed numerous times to have that ruthless, merciless, unforgiving streak within it that could alienate even Allen himself.

Anyway, I typed this one without checking the earlier volumes that much. I expect there will be several loopholes, so be sure to point out any inaccuracies and also please, please do let me know what you guys think of these reveals as well! I’d love to hear differing theories!

Other tidbits

The Garvey Troupe, not Garbeigh. Sorry, everyone. Phonetically, Japanese does not have the “v” sound. Nowadays, you can write it out by adding the mark on the ウ (u) letter like this: ヴ, but most words would still transliterate it to the “b” sound, and most Japanese people will still have trouble pronouncing the “v” sound properly anyway. For example, “Violin” could be written both as (v)ヴァイオリン or (b)バイオリン, and most people would pronounce it like the latter.

Do you think Road’s memories of the End of the World has anything to do with Lenalee and Allen’s shared dream of the End of the World as well? Though Lenalee’s nightmare features the Black Order in ruins and not the modern skyscrapers of Road’s. 

So Cross knew Nea and Mana from childhood!? I’ve always thought he met Nea by chance when they are grownups and he was forced to do Nea’s bidding. Interesting!! 

So, that’s it for this chapter! Phew! That was uber long. Thank you so much for bearing with me this far. Hit me up in comments!

[threeminutesoflife]

Flaying a(n Albert) Fish

Pairings: Clint x Dark!Reader x Steve Summary: Reader extracts revenge against a monster. Warnings: 18+, dark reader, blood/gore, serial killer similar to Albert Fish- mentions of sexual assault and death against children- no description, home invasion, kidnapping, cannibalism, body parts, murder Word Count: 4.5k

Halloween Challenge- Are You Afraid of the Dark @barnesrogersvstheworld  Thank you for hosting! Hope you have a fantastically Haunted and Happy Halloween!

prompt: #20 monster

“I would say sorry for not having smaller hands, since that’s what you prefer... and this’ll be the last time you feel anything warm on it...” you snarled at him coldly, “but we both know I’m not.”

Taking a step away from him, you twirled the hammer in your hand.

“Don’t forget to scream- just like they did. Because this is going to hurt,” you reeled the weapon back behind your head. “So. Very. Much.”

Deafening screams filled the house as you connected again and again, bludgeoning his depravity. 

Bursts of air flared from your nostrils, while you tried to collect yourself and settle your breathing.

Blood dribbled down the end of the hammer adding to the growing puddle of inside-out remains between you both.  Adrenaline slowed and your knuckles cracked as you jerkily loosened the grip on the hammer.

Tossing the weapon to the side, you eyed the new bastardized art piece. Blood spilled out, a waterfall between his legs. Tormented whimpers, broken sobs and dying struggles for breath; all his suffering brought a sense of warm achievement in your chest. 

The police scanner bounced off your old Tower bedroom walls again.

You knew FRIDAY could simply stream the chatter, but there was something nostalgic about pushing buttons and twirling knobs.

You’ve listened to scans and phone calls, examined emails and files, plotted an idea of homegrown justice, and researched possible suspects. It was a haunting police case taking up your attention in between the missions. Maps and photos hugged your wall with notes crisscrossing over other various notes.

FRIDAY recorded the scans and police emails when you were away. Ever vigilant to highlight any details or new findings from the police mainframe about the intruder, who was preying on families with young children.

Which is where you read that the gags he placed between the children’s teeth- were all torn from what they determined to be one main source, a blanket. A dark line of all the better to hush them with came to your mind.

According to the notes, the gags' frayed ends matched each other when lined up. FRIDAY displayed the crime photos that showcased how the arrangement made an old, faded cartoon character emerge. Police thought the sexual intruder, dubbed the boogeyman, was ripping up his own childhood blanket to use in his assaults. One detective scribbled a possibility that the intruder's gags meant he was sentimental- and this was a way to intimately share himself and be closer to the victims.

You hoped the sentimental criminal slipped up on a small detail, perhaps overlooking the copyright year by the licensed character design. A small something to help narrow down his age, but unfortunately no. The print design was too timelessly popular and none of the victims left living could describe him.

And with no leads, the crimes continued. The boogeyman kept breaking into homes in the middle of the night to preform heinous acts. He threatened to kill the parents and siblings of the terrified children to keep them quiet and pliable.

Families were terrified for their children, scared their homes would be next. If victimizing the children out of their innocence wasn't monstrous enough, he'd hog tie them with duct tape and hide them away in their closets or stuff them into toy chests. Then he'd ransack the homes, randomly pocketing worthless items before leaving.

It was a grim thought you always had when reviewing the crime photos, it was like the children were his play things and he was simply plucking them off the floor, clearing them away when he was done with them. This monster needed to be stopped before he broke more toys and threw them away completely.

But it was always the same- until it wasn't.

Michael Robertson's small body recovered from river.

Steve was well-aware how this case was taking over your attention. From the smaller missions you traded or tried to give away to other teammates- to the many nights you kept the middle of his and Clint's bed empty.

Both men clearly remembered the cold shoulder you served them when Steve sent you out on a two week mission, pulling rank and ordering you to comply. Clint sided with him believing a break away from the case would help. As begrudgingly as you felt at the time, it did help to be away from the white noise of the scanners. Until FRIDAY sent you an urgent message- another child victimized a few days into the mission, this one resulting in death. His body found a day before you got back.

Breaking News: CHILD TAKEN, BODY FOUND.

Michael Robertson, age 6, kidnapped from home while parents slept. Killer removed boy's pajamas and laid them out on child's bed for parents to find next morning.

You knew you were losing yourself more and more in this police case, but with the hysteria emerging on the streets now that the boogeyman claimed another victim, one resulting in death, you expected additional branches of law force to step in soon. And you didn't want to deal with another player on the field.

You wanted this guy. He gave you something to sharpen your attention on and the want grew in you to strike him down. It was a tumor-like revenge. The team noticed you pulled away from evening dinners and movie nights. They began murmuring their concerns among each other and then to Steve and Clint. 

While looking over more crime scene photos about the Robertson case, FRIDAY announced Wanda would be making cottage pie for dinner tonight. Glancing at your watch, 3pm, you mindlessly mumbled a 'no thank you' and then froze. Slapping the desk, you knocked an empty cup over onto mission reports you've been avoiding to fill out much to Steve's annoyance.

“FRIDAY, please bring up the old police notes about cottage- about home repairs or work crews. Wait, how far back did the police look?”

“The officers went back three years, Miss. No common links appeared.”

You scanned over the photos of children and their similar ages of 6 and 7. Would he have waited for more than three years to attack? He would have known the homes' layouts, he broke in so easily to each child's bedroom. If he did wait, for how long? Why wait so long?

Your gut was rarely wrong, and the home repair angle felt like something solid, “FRIDAY, please run all the family's credit cards and bank accounts to see if there were any repair companies or purchases done within the last five years.”

Looking at the youngest victims' age, Gabrielle Reyes with her toothy smile just turned 6, “If nothing, please try six.”

An electronic chorus poured in your room as computer alerts went off, reports fired across the screen.

A description and photo of self-employed contractor photo, Randall Williams, looked back at you.

FRIDAY ran off the newly found information. The victims' families hired his company in the past four to five years. Rachel Collins' home was his last before heading out of state. He was recently released five months ago from an out of state prison for a buffet of reasons, one being incident exposure.  

“Miss, I took the liberty to run his payment history. He's been paying for a storage unit over the last eight years under a different name and P.O. Box number.”

You scoffed with a mix of thankfulness for Williams' laziness of leaving a trail and a curse that the repair history was not run back further in the beginning.

“Send me the address for the storage unit and his current address please, FRIDAY. And don't forget you're beautiful!”

Snatching your leather jacket and utility bag, you ran past Steve and Clint, who were folded against one another on the couch.

“I'll be back tomorrow. Don't wait up, my loves!” You called out to them over the action movie.

Clint and Steve stared at your figure fading quickly out the door, both pairs of eyes zeroing in on your large utility bag. They turned back towards each other and exchanged a knowing look. Steve dragged his hand over his face with a heavy sigh.

Unfolding himself from Steve, Clint kissed his cheek and patted his thigh, “I'm on it.”

Picking up his keys and jacket, Clint paused and took in Steve's concerned expression. “Hey, don't worry.”

Steve only sighed again as a reply and let his head hit the back of the couch. The sound of the door locking behind Clint drowned out the explosions on screen.

—

A fresh tank of gas, a new box of protein bars and a couple bottles of water later, you pulled into the storage facility. Stretching your limbs from the two hour drive, you took in the old property. It was run down with no foot traffic or desk clerk. The only camera you could see around the buildings was pointed at the office door, lens broken.

After grabbing your leather gloves and pulling the crowbar from the trunk, you went to work on the unit's lock.

Randall Williams reminded you of New York's grandfather serial killer, Albert Fish. Breaking into the storage container and shifting through his boxes, the incriminating photos he had of known and unknown victims were simply too hard to look at.

This man, this thing, was something that needed to be put down. The police were right in calling him a boogeyman. But they didn't know the accuracy of the nickname especially since it was once bestowed to Albert Fish himself.

You hoped Williams wasn't a cannibal, yet.

The young faces looked out at you from the photographs, some with tears and others with defiance. There so many, so many unrecognizable faces. You could feel the acid burn starting to rise in your chest. For a second, you wanted to talk yourself into believing these newly discovered victims were fake snuff photos he collected along the way, but you knew better and you saw the gags. Some with the same design used on the recorded victims. This was the man you’ve been looking for, and this man was a monster. 

Eyes watered and the taste of bile rose in the back of your throat. With a shaky hand, you read a recipe of brown butter and sautéed onions with human flesh. A list of spices and measurements. Your memory flashed to the little Robertson boy with questionable wound and knife markings.

Flipping through the journal you read Williams’ comments next to the favored recipes and the preferred cooking techniques.

How long has this been going on? Your eyes darted to the stacks of photos with mystery faces.

There was a strange recipe of your own growing within you; ingredients of anger, sadness, disgust, revenge.

Laying the photos out on the cement floor, you surveyed the expanding collection of tragedy. You shuffled your feet across the ground and paused before each photo. 4x6, 5x7 and 8x10’s created a paper train of frozen mementos from each child’s nightmare. On the shelf, another box of negatives caught your eye. 

Monster.

Your body felt heavier with each photo; guilt and sorrow for not stopping these events from happening, even if you never knew some occurred until now. You sent out an apology and prayer in your mind for them all. 

“I’m fine. Be back in a few days. Love you, see you.” You quickly sent the text to Steve and Clint. Leaving you the grim photos on the ground, you pulled the storage door closed behind you. Pointing your car west, you drove off to deliver revenge and extract other things.

Randall Williams lived outside of a small town on a neighbor-less dirt road. Parking your car a safe distance away, you quietly made your way to his neglected looking home.

The house was quiet, dark and smelled sour. The sliding door was unlocked. Flipping the safety off your gun, you slowly slid it open. Suppose monsters don't have a lot to worry about.

Closing it behind you, you immediately covered your nose with back of your hand and tried to save your sense of smell from the pungent stench. The kitchen reeked of moldy food and ignored trash. You would have thought the home was abandoned, except the mail on the counter was stamped with this week's date.

Walking around, a calendar caught your attention. Next week's dates were circled and marked, Growing Dreams Day Care- install shelving. Biting your cheek, you tried to bury down the rage.

Creeping quietly in what you assumed to be the direction of the bedroom, you gingerly opened the door with your fingertips, gun ready in your other hand. Bathroom.

Squaring your shoulders, you made your way further down the hall. The second door held the right answer. There laying on his stomach, snoring in a pair of dirty briefs was the small statured, unaware boogeyman.

Three quick fast steps into the room, you came up to the bed and kicked the mattress. “Hey! Devil's Reject!”

Randall's eyes shot open and he flipped himself over to sit up.

CRACK!

You slammed the butt of your gun on his jaw. “Hurts, don't it?”

He let out an unearthly growl and groggily scrambled up, attempting to right himself to lunge at you. Bringing your boot up and kicking him back in his sternum, his head slammed against the wall and cracked the stained plaster.

“Nighty-night, fucker,” you smashed your gun against his face again.

Grabbing his legs, you pulled his unconscious, dirty body down the hallway. Dragging him through the kitchen, you were about to set him up at the kitchen table when you saw another door.

The door creaked open and basement steps greeted you, “Bingo.”

Bringing Randall's body around, you positioned him by the stairs and let him topple down the steps without a care.

Skipping down after him, you heaved Randall's body into position. After securing him to a chair, you took the time to exam the basement and survey his workspace until he woke.

You stared almost uninterested at the bound man before you. The toe of your boot lifted the lid of his unlocked tool box and knocked it open.

“So how’s the carpentry business?” an air of indifference in your question as you reached in and pulled out several hammers before spying a box of nails.

The man only muffled and grunted against the material wrapped around his mouth.

“Yeah, sorry about that gag I suppose,” you examined the different tools in your hands, flipping them from side to side testing their weight.

“Not the same blanket you tore off for your victims, but I did make sure to grab your dirtiest work rags. So please, wet it down real good and enjoy the taste.”

Standing up, you swung the hammer around, “Ah, this is the one.”

He eyed you with hatred as he rocked and rammed his body against the ropes in hopes to loosen them. Frantic sounds erupted deep from within his chest only to be stifled by the gag, when he realized the restraints wouldn’t give. 

You hummed in pleasure at the trapped animal before you.

“Girl Scouts,” you nodded toward the knots on his body, “Don’t let the cookie sales fool you, asshole. Us little Daisies grow up to be Venus flytraps later in life.” 

He rocked his body forward again as you bent down and picked up the box of nails.

“Not interested in what you want to say. Plead innocent, plead guilty. Shit, I don't even care if you regret every monstrously thing you've ever did. Actually, don’t give a fuck if you don’t regret it either. All that matters is that it ends here, that you end here. I know you checked out those homes you worked on, picking out the children and then coming back for them. Like some twisted human layaway plan. That was a hell of wait, but I bet you had nothing else to think about when you were locked away. ”

Reveling in his fear, you circled him. You could practically smell the panic ooze out his pores. “Ever hear about the serial killer, Albert Fish? Preyed on kids, ate them even. You both had common interests, similar ways- he your inspiration? My gut told me within time, you'd be like him.”  

Dancing your fingertips across the tops of his shoulders, you emphasized each word with a tap, “And. You're. Already. There.”

Williams knocked his head side to side, trying to shake off your touch. He glared in your direction but refused to make eye contact.

“But there's a thing you’re missing from being so very much like him. A subtle difference to some, but devil's in the detail- am I right?”

You shook the box of nails up to his ear as you leaned by his other.

“He stuck pins in his groan, 29 to be exact. They have x-rays of it. No, no, I shit you not. So we're going to improvise with these nails and recreate it on you,” you bopped him on the nose. “Artistic interpretation and all.”

Driving the nails into him with a hammer, you randomly picked spots along his inner thigh and pelvis. “Do you like astronomy? Should I make the Little Dipper?”

He howled against his restraints. Drool and hatred running down his chin. Randall passed out on nail number eight, when it was jammed into his testicle, but came back around for the thirteenth nail while you slapped him awake. He passed out again on the twenty-third nail and you carried on without your audience.

“Oh good! You're awake- again,” false happiness laced your voice. “Take a look at the new additions!”

Swiftly grabbing the back of his head, you forced him to crane his neck awkwardly downward as he tried resisting.

“Oh good god. Stop bawling already,” walking around to his front, you brought the hammer down and smashed it against his left kneecap.

More cries of anguish poured out of Randall.

Reaching back into his toolbox, you crouched down in front of him, “you only have yourself to blame- for all of this. But also because you kept passing out on me- and that… well that, gave me time to think.”

You delivered a Cheshire grin and held up a pair of pruners.

His body shook and he screamed at you through the gag as you painfully pulled down on his nailed testicles. You quickly shoved the pruners around one sweaty ball. His right nut rested between the tool's blades, the nail stuck out below. His body convulsed in pain as you smiled and began cutting into him.

Randall's shoulders involuntarily shook as he wailed incoherently. After a few minutes his shoulders fell down around him, making him smaller with the weight of defeat.

Pressing the toe of your boot into his broken kneecap, you slowly and gradually applied more pressure, “Pay attention, fuckface. There’s still more I can cut from you.”

Blood painted his cheek as you tapped his face with the pruner’s blades, You pulled down his gag and he reeled his head away.

You plucked his testicle off the floor, “Hm. Kind of looks like a weird party appetizer, meatball and blood gravy. Gore gravy? You think that sounds better? Here. Want to try?”

Twirling the hammered nail between your thumb and finger, his detached ball freckled his cheek and forehead with blood. Threads of veins and skin twirled on the air like streamers. 

“Blow on it, might be hot,” you cackled at your joke.

“Fuck you!” Randall cursed through shaky, chapped lips, gaping in pained disbelief at his removed appendage.

“Tsk-tsk,” you snapped the meatball appetizer back and forth on front of his eyes. “That bad, lousy fucking attitude and those actions is what got you here, motherfucker.” 

You sneered at him coldly. “Don't make me get creative. Could always skin away pieces of you and wrap them around other parts,” you dramatically cut the air with the human hors d'oeuvre and pointed at his crotch with it, “like pigs in a blanket. Foreskin's optional, you know.”

He started paling between your words and the blood loss, silently staring wide-eyed when visualizing your threat.

“Now,” you stepped between his bounded legs, “Open up, fucker. Time to try, then die.”

Pinching his cheeks, you forced his mouth open and scrapped the nail against his teeth until his ball rested in the back of his mouth. Horror filled Randall's eyes as the taste of warm iron hit his tongue.

Quickly grabbing the sides of his head, you abruptly raised your knee and slammed it up against his jaw. “Enjoy.”

A mixed sound of wet squishing and teeth cracking sang throughout the basement as Randall sobbed. The deflated testicle and pieces of teeth fell from his mouth between his hysterical wails. You leaned against the wall until his banshee screams subsided, a mask of boredom across your face.

When his shoulders stopped shaking and he settled to broken whimpers, you punched him again and slid the gag back in place between blood-coated teeth.

“And now, for our final act,” you callously taunted as you eyed his maimed and bloody crotch. Locking eyes with Randall, you jerked your chin in to the direction of his tools, “Ready?”

—

Standing before Randall's crumpled body, you heard your name float down from the top of the stairs, “Sweetheart, it’s time to go now.”

Clint silently made his way over, stepping between you and Williams’ broken corpse.  

He pulled out a plastic bag from his utility vest and held it out to you with his own gloved hands.

“Meet you back at the car?” you inquired as you stuffed your bloody gloves into the bag he always provided.

“Always,” Clint kissed your forehead and tucked the soiled bag away. “Go on now, gonna do a once over here and I'll meet you. Love you.”

“Love you,” you backed away and made your way to the car.

Clint pulled out several photographs of Williams’ victims and scattered them around his corpse. Picking up the bloodied hammer, he cringed when seeing a few pubic hairs stuck to it. He promptly dropped the tool on top of the victim's photos.

When he followed you to the storage unit, he figured the photos would come in handy for what he knew you'd do next. As he resumed to tail you from the warehouse, he decided to make an anonymous tip to the police about the storage unit when you were done. He didn't want to risk any evidence showing who Randall Williams really was could be overlooked.  

Back at the car, you turned up the volume and resumed listening to your audiobook. You didn't have to wait long, soon Clint tapped on your passenger window asking you to unlock the door.

Dropping into the passenger seat and assessing your appearance, Clint raised your hand to his lips for a quick kiss, “You look more content already.”

“Only because it’s over and I get to go home to you and Steve,” you smiled and cupped his face. “Thank you.”

“Never have to thank us, sweetheart.”

He rolled his cheek into the warmth of your hand. Your fingers skimmed through the top of his hair. You liked to tease that his hair felt softer with the mohawk. 

Blessed is what you felt. You found a home with Clint and Steve. And they accepted your need to play judge, jury and executioner. 

Clint tapped your thigh and gave it a squeeze, “Let’s get home to him, sweetheart. He’s been worried.”

He reached behind your seat and pulled out the unopened box of protein bars, “See, you plan well but then forget details like this.”

Ripping the box open, he freed a bar from its wrapper, “Eat.”

You wanted to object for a moment and say you were fine, but Clint's tone was laced with a plead, not a command.

“When we get back he'll want to feed us, you know. No one was happy you skipped another dinner.”

You chuckled at Clint's reminder about Steve's concerns and opened a bottled water, “What about your car?”  

“Had FRIDAY drive itself home.”

Humming at his answer, you capped the water, “Ready?”

Clint nudged your arm and took the bottle for himself, “Yes. And tomorrow we'll have a long talk about you being more aware of your surroundings. You were so blindly driven, you didn't notice me following like you usually do.”

—

When FRIDAY announced your return home, Steve felt he could breath easy again. He knew what these kills meant to you and the sense of serenity they brought.

Determined to make your and Clint’s return as smooth as possible, he put on your favorite playlist and he spread out the 24hr takeout menus.

He heard you before seeing you, smiling at the sight of you and Clint rounding the corner. Your legs swung back and forth, head tipped back with laughter, humor staining your expressive lips as Clint gave you a piggy back ride. A smile of Clint’s own beamed across his face at Steve as he set you down. 

“Hey, doll.” Not hiding his admiration for you, Steve scooped you up into a tight embrace.

“Hey, handsome.” With a kiss on his jaw, you nuzzled in closer to him. 

Opening up your embrace, you both pulled Clint into the hug.

Steve pressed his forehead against Clint's temple, “Thank you for being careful and bring you both back safely.”

Clint leaned into Steve's words, “Never have to thank me.”

Steve kissed Clint soundly and turned his gaze on you, “Give me everything you need burned.”

You nodded at his request and pulled out the bloody bag.

“Weapons?”

You turned your head shyly towards Clint, and he slightly shivered as he replayed in his mind what you orchestrated in the basement. 

“She used his own. Left them there with some incriminating photos. Less things to carry back,” Clint explained to Steve.

Tilting your head at Clint's mention of photos, you truly realized then just how absorbed you were for not noticing him at the storage unit. Hearing Steve call your name, you gave Clint a soft smile before turning back around.   

“Alright, doll. You know the next part. Strip.”

Without a second thought to his request, you swiftly slipped out of your jacket and boots, followed by your top and pants.

“Always love this part, sweetheart, ” Clint murmured behind you.

“Me, too. She looks so pretty with that new sense of accomplishment. Don’t you, doll?”

You laughed at your boyfriends’ praises, “Gonna go shower now. We eating soon?”

“Pulled out some menus when you two got back. I was thinking that little Italian place.”

“Sounds delicious,” you left for the shower after gifting both men a slow, appreciative kiss. “Maybe come join me before the food arrives?”

Both men hummed in appreciation as they watch you walk down the hall.

“I’ll get hers. Gotta wash mine, too.” Clint offered, collecting your soiled items from Steve to bring to the laundry room and incinerator. 

Clint stepped into the elevator but froze suddenly when he saw Steve holding the Italian menu.

“Steve!” Clint frantically called out, forcefully pushing the elevator doors apart. “Order mine without meatballs!”

[sharada-n]

As it is now officially the new year I can share the piece I did for the Papchat Secret Santa 2019 exchange! It was a lot of fun to write some Undertale again that wasn’t so angst focused and more of a fluffy piece ^^

Sans never considered himself to be the responsible adult.

He had found he rather played the part of the fun uncle for Frisk at best and even back when they lived in Snowdin Papyrus was the one always cleaning around the house, cooking, making sure their bills were paid. Sans wasn't very good at worrying about those things, or too lazy to bother with them. But that doesn't mean he can't be the responsible adult if the situation calls for it, everybody has to draw the line somewhere after all.

And Sans draws the line at serious bodily harm.

That's what compels him to say it out loud, even if a bigger part of him knows it's probably useless anyway. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Papyrus laughs. Honest to god cackles and Gaster follows suit, a deep chuckle that kind of catches Sans by surprise. It's been a few weeks, but he still needs to get used to having their father here again. "Having good ideas is not important," Papyrus says, with the kind of overblown confidence people usually display right before they break every single bone in their body and it only makes Sans more nervous. "Having fun is!"

"I'm all about having fun," He answers. "But this particular idea feels a little...deadly."

"I would be offended by your assumption that my calculations are that off," Gaster answers, staring down the hill with an assessing gaze. Sans is quite sure you can't determine the angle of a downward slope with the naked eye but what does he know. "If I wasn't so busy being puzzled by your assumptions that we can die."

"Says the guy who just came back to life after being dead for over a decade," Sans retorts. "Thanks to your calculations being way off I might add."

"Not dead," Gaster shoots back, while Papyrus is busy putting the final touches on their sled. "That would have probably been less... upsetting."

The way he says it is so casual it robs Sans from any response. Their father talks about his accident like it was a momentary stroll to the store that just so happened to delay him for years and as he watches Papyrus unfurl an honest to god sail, complete with little skull flag on the top, Sans wonders how, somewhere along the way, he became the most normal member in the Wingdings family.

"Papyrus," He says, both because their father looks too busy determining their ideal trajectory to pay attention and also because he is seriously worried. "You do know a sail is meant to catch the wind coming from behind, right. To go faster?"

"Excellent explanation of the functionality of sails on boats, brother." Papyrus answers, connecting the mast to their sled. The thing is made entirely from wood and painted expertly by Papyrus himself and it reminds Sans of the bridge back in Snowdin. "Good thing this is not a boat."

"Could have fooled me."

"The sail will be tied up while we speed down, but as we reach peak velocity we can deploy it to slow ourselves to an amiable meander. A reverse sail, if you will." Papyrus stands up, admires his horrid creation like a parent sending their firstborn off to university. "Except the wind is coming from a forward direction instead of backward like a typical ship sail. Which makes it pretty confusing namewise."

"I do believe between the reverse sail, the angle of the descent and the combined weight of us and the sled, the landing will stick," Gaster adds, smiling with unrestrained glee and Sans feels the concern grow. He admires both his father and his brother in their own unique passions for physics, much like his own, but just wishes they would use it for something besides death rides and scattering yourself across time and space.

But to each their own.

"Well, it's your funeral." He says, watching as the other two skeletons fit themselves in the carefully carved out seats Papyrus designed for them, leaving the first one empty. "It certainly was ice knowing you."

"You need some new material." Papyrus answers, without missing a beat, even though he's smiling.

"Now, Papyrus," Gaster says seriously, "Don't give him the cold shoulder."

Groans are all he gets as answer, from both his sons, followed with an empathic: "I will throw myself off this thing mid-ride." By Papyrus.

Then Gaster pulls a lever Sans hadn't even noticed and fire shoots out of the back of the sled, proving that the two exhaust pipes attached there were not merely for show. Knowing Papyrus as he does, Sans really could have guessed as much. He watches in what can only be described as stunned silence, part admiration and part fear, as the thing takes off at an alarming speed, making short work of the flat distance of the hill's summit and then disappearing downward, while Sans looks on.

The rockets give up about one-third of the way down, perhaps because those two had some sanity left in them but more likely because they didn't manage to fit any more fuel into the sled's contraption. Another third and Papyrus deploys the sail, the skull flag at the top flapping bravely in the wind and it takes Sans all but three seconds to realize it's not slowing them down nearly enough. Or at all. Unsurprisingly, as soon as the sled hits a bump it crashes spectacularly, flying in a neat little arc then nose-diving again, throwing both occupants out of the vehicle in an almost impressive display of the unrelenting force of gravity.

Sans holds his breath for a moment, two, then he hears the echoing laughter from the distance and sees Gaster throwing him a thumbs up and he starts sauntering slowly down the hill. No need to hurry, after all.

By the time he makes it down there, a trip that took the sled a few minutes at most but takes Sans a whopping ten minutes at the leisure pace he uses for non-emergencies, Papyrus has already managed to put the thing upright again and is noting the damage, Gaster is scribbling in his notebook with renewed vigor.

"So that went well." He says, while Papyrus lifts him up effortlessly and spins him around.

"It went perfectly!" His brother exclaims proudly, "Better than I had hoped!"

"Did it?" Sans asks as he is put down again, pointing at the warped frame of bottom rails. "Because it looks to me like you crashed."

"Just a little."

"Luckily the snow here is quite thick and cushioned our bodies from exploding into a gazillion tiny bone shards." Gaster adds triumphantly, turning to them.

Sans pushes his hands into his pockets. "What was that about sticking the landing?"

"Well, we probably would have if you had been in the sled. We did calculate for three passengers."

"Thinking I would step into that deathtrap in the first place was your biggest mistake then." Sans laughs but everybody ignores him.

"Sadly we burnt through all our fuel reserves in one go," Papyrus frowns at the rockets as if it was their fault for not being more considerate. "We won't be able to launch it again today to see for different results." Gaster pats him on the back in a consoling gesture.

"That's great because I'm not stepping in that thing," Sans repeats.

Gaster throws him a truly infuriating smirk. "Really, Sans, who would have thought you had become so boring while I was gone."

"I'm not boring for not wanting to die. And not wanting you to die either."

"Sans is very boring." Papyrus agrees with a solemn nod. "He does many things very boringly."

Sans sighs, tries to refrain from cracking his knuckles because he knows how much Papyrus hates it. "Well, excuse me for not wanting to lose something I only just got back, ok?" He mutters and it does stop the others dead in their tracks, smiles falling from their faces suddenly. "We only just got to be together again. There's... there's still a lot I want to do now that we have the chance-"

They are stunned for a moment, Sans doesn't give them much time to think it over though, bending down instead to scoop up a handful of snow and aim it at his father's face. "Like this!"

To his credit, Gaster ducks surprisingly fast for his age and the snowball misses him and hits Papyrus right in the eye instead. Sans burst out laughing at the same moment that Papyrus yelps, shaking the snow out of his socket. His laughter is quickly interrupted by a face full of snow himself however, courtesy of Gaster.

The area quickly devolves into an impromptu battlefield, the sled serving as cover for Papyrus who proceeds to expertly decimate his opponents with his superior aim and effectiveness, rolling masses of snowballs in record time and hurling them with marksman accuracy. Sans could have predicted this, he hadn't won a single snowball fight between the two of them since his brother turned nine, but that didn't mean it wasn't fun. And he definitely got a few hits in on Gaster, who despite his initial ducking wasn't very adept at snowball fighting himself.

By the end, they had no choice but to declare Papyrus the ultimate snowman (a title he chooses for himself) and Sans "soaked to the bone", pun intended. He didn't wear a coat, because the cold usually wasn't a problem, but now both his hoodie and short are heavy with melted snow and too wet for comfort. He grimaces at them.

"I guess we should postpone our sled relaunch until next time," Papyrus says, lifting the entire thing with just one hand. "When I have convinced the black market human to sell me more fuel."

Sans decides to ignore how concerning that statement is, instead focusing on Gaster, busy brushing the snow off his black coat. "Are we going to let him do that?"

"I don't see a reason not to."

Sans nods, "Of course you don't."

"Instead," Gaster says, as they start following Papyrus, who is by now lifting the sled high above his head with the skull flag still waving in the wind. "How about you tell me some of those other things you still want to do together now that I'm back."

"Right," Sans says, and the sky is strikingly clear but with dusk setting in he can just see the twinkle of stars in the distance. "That would be nice."

[lovelyirony]

"Do you trust me?" And "I'm going to keep you safe" for winterhawk?

It wasn’t like Clint had planned on pissing off a Sokovian crime-lord. But he had plans and one of those plans was stopping a shipment of arms. Not his fault that he tripped over a loose rock and his mask fell off. 

“Aw man,” Clint whines, facing a man who’s eyebrows are impressively expressive. 

“You are the one who has ruined tonight?!” The man roars. “I’ll kill you!” 

“The thing is,” Clint starts, “I kind of scheduled a brunch for tomorrow. So if we could postpone it to…two days from now? That okay? I also need to feed my dog.” 

The man clearly does not respect plans, as he lunges with a knife. Clint’s shirt is ripped which come on, and he has to run and that’s just not the move. At least he doesn’t have asthma. 

It’s just that his foot kind of hurts and he’s slowing down and if he dies on a Tuesday night at eleven it’s really going to harsh his whole spiritual plan you know? 

And then there’s a knife. It pins the guy to the floor, causing curses to spill out. 

Clint looks at a guy who’s in the shadows, and there’s a glint coming off one arm. 

He jumps down, and Clint’s already racing away. All he wanted to do was stop one teensy-tiny-itsy-bitsy arm shipment. But no, now there’s another party involved and he was supposed to get brunch with Natasha tomorrow to make her feel at ease with his new projects. 

(“I swear to god if you get another group of people trying to kill you and half of Bed-Stuy, I’m going to have to have serious words about your methods.” 

“Things are gonna be fine, Natasha. What’s gonna happen, some old geezer in a track suit trying to kill me?” 

“Yes, and that’s worse than you always think it is.” 

“It’ll be all good. I’ll even get brunch with you.”) 

And now brunch can’t be cancelled, but he’s also terrible at lying. But he can run and he can always “accidentally” let Lucky escape the apartment that he’s in so that he has a convenient excuse to cancel brunch. 

Then there’s the guy with the metal arm in front of him and his mind blanks. 

“Um.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

Clint’s blindsided by the question, gaping at the man before him. 

“Like, on an emotional or physical level?” 

The guy makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like “seriously?” before taking off his mask. 

Whoa. Guy is seriously good-looking. Like, in-the-fashion-magazine-that-Clint-reads-when-he-accompanies-Natasha-to-the-hairdresser’s kind of good-looking. 

“You are…okay,” Clint says. “Thanks for the save back there. I tripped on a rock.” 

“Yeah, you did,” he says. “I was asked by Romanoff to keep an eye out on you.” Clint gives him a look. 

“And just who are you, exactly?” 

(He feels like Natasha would have mentioned someone who was his exact type, but also maybe not. Clint’s type is typically “out-of-my-league and out of this world,” so. There’s that.) 

“I’m Bucky. Barnes.” 

Oh shit. It’s that guy. 

“Oh, you know Steve and Sam and shit, yeah?” Clint asks. He nods. “And Sharon. I think she mentioned that you almost died in a kiddie pool one time.” 

“I’m gonna kill her,” Bucky mutters. “But listen. I don’t wanna overtake your whole operation, but I wanna help you. Do you trust me?” 

“With as much accuracy as I can shoot,” Clint says, laughing. 

“And that means…?” 

“Oh, you’ll find out. But right now I need to go feed my dog and discuss stuff with Tasha. Here, let me get your number.” 

They part ways, and Clint’s already pushing Nat’s contact name. 

“Romanoff speaking.” 

“You have caller ID, you little shit. Why did you send Bucky?” 

“Because I knew that you’d have trouble,” Natasha says. “And now you owe me an action movie night.” 

“Action movies suck and we both know it, you just like it because you make fun of the actors.” 

“The only reason to watch them! Well, besides buff women. Sometimes they have buff women, and that’s what we call a success story.” 

“Still. You owe me a pizza. Also, you never told me that Bucky was my type.” 

“I thought your type was ‘out-of-my-league.’ Is it not?” 

“No, it is. Bucky looks like he’s in a fashion magazine.” 

“He’s also the stupidest man I’ve met.” 

“Hey! You met me, didn’t you?” 

“That is true,” Natasha says, thinking. “You take the cake then. But he’s not out of your league, I’ve seen Sharon’s videos of him. He’s a classic idiot.” 

“We’ll see. I got his number.” 

“Aw yay!” Natasha teases. “I remember the last time you tried to get a guy’s number. You bought a plane ticket to Hungary.” 

“Listen it wasn’t because of that, I needed to go to Hungary.” 

“You did? Why?” 

“You’re being home of phonic,” Clint teases, hearing her laugh. 

Natasha clears her throat. 

“Well, I have to get to my skincare routine. I’ll see you tomorrow for brunch?” 

“Barring my own murder, yes. See you at eleven.” 

Clint gets to his apartment, reading the note from Kate and muttering about stupid Sokovian crime-lords and near-death-experiences. To add to all this, there’s a cute guy who’s gonna help him.

He really hopes he doesn’t trip on a loose rock again. He’s already embarrassment enough. 

[aj-artjunkyard]

Trials Of Apollo Oneshot Series  CHAPTER FIVE

This is a post-ToA chapter! Takes place after Apollo regains his immortality.

I sighed. Strolling aimlessly through the halls of my palace on Olympus, I wondered if it had always been this unappealing. The gold trimmings seemed fake. The extravagant furniture felt uncomfortable. Even my bed was too big. Every shiny object played murder on my eyes, and every smooth surface was too warm to be refreshing. It just wasn’t homey. Not like the Waystation or Aeithales or either demigod camps. It felt more like a sized-up garage to keep a fancy car in. 

I found myself yearning to be outdoors - no uncommon craving. Like my twin, most of my domains are set in the great outside world. I threw open the golden double doors of the balcony, closed my eyes and breathed in the fresh Olympian air. There was still something missing. Furrowing my eyebrows in frustration, I opened my eyes and glanced around for anything that might sate my dissatisfaction, when my sight landed on a certain figure making her way through the buzzing streets of Olympus and towards the entrance of my palace. I felt a natural smile creep onto my face. I would have to look for the missing thing later. Right now, I needed to be with my mother.

…

We had been in this comforting embrace for almost ten minutes now. I combed my fingers through Leto’s caramel hair while she sobbed into my shoulder, her frame shaking considerably. I felt the wet tears soaking through my jacket and dampening the shirt beneath. I pressed my lips against her forehead, hoping to make her content enough to talk to me. Eventually, she pulled away and reached up, running her fingers through my hair, almost to reassure herself that I was actually there. She looked deep into my eyes, while tears danced in her own. I took her hands in my own, and gently led her to a white sofa, which was far to big for the space of the room. It looked like whoever had put it there was just trying to cram as much unneeded furniture into one place as they could. Oh wait…that may have been me.

Leto sat down beside me. She sniffled a little, avoiding my eyes. She fiddled with the brooch on my toga. I held her hand. She squeezed it. 

“Apollo…” she trailed off, seeming lost in her mind.

“I’m alright now Mother,” I said in an effort to soothe her. “I’m immortal again. I cannot die. I learnt a lot too. And I want to apologise for not being the most attentive of sons. I should visit you more, and I will! Really, father was right to-”

“-NO!”

I fell silent, shocked that my mother would ever scream in such a tone. She looked at me, and I noticed how tired she was. No doubt staying up to watch every second of my quests, worried sick that something might happen if she took her eyes off me. It would not be out of character for her to do such things.

“Your father was not right to punish you in such a cruel manner. To have you forced into servitude, with next to no natural means to protect yourself or others!”

“Honestly, Mother I-”

She held up a hand for quiet. I obeyed.

“I know you should not have done the things you did. I know you’ve learned. That does not warrant your father’s merciless behaviour. You kept getting hurt and I could do nothing, he said if he caught me in the act of helping, he would make it worse for you. He said there would be more deaths, more guilt. So I obliged. I made sure he didn’t catch me. I convinced Artemis to send her hunters. I persuaded Hermes to crash the sun, and Athena to lure you to the child-” she paused. “-Whom I have been caring for. He is named Cindeo - the one who escapes danger.”

I nodded. “I see you have been taking care of everyone.”

“That is indeed my sole purpose, yes. It distracted me, which Artemis says is a good thing. But still…I was watching. That day on the boat.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. I knew exactly what she would be referring to before she even said it. “You stabbed yourself.” 

I drew in a sharp intake of breath, remembering the pain.

“I knew Medea would heal me.”

“You did it willingly.”

“It was only a distraction.”

“What was? Your life?”

“Caligula needed me alive more than my friends did.”

“They all needed you in the end, Apollo! I needed…I needed you.”

We sat, not talking. Just staring at each other, mentally comparing our broken pieces. I was willing to gather my pieces - make something new. I knew my mother wanted that as much as I did. We hugged again, this one lasting even longer. Neither party minded. Her caramel hair still smelt of honeysuckle, a trait inherited by my sister. She was still soft and warm and safe. After all these centuries, she had not changed. I was glad. 

After an eternity, we separated. I examined my mother, my medical urges setting in. 

“You look like you haven’t slept since I woke up in that dumpster. You need rest.”

She shook her head. “Apollo, you just got back. If you think I’m going to-”

“And I’ll be here when you wake up. Why don’t you use my bedroom? That way you won’t really be leaving. I’ll still be around, I promise. Even if you sleep as long as Gaea did.” She tried to protest, but I easily guided her to my sleeping quarters. By the time we arrived, Leto was practically using me as her only way of staying upright. I gently laid her down on my king-sized mattress, and she immediately melted into the warmth of the duvet. 

I made my way to the kitchen, intent to taste ambrosia for the first time in months. A shape shimmered into existence on the blinding white counter. A freshly baked pie. Curious, I picked up the little note beside it, which read in perfect ancient greek calligraphy;

You deserve it! I love you!

-Leto

I chuckled and called down the hall, “Go to sleep!”

To which I received a muffled “I am, I am!”

I grabbed the pie and sniffed, enjoying my newly heightened senses. I could tell exactly what was in it. Ambrosia, sugar and chunky slices of…baked apple. The smell smacked me as violently as my realisation. My palace was golden, hard and shiny. It was devoid of life. Life like that of a particularly bossy half-blood. I decided to call in a discreet demigod quest.

…

“Soooo…about this quest.”

“Yes?”

“It was to help you plant stuff?”

I patted down the soil around a sweet-smelling Hyacinth. We sat in a huge garden positioned behind my palace. I had never fully understood why it was here. What was its purpose? Why would you look at some boring old trees when my palace was right at the end of the long, wide strip of grass, glowing golden and easily mistaken for a beautiful sunset in the evening?  Once, I had even petitioned for the land to be flattened and used for a theatre (Dionysus and the muses backed me up, but Demeter, Poseidon and Artemis were strongly against it). But now, I smiled to myself as I began to see its importance. 

“I don’t know what you find so complicated about this, Meg. I thought you liked gardening.”

My former master scrunched up her nose, pushing her cat-eye glasses further up her face. Her hands were caked with mud and the knees of her new leggings were already ruined. She had not wanted to change her dress, but when Percy mentioned to Mrs Jackson that she was still wearing the same borrowed garment from several months before, Sally had sent a package and insisted she change clothes every once in a while. Meg had donned the teal tunic and green leggings ever since. Such was the fashion sense of The Meg. 

“Well, yeah. But I don’t think you’re allowed to call it a quest.”

“You were summoned to assist a god, were you not?”

“Duh.”

“So you are on a quest.”

“To plant flowers.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Meg shrugged. “Okay. But how do you plan to explain it to Zeu-” I cleared my throat loudly, glaring obviously at my reckless young friend. How many times did I have to tell her that names hold power? I definitely did not have a bullet-proof backup plan incase my father did find out, so I did not want to draw his attention and let him in on my little secret. That would not go well for anyone, trust me.

“How do you plan to explain it to your father?” Meg corrected. Satisfied with that adjustment, I turned my attention back to my Hyacinth. 

“I’m not going to.”

“That’s a stupid plan.”

“I would have thought you’d know me better than to assume I have a real one.”

“That’s fair, you’re pretty dumb.”

“Hey!” I threw a clod of dirt at her, which hit her right in the centre of her forehead. We shared a look of mild amazement. I actually hit my target. It had been a while. I grinned with triumph, but it was soon smacked off my face as I got hit full whack with a dirt ball to the cheek. Then our eyes met in silent challenge. We both accepted.

It only took fifteen minutes for the massive garden to become an all-out war zone. There was no safe place. Dirt flew every direction, and we both took advantage of our own abilities - Meg using plants to trip me up or willing the dirt to fly with excruciating accuracy, and me, using beams of sunlight to reflect off Meg’s glasses and blind her, and when I found her charging at me, I flew over her head, just to be annoying. 

When Meg shoved half a dozen handfuls of mud down my shirt, I decided to play dirty (well...dirtier). I conjured a hose, and watched with enormous enjoyment as Meg’s cocky grin melted into morphed into one of realisation and fear. I blasted her. 

We chased each other around the grass, continuously soaking each other (Meg had used a plant pot as a bucket and filled it in a nearby pond) until the sky started to dim. It was early January, so it wasn’t too late, maybe six o’clock. Cold and exhausted, we made our way back towards my palace. My mother was waiting in the kitchen when we arrived, a new apple pie steaming on the dining table. She tutted at our wet cloths and sopping hair. With a wave of her dainty hand, Meg and I immediately dried.

“You let the other one go cold, dear,” Leto smiled, gesturing at the pie. Two golden-rimmed plates, complete with solid gold knives and forks which shimmered into existence beside it. 

“Thank you Mother!” I said excitedly, kissing her on the cheek and sitting down at the table. Meg looked more wary. She eyed my mother suspiciously, while Leto smiled softly at her. Stepping closer to the table, perhaps under pressure, Meg inquired, “Is there ambrosia in it? I can’t eat much of that stuff.”

Leto laughed. “Yes, dear. But only traces. Only eat a slice or two, and you’ll be absolutely okay.”

I turned around in my chair and grinned over the backrest at them. 

“Meg, it’s fine. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, would you, Mother?”

Leto looked horrified. “Of course not! Why would I damage such a harmless creature that’s so vital to the nutrition of other creatures?” 

I gave Meg a look. “See?” 

Meg seemed satisfied with that answer, but was still cautious in her approach to the table. But after no more than fifteen seconds, she was shovelling in mouthful after mouthful with incredible velocity, rapidly cleansing her plate of any crumbs. My Mother watched her with intrigue, and I could almost see the cogs turning in her head. While Meg helped herself to seconds, Leto quietly pulled me aside.

“When was the last time the child ate?” She whispered urgently, casting solicitous glances over at my young companion. 

“It can’t have been long ago. Meg eats a lot,” I reassured. Her shoulders relaxed, her gaze softened. Leto looked thoughtfully back over at Meg.

“Does she have somewhere to stay?”

“I believe she intends to become a year-rounder at Camp Half-Blood. She’ll be with her siblings and cousins there. Her family.”

“Mmm…”

“Mother?” Leto peered deep into my metallic gold irises. Then back looked at Meg. Then back at me. “What are you thinking?”

“If she is to remain at Camp Half-Blood, you will not be able to meet with her. I implore you, son. Look into the future. What possibilities do you see for her there?”

I concentrated, absorbing in every part of Meg’s being and taking into account every decision I’d ever seen her make. (Being a god, this was easy. Oh, how I enjoyed the wonders of a working memory!) I started off simple to ease myself back into prophecy, by predicting where her fork would land next. [She will miss the pie and stab the plate] Clank! My power proved to be working. I stretched myself a bit further, into next week. I saw her hold up a red flag in triumph. [She will win Capture The Flag for the Demeter, Hades, Dionysus and Apollo cabins] Yes, that seemed plausible. 

Then I looked years ahead, in fast-forward. I laid every likely option and decision for Meg out on a metaphorical table in front of me and examined them all. Useless nonsense rushed past me as I sifted through the possibilities. [On May 23rd, she will eat meatloaf for dinner] [Exactly two weeks from now, she will push a son of Dionysus into the lake] [In three years, she will set Peaches loose on a rabid Manticore] None of these helped me. I searched for the correct timeline, the one where she stayed at Camp. I found it. 

[She will miss Apollo] Fair, I would miss her too. [She will feel lonely] I will too, friend. [She will distance herself from anything to do with Apollo, including his children] Wait, no- [She no longer considers Apollo to be a friend] STOP!

My eyes flew open. My mother held onto my arm, steadying me. Meg had turned around in her chair, seeming concerned. 

“You okay?”

I stumbled for an answer. Would she really dismiss me? Would I dismiss her? “Uh, yes. Yes, everything is fine.” Meg’s eyebrows scrunched behind her cat-eye glasses. The rhinestones caught the light, and shone brightly. 

“You look sick,” she announced, with her usual Meggy bluntness.

“Thanks,” I grumbled. “Meg, it’s getting late. Perhaps I should send you back to Camp.”

Meg pouted. “Why can’t I stay?”

“You know why. Father can’t find out you’re here.” 

Meg groaned. “Ugh. Okay. Just don’t forget about me or I’ll march right back to kick you in the kneecaps.”

I smiled. “I would not dream of it. See you soon.” I waved my hand and Meg evaporated in a shower of gold, and I felt her reappear safely at Half-Blood Hill.

My mother turned to me. 

“Well?”

…

We sat on the cold stone steps of the amphitheatre, where I’d dazzled the demigods into minor depression with my Lydian and one-four-five Progressions so many moons ago. 

It was late afternoon and the sun shone softly through the trees, scattering beams of light around the secluded area. I appeared similar to what I had a few days ago, only this time I had donned a more ‘modern’ look from my usual toga. I wore an ACDC t-shirt under an unzipped orange and white jacket. My jeans were worn pale at the knees and hems, which contrasted the bright red of my nike trainers. Only my hair was much the same - long, blond and flowing down to my shoulders. 

Little sparks of light bounced cheerfully off of Meg’s rhinestones. She kicked a pebble down the steps, and watched in fascination as it skipped, making tic tic tic sounds all the way to the bottom. She was still wearing the same teal tunic and green leggings, her gardener’s belt hanging loosely around her waist. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, she spoke.

“You said you wanted to ask me something?”

I nodded. “Yes, but I want to inform you that how you answer will not affect my view of you in the slightest. I will always admire you, whether you turn down my offer or not.”

“Offer?”

I laced my fingers, trying to think of the best way to word it. 

“Following your recent quest,” (Meg snorted. I continued.) “I realised that I will not be able to see you as often as I would like. I will not be able to intervene on future quests, or protect you much beyond what my father allows. It will most likely be a long time before all the gods begin to treat the mortals as beings. I will also have to endure the endless mocking from my fellow gods, simply for changing my morals, and someone with mortal experience would be good to keep me straight. So, my offer to you, should you choose to accept it, is the offer of immortality. I would like you to live on Olympus, with me.” Meg’s eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. Seeing this, I rushed to hastily add to my unexpected statement. “Now, please know that this is not a one-time offer. You can say ‘No’ now, and come back later! Or not. Whatever you choose, I’ll always be looking out for you, okay?” Meg furrowed her eyebrows and blew out her cheeks in concentration. I watched her, not quite knowing if I should say more. 

“Will I have to leave Camp forever? Will I be able to visit?”

“That’s the thing. You would only be allowed to visit if you have a specific purpose for coming, and you would have to make sure it’s iron-clad just in case Zeus confronts you about it. But I am working on finally getting those laws abolished. Hopefully, one day, you will be able to come simply because you want to. The catch is; I am not sure how long it will be until that happens.”

“So all my siblings might be dead.” I smiled sympathetically, feeling the chance of her accepting my offer sinking dramatically.

“Most likely.”

Meg gained her closed-off expression, her guards shooting up to prevent any and all emotional damage. I held my breath, waiting patiently for her to respond. It took a few minutes. Finally, Meg uttered at an almost indecipherable volume, “Can I think about it?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was not a no. There was still time to convince her.

“Of course, dear Meg.”

Abruptly, Meg stood and sprinted back towards Cabin Four without another word. I had expected this, but it still threw me through a loop. I ran my fingers through my luscious blond hair, and inhaled deeply through my nose. While I was lost in my thoughts, a voice suddenly piped up and made me jump a foot in the air in surprise.

“Hey Dad!”

Gasping sharply and clutching my hand to my thumping heart, I turned to meet the speaker. My son, Austin Lake, stood before me holding a battered, grey-silver saxophone and smiling nervously. I gestured for him to come and sit with me. He complied. 

“You here to see Meg?”

I wrapped my strong arm around him, and pulled him close to my side. “I was going to visit you kids too, but you ruined the surprise.” I punctuated my statement with noogie on Austin’s cornrows. He giggled and shuffled closer to me, absolutely failing at being inconspicuous. I didn’t mind. My kids and I are born to be obvious. Why hide something good?

I gestured to his beaten saxophone. “What happened there? The Ares kids?”

“Nah. I never found the one I lost in the labyrinth, so I had to take this old one from the back of Cabin Seven. I don’t think it’s been used since before that orientation film was made.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “It sounds fine, but I wish it had I bit more…I don’t know…pizzazz? Flash?”

“A bit of shine is never amiss,” I agreed.

“It doesn’t matter anyways. I tested it out on Miranda Gardener and Sherman Yang, and they did kiss when I played ‘Careless Whisper’, but it just doesn’t help the whole YouTube thing, y’know?”

“Of course. Sometimes people simply refuse to take you seriously unless you look the part. A frustrating yet universal part of showmanship - one that none of my children should have to deal with.” I waved my hand, and the old saxophone glowed, and began to fix it’s dents. The tired looking grey colour ebbed away and darkened, a black sheen taking it’s place. The keys and rods however, brightened until they shone gold. Soon Austin was holding a very classy jazz saxophone that matched his black woollen peacoat. I am extremely conscious of the instrument matching the style of the musician, hence why all my instruments include some form of precious metal or stone.

Austin’s brown eyes glittered with pure excitement. 

“Thanks Dad! You’re the best!” He launched himself into me hugged me like he would never let go. I drew him closer to me, savouring every moment. I heard him mumble something unintelligible into my chest.

“What was that you said?” I asked. My boy tilted his head up slightly, so I could only see his eyes and above past the folds of my ACDC tee. He repeated himself a bit louder.

“Do you read all our messages? Like, the ones Chiron gets us to write to our godly parents?”

I chuckled, raised one hand for dramatic effect and recited: 

“Hey dad! I’m Austin

Chiron said you like haikus

Poetry is cool”

“Nooooo….” Austin groaned. “I can’t write poetry for my life…”

“I think it’s great! You were only, what,” I counted on my fingers. “Seven at the time?”

“And already better than your dad!” An unknown voice rang out loudly from behind us, making us snap back from each other and whip around to face the impish figure. Hermes held up his hands in mock surrender, his signature stupid grin plastered on his face as he sauntered towards us. His dirty blond hair bobbed in its curls with every step he took. He nodded to Austin.

“‘Sup kid? Did anyone ever tell you about the time Apollo was obsessed with Limericks? Maybe you could compose one of those about your old man’s ‘awesomeness’,” (emphasising the ‘awesomeness’ with air quotes. Humph!) “and send it to me later, yeah? For mocking purposes only, of course.” Austin shifted uncomfortably, clearly not thrilled to have been interrupted from rare cool father/cool son bonding time. I knew how tricky Hermes could be, and I definitely did not want to put my son through the embarrassment of somehow signing off his mother’s inheritance to cattle farmers in Indonesia, so I took initiative. 

“Austin, why don’t you go show off your new saxophone to your siblings? I promise I will come back to visit again soon.”

Hermes snorted. “Yeah, maybe don’t swear on the Styx though, bro. Dad wants to see you about some flower planting quest.” His grin spread like he had just cracked an atrocious pun, and was awaiting the groans of his audience. “He’s soooo mad.” I gave a reassuring smile down to my apprehensive son. 

“Do not worry about me, child. Hermes is a known fibber. I’m sure he’s not that furious. It will be fine.”

...

It was not fine.

As soon as I entered my father’s personal throne room, I could tell. The enchanted ceiling was dark with storm clouds. The atmosphere was thick and heavy with static and tension. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back.

My father sat on a proud marble throne, its veins of grey curling like smoke throughout the white stone. The king himself wore a smart navy suit, complete with a matching tie and a mid-length salt and pepper beard that overshadowed his mouth. His long hair was styled not unlike my own, except a lot darker and less flamboyant. He took the form of a man in his late 40’s, but could only be shown by the unfashionable wrinkles around his eyes. He was well built, and, despite my love for my eight-pack, far more muscular than I thought was attractive or necessary. He glared down his nose at me as I walked down the aisle of blue carpet towards his feet.

He must have been forty foot tall, which was big even for a god. I stood at a more natural twenty. I did not dare make myself bigger. I did not want my father to be under the impression that I wanted to intimidate him. I did not. 

I bowed at my father’s feet and lowered my head, waiting for the word to stand up. It did not come. Instead my father spoke in his low growl:

“Apollo.”

I swallowed my anxieties and forced myself to look up into his eyes. They were not their usual electric blue, as so many of his offspring had inherited, but they had been clouded over with a thick, angry grey mist. His dark brows were furrowed in concentration. A permanent scowl was fixed on his features. I willed my voice not to squeak or crack. 

“Yes, father?” Zeus’s scowl deepened.

“Do you think I am witless, boy?” He rumbled.

“I - no, father,” I stammered. Zeus leaned forward in his throne, glaring holes through my head.

“Do you think I am beneath you?”

“Wha - no!” My hands subconsciously gripped my jacket and fiddled furiously with the zip. I could feel my godly sweat making the cool metal slippery. The air around Zeus condensed into a dark haze. Lighting cackled like an entourage of jeering bullies, laughing at my panicked face and hopeless predicament. 

“YET YOU STILL DISOBEY ME?” I took several deep breaths. I was a god. I had faced python, while mortal, and defeated him. I was still undoubtedly terrified, but I thought of Meg, of my children, of Perseus Jackson. They needed me to take this first step into defending the demigods. My face hardened. My voice was calm, quiet and deliberate, but hid a tsunami of fear.

“Name the law.” My father’s raised bolt faltered, reflecting his confusion. 

“What?”

“Name the law,” I repeated. “Name the law I have broken by ordering a demigod, whom I know well and am sure is capable of being assigned a task, to go on a quest.”

Zeus gritted his teeth, and growled in his gritty voice; “I watched you play, boy. Do you think you are humorous? Do you think you can scorn my gift in such ways? I gave you immortality. I made you a god! Yet you run around like a hooligan, associating with these lesser beings, for what? Your twisted idea of justice? I am the god of justice, you insolent child. I have decided our laws, and I can make more laws if I so wish. Do not test me.”

“As I remember brother,” a feminine voice cut the thick tension of the room, “You need council approval to decree a new law. Am I correct?” Zeus scowled, but his anger visibly dissipated. He sat back in his chair as the dark clouds surrounding the throne lightened into grey wisps, like one might see on a dull autumn’s day. I did not dare turn my back to my father to see the speaker, though I knew the voice well - a voice older than Zeus’. I kept my kneeling position, hearing the footsteps of the graceful Olympian stride down the single strip of carpet, stopping just behind me. I felt a soft hand on my shoulder. It pulled me up until I stood beside the tall, warm figure of Demeter, the goddess of agriculture. 

She wore a simple, emerald-coloured dress that flowed down to her ankles, revealing a pair of bronze-coloured sandals. A thin, gossamer shawl of sage-like hue was wrapped around her shoulders and hung around her tanned arms. Her wavy blonde hair shared an alikeness to that of Sleeping Beauty’s. A ring of glittering corn stalks circled her brow. Her form was a few inches taller than my own. She kept her hand firm on my shoulder and glared defiantly up at Zeus with those striking green eyes. 

“Margaret is my daughter. I invited her to Olympus to congratulate her on finishing her quest, as is customary. She and Apollo simply conversed over some flowers.” She looked down at me. “And I for one, am pleased that Apollo is finally making good use of that great space.” I smiled up at her, then glanced nervously at Zeus. His mighty hand stroked his beard in thought. At last, grumbled and said; 

“Very well,” his deep voice echoed throughout the hall. “But be warned. Next time that mortal comes to this land with no believable reasoning, I will not be so merciful.” 

“Of course, my lord.” Demeter and I both bowed in respect (well, more so ‘custom’ or ‘fear’ than respect, but whatever) and made our way out into the cheery sunlight, leaving the clammy throne room behind us.

We wandered down the streets in silence, watching all the minor deities, cloud nymphs and satyrs frolic and chat excitedly. I got a few gazes from a group of dryads, but thought nothing of it. Perhaps they had heard of what I did for the Palm Springs residents. Did dryads have some sort of mental link or Whatsapp text group? I imagined it would go like: “Hey gurrrll!!! ;D You see all this heatwave shiz??? Gone!!!! Apollo is #greatest” or something similar. After a few minutes, Demeter pulled me to a park bench that overlooked a large, shimmering lake. Ripples glided across the water. Every now and then, a tentacle rose above the surface and plunged back under, sending a spray of droplets to dampen anything in a metre radius. Some hippocampi splashed playfully around the shallows, some allowing a pod of Naiads to stroke their noses and fuss over how cute they were. We watched.

“You did well by my daughter, Apollo,” Demeter mused. She kept her eyes on the lake. No doubt, she was not comfortable congratulating her least favourite nephew, but I admired her determination to go through with it anyways. I may not have done the same. “I am surprised.” 

I gave a short laugh. I was used to being mildly insulted. It did not phase nor offend me. 

“Meg is truly an extraordinary demigod. You must be very proud.”

“I am.” A small smirk appeared on her otherwise neutral expression. “She is one of my best.”

“She could live here. You’d get to see her. I would too. I think a wild demigod energy such as hers is well needed around here.” The goddess of grain raised an eyebrow, and peered down at me from the corner of her eye. “I have offered her immortality,” I clarified. “She has not yet answered. I think if she accepts, you should be the one to grant her the immortality. Of course, I can do it myself, but I thought it may be more impactful for a mother.” She furrowed her brows, and her corn crown seemed to catch the light of the late afternoon sun, making her eyes hard to focus on. 

“Zeus would not approve.”

“Zeus wouldn’t have a say,” I countered. Demeter only nodded her head ever so slightly, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Very well. I will accept if she accepts.”

…

Apollo was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Meg simply could not understand him. She lay belly down on one of the thick branches of the tree that supported the newly built Cabin Four like a panther reclining in the jungle, contemplating her idiot friend and his dumb offer. She sniffed, shifting her head on the uncomfortable bark. She liked Camp Half-Blood. The food was good, there was some people her age that she could beat in a fight - and older campers she could beat too - sword practice was fun. So was capture the flag. But Meg was alone, and maybe that was good. People crowded her on the first few days after the end of the quest, wanting details about the most dangerous parts. She had even been given a necklace with a single green bead on it that held a picture of a writhing serpent - Python, the monster she and Apollo had slain. Every now and again, an Apollo camper would ask questions about their dad, and she always made sure to give them less than flattering (but truthful) answers.

But that had worn off after a while. People left her alone, apart from Billie Ng and Miranda Gardener, who she was trying to teach how to summon a karpos (they were pretty bad at it). She hated that she missed her partner in crime. But if she left, she would miss her home, where she belonged.

‘Ughghhh” Meg groaned, sliding ungracefully off her branch and landing on the floor with a whump. She rolled onto her back and scowled at the unfairness of having to deal with feelings. Time passed. Eventually, she decided to make a call.

…

I didn’t scream. Nope, definitely not me, the cool and chill god of a-heck-load-of-things. No, I’m quite sure I stayed calm and collected at the sight of Meg McCaffrey appearing in a shimmering vapour form - in my shower. 

Fine. I may have screamed. But you cannot blame me! It is one thing to take a shower with a ‘date’, and quite another to be peeked on by a twelve-year-old. I frantically made my best efforts to cover my perfect physique for the sake of the child, who immediately threw her hands over her eyes and made a ‘gross’ face. She wore a baggy Camp Half-Blood T-shirt over her usual dress, and a single bead hung by a thread on her neck.

“Meg, what the actual-” I hissed, cutting myself off. I took a deep breath and held my tongue to refrain myself from swearing in front of a kid (my mother would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t). “Why are you Iris Messaging me? Now, of all times?”

“I didn’t know you were in the shower, dummy.” Meg blew a raspberry, her vapour form producing a few bubbles in the process. “I didn’t think you had to wash since y’know,” she gestured at my tanned body. I covered myself a little more, even if she did still have her eyes shielded. 

“I don’t. It’s just relaxing,” I grumbled, grabbing a towel, wrapping it around my waist and stepping out into the steamy bathroom. I kept the shower running so the Iris Message could continue, which involved getting the towel wet. I prayed the extra weight would not lead to any unexpected revealings. 

“I’m not supposed to be taking to you, Meg.”

Meg uncovered her eyes and snorted. “Says who?”

“Says my father.” I felt my face darken. “He heard about your little quest. He told me you could not come here again with out ‘believable reason’.” I punctuated the last part with air quotes.

“I told you that you should’ve had a plan.”

I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “I did have a plan! My plan was for him not to find out.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Shut up.” I could not resist the smirk that played on my lips. I wanted to be around my friend more often. She was one of the few who still talked to me as an equal (kind of). The other Olympians…let’s just say they didn’t exactly show me the same level of respect has they had once done, with the limited exceptions of Poseidon (who had been mortal once before) and Artemis (who had never respected me - its a sibling thing). “Listen, I cannot guarantee that my father isn’t keeping a close eye, so let’s make this quick. What did you want to tell me?” 

Meg’s face lost its humour. I was afraid she’d back out and end the message. Instead, she spoke. “I thought about your offer.”

I felt my chest swell with hope. Maybe she’d say yes. Maybe she’d come up and be my friend for eternity. Maybe I would have one more person to talk to. “And?”

“No.”

My smile faltered. I felt all sense of excitement in me shatter in that moment as I struggled to put together a sentence. “Wh…what?”

She looked down at her rough, calloused hands. “I don’t want to be a god. I don’t want to live directly under Zeus’s thumb. I killed Nero. I killed him because he was awful and forced me to do stuff I didn’t want to do. He made me feel stupid and useless. I got rid of that.” She stared me directly in the eye. “I never want to feel like that again.”

The argument I’d prepared died in my throat. Could I really blame her? After all, she was right. My father didn’t even allow me to talk to my friend. Meg didn’t want to be oppressed like I was. She was free. That was a feeling I could never truly have. I’d given up on it long ago.

“Yeah,” I croaked. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she mumbled back. “Bye.” Her figure disappeared, and I was left alone, standing in the all-too-quiet bathroom. 

“Farewell.”

***

It had been several months since Meg had declined my offer. I still thought about her and my children every day. I searched for and aided a few of my less remembered offspring, guiding them to their respective camps. Thirteen-year-old Seamus, ten-year-old Anthony and two-year-old James made their way to Camp Jupiter. Nine-year-old Aiden, twelve-year-old Dwayne and six-year-old Marigold travelled to Camp Half-Blood. I had just ensured the safe arrival of Marigold, the curly blonde-haired excitable young demigod who seemed to have inherited my ability of Photokinesis, a rare and promising talent for my children to have. In other words, I was exhausted. So I teleported to the most calming place I could think of.

I collapsed down underneath the aged mountain laurel tree. It was located high up in a rocky, unforgiving mountain range, but overlooked the beautiful view of the other mountains, the lower halves shrouded in white mist. We often met here. 

Beside me sat a young girl in a grey puffer coat and black leggings, her long dark hair tied back in a high ponytail. She was busy whittling on a long piece of wood, and so, did not look up at my arrival.

“Brother,” she greeted plainly.

“‘Sup?” I replied weakly, exhaustion filling my voice. I watched Artemis whittle for a while, my eyes half closed, the bow slowly taking its shape and the sound of the knife scraping evenly across the smooth surface calming me. “You making this for one of your hunters?” 

“Yes. Being their leader has responsibilities, you know.” 

I blew out my cheeks in exasperation. “At least you never have to go chasing down kids all over the world to drag to two camps in North America.” Artemis paused her whittling, and looked at me quizzically. “My son, Diego,” I clarified. “His mother is Spanish. He did not want to leave Madrid. But I finally convinced him after, what,” I tried to recall. “Three days? Ugh. Sometimes I just wish there were a few more camps around, ya know?”

The huntress had gone back to her work, her face contorted in concentration. “Mmm.”

“Are you even listening?”

“Uh huh.” I elbowed my beloved sister in the ribs, an effective attention-attracting tip I had learned over the course of my punishment; courtesy of Meg McCaffrey. Artemis glared daggers at me. “What?” 

I beamed my most innocent smile. “You weren’t giving me enough attention, Artie.”

“Sod off.” She grunted. She will always deny it, but I saw a slight hint of a smirk seep through her annoyed facade. I grinned to myself as I decided to be as provocative as possible. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and snickered at her crabby expression and ancient greek curses as she tried to push me off. 

There are many perks to being a sibling, dear reader, and annoying the younger sibling (or the one that appeared to be younger anyways) is most definitely in the top three. Along with the whole ‘If You Anger One Of Us You Deal With Both Of Us’ Ride-Or-Die attitude we can have (of course, this does not apply to every situation. See: the time Hermes pushed me into a very deep swamp, and all my dear sister did was laugh until she could no longer breathe). 

Eventually, Artemis melted into the hug, leaning her young head against my chest. She took a deep breath and quietly said; “I am going to tell you something.” 

I drew her a little closer, my embrace no longer meaning to provoke, but to comfort. I leant my cheek on her head.

“What’s up?”

“I am only telling if you do not get big-headed about it.”

“When have I ever done that?” I teased. “Honestly, I’m rather offended that you would even insinuate-” A small hand flew up past my face and grasped a lock of my beautiful, long hair - and yanked it downwards. “OW!” I rubbed my scalp and huffed down at my smug sister.

“You deserved that.”

“Uh huh,” I grumbled, unimpressed.

“What I was going to say was that I really did miss you, Ollie.”

“I missed you too. And I never got to say thanks. Y’know… for that time in Indianapolis. I couldn’t because the others were always around so… thanks.”

Artemis fiddled with a loose string on my sleeve. “Yeah, well. I had to pay you back for that time with Atlas and Luke…” she waved her hand, gesturing vaguely to the air. “So yeah. I guess I owed you one.”

Several years ago, my dear sister had taken the weight of the sky off a young maiden in an attempt to save her from being crushed. She succeeded, but at the cost of holding up the burdensome pillar of clouds for days without rest. By the time she made it back to Olympus, she was faint and required several days of rest (as ordered by her doctor; me). The topic was not often talked about. I wished everyone would have the same attitude over my embarrassing adventures. Still, I remembered mother and I being worried sick, and Zeus coming thundering through the door when he heard about her. We thought he was there to console or mourn, or maybe hatch plans on how to save her from the titan’s clutches. If you thought ‘What? That doesn’t sound like Zeus!’ then congratulations! You are learning. He told us that a demigod quest had been despatched, and if he were to find either of us interfering, he would rip out the ‘Number Ten’ lighting bolt. But not to worry, oh readers! He didn’t catch me.

Artemis shifted under my hold. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I found myself thinking about Meg again. Her tyrannical attitude, her odd fashion sense, her scent of baked apple. I could see every rhinestone in her cat-eye glasses. Every stitch in her well-worn dress. I got to thinking about how we would meet up again. A brilliant thought crossed my mind.

…

“Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“Relax, you big baby. It’ll be fine.”

*CRASH*

Meg blew a raspberry at the window she’d just obliterated. 

“Well done,” I congratulated dryly. Meg kicked me in the shin, then readied another nerf bullet.

“I’m gonna miss if you keep distracting me!”

“Oh, was my mere presence distracting? I didn’t say anything!”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, sticking her tongue out in concentration as she aimed for the makeshift target we’d made and blu-tacked on the wooden wall. “I’ve got the gun and you’re being annoying.” I kept my mouth shut. The bullet was let loose with a twang. It went right through the hole where the window had once been. There were shouts from outside varying from “Get down, get down!” “Do not worry! I predict it to be no- six letters. Starts with ’T’” “Trench?” “Top-hat?” “That’s two words, Aloe.” “My bad.”

Of course, we were back at Aeithales. Palm Springs had welcomed us back with open arms. And I had my cover story set. I was here to personally check up on my Sibyl, as to not neglect my duties over prophecy, which was one of the reasons I’d been sent to Earth in the first place. I’d even gone to the extra trouble of making sure my dad was okay with it the day before. (“Because, you know, there may be some of my friends down there, cacti spirits and such, and I know you told me not to communicate with-” “APOLLO! IT’S TWO IN THE MORNING! GET OUT OF MY BEDROOM!”) So I figured I would be fine. 

It was currently quite late, maybe eleven o’clock, and I had hung around all day. Just as Meg finally hit the target, I said;

“Perhaps I should get going. Do you want to spend the night here or go back to camp?” Meg sniffed. 

“You don’t seem too bothered.”

“By what?” I asked. “Did I do something? Forgotten something? Today isn’t your birthday, is it?”

“No,” she stated bluntly, going back to aiming at the target.

“Care to elaborate?” I enquired cautiously. I did not want that nerf gun aimed the wrong way.

“You offered me immortality. I turned it down. You don’t seem upset.”

“My dear Meg. I simply respect your wishes, like I said I would.” I laced my hands together, trying to convey my feelings in an accurate way without bursting into a song that has all the feeling pre-written. “Your reasoning was sound, and while I do not fully understand your final decision, I trust your judgement. Besides, Percy Jackson turned it down too. So maybe it is not as valuable as I first thought.”

To my delight, Meg smiled. Albeit a small one. “Thanks. Do you think we’ll ever get to meet up? Without all the secrets and planning and stuff?”

I sighed. I really hoped so. “I do not know. One day, perhaps, my father will change his mind. I do not know when, or how. But I have hope that he will. As long as we keep working on him, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right!” I clapped my hands together like I had seen dads do in movies to symbolise the end of a touchy conversation. “Now off to bed or I’ll turn you into a traffic light.”

I closed the door as quietly as I could, careful not to waken the sleeping demigod. Her snores were muffled as I strolled through night, evaporating and reappearing in my palace. I wandered the golden hallways for a while, taking in every piece of decoration and furniture in a different light. The palace wasn’t cold and useless as I had first thought. It was dazzling and elegant and me. I had been under the impression that because I wanted to heighten my morals and personally intervene more often, it would require changing everything. But it didn’t. So what if I liked shiny stuff? I can have good taste and still be an awesome god! It simply wasn’t the problem. It was only what I had lacked that had bothered me. And, looking down to Palm Springs one last time, I knew I had found it. 

This was kind of a one off! The next chapter will be back with mortal Apollo during the trials. i just wanted to try something different.

[seenashwrite]

The Cupid Complication

Word Count: 5.2K Category: Humor, Fluffersnark, Romance, Friendship, Behind-the-scenes canon compliant, Holidays, Valentine’s Day Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Dean, Sam, You, a Cupid Pairing(s): Be surprised - stop wanting to know the endings at the starts, my loves Warnings: None Author’s Notes: Happy Valentine’s Day! More post-story Overall Summary: During the Valentine season this year, complications arise for you & the Winchesters due to a cupid who could use some more practice at her job. A lot more practice. A *supreme* amount of practice.  

The slow, methodical rapping sent a sharp, scolding noise into the air each time fingers hit desk.

THRRRUMP

THRRRUMP

THRRRUMP

Sinking lower into her seat, the cherub waited as her supervisor finished scanning the report.

The high-ranking angel behind the desk closed her eyes. The rapping stopped. She brought both hands up, now rubbing her temples. She sighed.

The cherub gulped.

"On your latest mission, your first arrow hit a statue, then your second, a tree, before successfully striking a human target upon your third attempt.”

"Y-yes, ma'am."

“To be precise, with the third, you managed to hit three of them.”

"Uh... yes, ma'am. That’s funny, huh? But it only nicked the woman, I don’t think she was affected. See, what happened was----"

“None of which were the assigned targets, that's what I'm to understand?”

"Well, yes - I mean, no - I mean, yes, ma'am."

"Octavia, I've repeatedly instructed you to not call me that."

"Yes, m.... Okay."

“Can you tell me why it is that we’ve navigated all the drama that is constantly plaguing heaven? Why we remain celestially adjacent?”

“Because we bring love to the world?” Octavia guessed.

“Because we - along with the muses and the reapers - specialize in the three things that will always be: life, death, and relationships. Those three things cannot be stopped, no matter how great a power may try to do so. They just are. And what keeps things running smoothly amidst all the chaos?”

“Being good at our jobs?”

“Are you telling me, or asking me?” the supervisor snapped.

“I’m… I’m telling. That’s why.”

“That is why. We coordinate. We make sure the looms of the fates have nothing time-sensitive in store for our targets. We cross-check that they aren’t in the reapers’ queue. It is a finely-tuned machine. It is a flow. It is a rhythm. And you, Octavia, have continued to disrupt that rhythm, despite your missions being limited to the month of February, the easiest, the simplest month on the calendar for making matches.”

Octavia hung her head and picked at her glittery pink-polished fingernails.

It did not go unnoticed.

“While I have you here - I’ve let it slide, but your appearance----”

“You told me I couldn’t be invisible except when I’m firing my bow! I’m trying to be festive for the season!” Octavia interjected, and was met with a stern look.

“If you hadn’t materialized when you were marking that poor woman’s heart and grabbed her breast right there in the middle of that coffee shop----”

“I wasn’t grabbing!” Octavia again interjected, and it was met with an even sterner look. “It was a really soft sweater,” she mumbled sheepishly.

“That righteous ruckus, I remind you, is what got you downgraded back to arrows. And now I find myself wondering what to do with you, if you can’t even manage what new recruits seem to execute with accuracy!”

While her supervisor began adding notes to the sizable file on Octavia, the cherub caught a glance of herself in the mirror on the wall behind the desk. She thought she looked the part - her style was cheerful, and when she was visible and surveying, it made people smile, and she didn’t care what her co-workers said, not about her heart-patterned shirt, or the shiny red shoes, or the nail polish, or her hair.

"It's pink!" they’d cried.

Octavia disagreed. Regardless of her form - big, small, skin tone, eye color - she always had wild, curly red hair. And not of a hue typically seen in nature; less ginger, more actual red. Actually, burgundy. Actually, it was possibly on the pink end of things. Fine, it was pink. But only in certain lighting. Besides, her clothes were needed - being naked was uncomfortable what with the oft-chafing quiver, so the clothing may as well match the hair - and besides that, Octavia was fine with the whole being-more-visible-than-not requirement. She liked being able to get to know her targets; even though the intel was always spot-on, it made her heart swell to know for sure she was making a good match.

They just didn’t understand. Most all cherubs - the cupids, at least - were less than enthused about Valentine’s Day, and Octavia couldn’t imagine why; after all, it was the holiday of love! And hopefully it was not spent alone, not if she had anything to do with it, despite the fact that Octavia herself often spent it alone. She didn't have many friends... really, she didn’t have any friends. And so, her companions were her targets. And she loved them, all year ‘round.

Octavia was shaken from her thoughts when the file was slammed shut, and her eyes met the steely gaze of her supervisor once more.

“Your targets have been reassigned. You have a new assignment, which - if you succeed - means I won’t transfer you to…. to…. Oh, I don’t know where, but you’ll be gone. Do you understand?”

“Ma’am? I mean, what? What is it? The assignment?” Octavia asked, nervous.

Her supervisor leaned across the desk, pointing a finger. “You are going to fix this.”

“How?”

“Think, Octavia. Who saw her first? Which of these----" A pause as the file was opened and papers were shuffled, followed by a huff when the sought information couldn’t be found immediately “----humans saw her first?” 

Octavia blinked, not following.

“The woman! You say she was only nicked, and if that’s true, you must focus on the other two - so Who. Saw. Her. First?”

"It seemed both of them at once. They do lots of things in unison. It’s kind’ve weird."

“Then I suppose you’ll have to figure out how to untangle this weird one by weird one. You have approximately twelve earth days - I want this done by sundown on the 14th. And without the bow, I don’t want to hear of any more stray shots.”

“But then how do I----”

“Fix it.”

“But if you don’t want me to----”

“FIX. IT. Dismissed!”

Octavia stood, held out her arms for the customary goodbye handshake, but when the gesture was most decidedly not reciprocated, she slunk from the office.

After the door closed, the supervisor muttered under her breath as she dug around in her drawer for the small bottle of liquor she kept handy for such situations. Situations that most always involved Octavia. And as she sipped, she glanced back through the file. And then she blanched. And then she dropped her glass with a thunk onto the desk, causing the liquid to slosh across the paper, across the last names in the universe she’d have ever wanted to see.

CONFIRMED HUMAN SUBJECTS INVOLVED IN INCIDENT, FEBRUARY 1st

WINCHESTER, DEAN

WINCHESTER, SAM

~ Almost twelve days later ~ .

"Can you help me with something?"

I glanced up from my research at the sound of Sam's voice. "Of course," I said, removing my glasses. "I need a break, anyway."

In the kitchen, there was a small box on the table, wrapping paper, tape, scissors, and a ribbon lying next to it. And there was crumpled wrapping paper on the floor. A lot of crumpled wrapping paper. I looked from it to Sam, amused.

"I keep getting one side right, then the other side comes out all uneven when I fold it," he explained. "And forget the bow, I wasn't even gonna try."

"No worries, I got you," I told him, and plopped onto a seat. He sat across from me and watched as I picked up the paper and began to unroll it to judge the size. “So, is this for who I’m thinking?” I took a peek at Sam, caught the blush rising to his cheeks, and I grinned, having my answer. “You’ve been talking about her a lot since the last hunt.”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” he said. “I don’t know why, I just… started looking at her differently, you know?”

“Oh I know, and I get it, she’s great. And it’s nice to see you happy,” I said, about to lift the box - but then I stopped, met his eye. "Sam… this is leaking."

"What?"

I pointed to the moisture trail the box had left when I'd pulled it closer. "Did you... you didn't cook something, did you? I mean, that's fine, it's just we may need a different type of box, and no sense in wrapping it yet if it needs to be refrigerated, and----"

Sam cut me off. "I didn't cook anything - it's a chocolate heart."

We stared at each other for a moment, then stared down at the box, bewildered.

Which is when it jumped.

To be specific, it pulsed itself into the air, though only a tiny bit, shifting its position on the table slightly every time it came back down. Two successive plops, a brief moment, then it repeated. And it kept repeating. And it was on its fifth cycle before we came out of our shared daze, both putting our hands on the top to stop the movement. It vibrated under our palms.

“We gotta open it,” I said.

“What if it’s a cursed object?” Sam asked in response.

“Where the hell’d you get it?”

“Candy shop, same one that’s been on main street for forever, a little old lady owns it.”

“Witch, maybe?” I suggested.

We looked down as the box became a touch more aggressive in its pushback, the sides straining slightly - something thick was beginning to sneak out of the corners.

Sam shook his head, bewildered. “I dunno.”

“Well, whatever it is, it’s pissed off!” I announced and, as if it wanted to confirm my assertion, the box managed to knock our hands away, sending itself clean off the table and onto the floor, where it resumed its original soft bum-bum… bum-bum… bum-bum...

“It’s beating,” Sam said. “The heart.” A pause. “I can’t give her that!”

“THAT’S your concern?!” I shouted, then took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, trying to quell my annoyance. “Okay. I’m opening it.”

“Wait! We should---” Sam began, but was interrupted.

“Hey, whoa - what’s going on, why’re you guys yelling?” Dean asked as he walked in, frowning.

The box performed its routine for him.

“Wow,” said Dean. “Never mind.” He looked to me. “I was gonna ask your opinion on something, but since you’re busy…”

I gave him a look. “You’re in this now, too, bud.” I dropped into a squat, did a mental 1-2-3 count, and took the lid off the box.

“Gross,” Dean said, his nose wrinkling. “I mean, cool, but gross.”

“That’s not what I bought!” Sam said, pointing down at the cool-but-gross.

It was an actual, for real, no denying it, right there, in the box, human heart, and it was pumping out a brown, viscous fluid with every beat.

“Is that….” Sam said, but trailed off, and he squatted beside me, then dipped a finger into the goo. He held it to his nose, sniffed. “I think it’s chocolate.”

“Lemme see,” Dean said, and now he squatted, too - then to our horror, he dipped his finger as well, and immediately brought it to his lips, giving it a lick.

“Dean!” Sam and I exclaimed.

“Mmmm,” Dean hummed, his eyes closing briefly. “Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff. Good stuff. Is the rest made out of candy?”

“No!” Sam and I exclaimed.

Dean’s face went pinched again. “Gross,” he repeated, then promptly stood and began walking to the fridge. “I need a beer.”

“’I need a beer’, he says,” I commented, shaking my head.

Sam and I straightened ourselves, still watching the heart pump-pump away, but we looked back to Dean at the sound of chuckling.

“You may as well give it up, brother. I got you beat. Heh. Beat,” he said with a smile, popping the cap off the beer.

“Beat at what?” I asked.

“Yeah, beat at what?” Sam echoed, and the look on his face and his stiff posture and the way he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes made me think he already knew what Dean meant.

“I mean, it’s creative, I’ll give you that - but chocolate’s not her favorite. Which you’d know, if you knew her as well as I do,” Dean replied, cool as could be.

It hit me then that Dean had also been talking about our hunter colleague an awful lot in the recent past, and it prompted me to ask, “Dean, what was it you wanted my opinion on?”

He swallowed a mouthful of beer, then replied, “I wanted to see what you thought about how my Valentine’s gift turned out.” Looking to Sam, he added, “Which I wrapped by myself.”

Sam looked like he wanted to smack the smug right off Dean’s face. “You did this!” he said. “You put some sort of hex on that heart - you’re trying to sabotage me!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to sabotage you, she’s not into you.”

Sam turned to me. “Years ago, over an autopsy, he passes me a human heart, just like that one---”

“No chocolate,” Dean pointed out.

“---and he said ‘Be my valentine’.”

“Dean... asked you... to be his valentine,” I said slowly.

“Not like--- that’s not--- it’s his sick sense of humor!” Sam explained. “And he’s doing it again! Trying to split us up!”

“Split who up?” I asked. “You’re not dating her! Neither of you are!”

“Not yet,” Dean said, still with the smug.

“What did you get her? Show me,” Sam demanded.

“Like I said, I got her favorite candy. C’mon,” Dean replied, setting down his beer and gesturing for us to follow.

As we walked down the hall to his room, they kept fussing, and as Dean was opening the door, I said, “You’re both acting really weird, I’m honestly getting concerned because---- good lord.”

A gift bag was tipped over on his bed, and what had to be dozens of worms were happily crawling around: on the bed itself, on the pillows, on the floor, on his desk, and - to his horror - over the stack of vintage porn mags on the nightstand.

“What the hell?!” he shouted.

Sam snickered.

The worms were fat, and glossy, and each segment was a color of the rainbow.

“Gummy worms?” I asked.

“Gummy worms,” Dean confirmed.

After a shared look - the same one we’d share during hunts when we knew it was time to cut out and regroup - we all left the room, shutting the door behind us.

“You believe me now? That I’m not sabotaging you?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Something’s up.”

“Finally!” I said. “We have to retrace our steps, figure out what caused this. Now, you two started talking about her on the way home after that hunt, I think, so----”

“Something’s trying to keep me from her,” Dean and Sam stated in unison.

I groaned. “No, that’s not it - it’s that something’s, I dunno, infected the both of you, to make you want her. You know, want-her, want her.”

“I’m gonna go see her,” Dean said, determination all over his face and in his tone.

“Not if I get there first,” Sam replied, equally determined.

When they both began to move to, I assume, race each other to the car, I stood in the way. “Stop, okay? Isn't she still up at Donna's, going over traps and sigils with the girls?”

Dean got a moony smile on his face. “Man, she's so freakin' smart.”

Sam went dopey, too. "Right? So smart. Smartest person we know, definitely."

“And the prettiest.”

“Pretty? She's gorgeous.”

“Totally the hottest chick we know.”

I raised my hand. "Hi? Right here, remember?"

Dean gave me an up-and-down. “You’re all right, you got nothing to worry about.”

“I’m. Not. Worried,” I said through grit teeth.

“And you’re good with the lore,” Sam offered halfheartedly.

“I know. Look, if you’re gonna go up to Donna’s----” I began, but they cut me off by going around me, headed toward the garage at what seemed like light speed. “I’m coming with you!” I yelled, hot on their heels, pausing only to snatch my jacket off the back of a library chair.

.

.

Thankfully, the road trip conversation was less argument and more fawning over the object of their mutual desire, and as much as I liked our friend, I got bored, which meant I got sleepy. In what felt like a blink of an eye, I suddenly found myself in the next county over from our destination. The slamming of the car doors had jolted me awake - according to my watch, they’d driven all through the night, the maniacs, and now it appeared a side mission had emerged.

We were parked in front of a liquor store.

It was surprisingly empty for Valentine’s Day, at least in my estimation. I’d have thought people would’ve been buying out the joint, last minute prep for their sappy candlelit dinners. I shuddered at the thought. That was me: Not Romantic, party of one.

When I entered, the gal behind the checkout counter gave me a polite smile and a small point in the direction of the refrigerated areas at the back of the store, to the only other occupants besides ourselves. But she didn’t need to - I’d heard them already. And it sounded like the most recent bout was about to hit a fever pitch.

“It’s the last one, and I got to it first!”

“Yeah, well I saw it first!”

Dean and Sam were yanking a bottle back and forth, and when I came up to them, I noted it was champagne. Pink champagne. I rolled my eyes, then reached in and snatched the bottle away, which earned me two dirty looks.

“Guys, I have a idea about what might’ve happened - is it possible this is a cupid situation?” I asked.

They both stared at me for a couple of seconds, and then smiles began to appear on both their faces.

“That explains it,” said Sam.

“It sure does,” said Dean.

I eyed both of them, suspicious at why they were pleased to hear my theory, but went on. “We should call Cas, see about doing a summoning spell.”

“We could do that on our own, I don’t wanna bother him while he’s spending time with Jack,” Sam replied.

I was instantly relieved - at least Sam was getting some sense.

“Why should we summon a cupid?” Dean asked. “If it is a cupid, that must mean I’m meant to be with----”

“Whoa, hold on,” Sam interrupted. “I’m supposed to be with----”

So much for sense.

Now I interrupted. “What makes you think either of you are supposed to be with her? Regardless, both of you can’t be meant for her! This is obviously some sort of mistake!”

Dean's lips curled into a smirk. “You jealous?”

My eyebrows shot up. “Jealous of what? Not being on the receiving end of leaky organs and creepy crawlers? Can we focus for a second? Back on the hunt, did you two see anybody that shouldn’t have been there? Before or after the salt and burn?”

“Nope,” Dean answered.

“Same here,” Sam agreed.

I sighed. “Me, neither.” I thought a few more moments, then asked, “Anywhere else? Anybody new? Anybody unusual?”

“Well, I mean… I guess the girl that sold me the heart was a little different. Different for Lebanon,” Sam said. “I’ve never seen her around town before, and I’d have noticed - she had pink hair.”

Dean nodded. “Uh-huh. Same girl sold me the worms. I’ve never seen her before, either.”

“Okay, so, pink hair - what else?” I asked.

“She was just… really Valentine-y. I thought it was just part of the sales shtick,” Dean answered.

“Yeah, her dress was patterned with these little lips, like kisses,” Sam said.

Dean gave him a look for remembering that piece of info, and I hid a smile.

Sam ignored him. “And she had a name you don’t hear often… it was Opal… Olive… Ophelia?”

Dean snapped his fingers. “No, no - it was, like, Octopus or something.”

“Octop---- Dean, what?” Sam said, exasperated.

I ran a hand over my face, looked skyward for a second, briefly turning over in my mind how my life had come to this point, then brought my eyes back to them. “Was it Octavia?”

They were mildly stunned.

“How in the hell could you have known that?” Dean asked.

“Because I’m a hunter, and I’m observant, and I’m not in some whack-a-doo crazy cupid coma,” I replied, and I sounded snide, because I was being snide. “I know the name because of the name tag.”

“I thought you didn’t see anybody at the cemetery,” Sam said, brow furrowed.

Dean frowned, as well. “And cupids wearing name tags? No they don’t, they’re naked. Where would they put it?”

“Oh my god, the stupid has to end,” I announced, and stepped behind him, grabbing his shoulders, shifting him so he was facing down the aisle, to the front of the store. I pointed. “Checkout girl? Up there? Pink sweater with white hearts? Pink-and-white striped skirt? Pink tights? Pink hair?!?”

At that moment, the shelves began to tremble - specifically, the shelves lined with the not-pink champagne bottles. Glass clinked as they bumped into one another. The ones stored upright tipped onto their sides.

And then they fired.

Corks shot out like bullets, and we dodged and weaved, getting popped here-and-there, but other than sticky, bubble-coated boots, we managed to get out of the store unscathed. And on the sidewalk, we found her. There, the cotton candy-colored cupid stood, fidgeting, a hesitant smile on her face.

We stared.

“H-h-hi?” she managed.

We continued to stare.

“I screwed up,” she admitted. “And unless I fix this, I’ll be kicked out of the cupids.” Tears sprang to her already shining eyes. “I don’t even know what other cherubs do! And I don’t want to, I’m a good cupid, I am.”

“Oh no. You suck,” Dean stated, and I frowned at him, gave him a sharp elbow, then looked to the source of our troubles.

“It’s Octavia, right?” I asked, glancing at the name tag.

She nodded. "I wouldn't lie, I promise."

I nodded in acknowledgement, and said, “Okay, then, keep that going. Tell us what, exactly, you screwed up.”

“I got the address backwards. I was supposed to be across town, not at that graveyard.” She paused, a contemplative expression coming to her face. “Now that I think of it, that isn’t a romantic place.”

“No,” Sam responded flatly. “It’s not.”

And then Octavia told her story, confirming what I’d guessed. “I thought all this would discourage you, but seems my arrows were more potent than I realized,” she finished. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. You mean so much to me. Every one of you.”

Dean and Sam and I looked at each other, all of us softening - we believed her.

“Octavia, what else can be done?” Sam asked. “Because I’ll be honest, all I want to do right now is tackle Dean and steal the keys and leave him in the dust and go to her.”

“Awesome. Let's see you try,” Dean shot back, eyes narrowed, fists clenching.

I looked to the cupid with what I knew was desperation on my face as I moved to stand between the lovesick idiots.

“I could use something else on my arrows—-” Octavia began.

“NO ARROWS!” the three of us shouted.

“—-but it should work if you use it on yourselves.” She pulled three small bottles from the pocket of her skirt, all filled with a shimmery red liquid that gave off a slight golden glow.

“So do they drink it?” I asked.

Octavia shook her head. “It needs to be applied to where I hit them - well, Sam can maybe drink his, but…”

“But what?”

“But… butt. I hit Dean in the butt, then it kind’ve curved up and hit Sam in the cheek. Not one of those cheeks, I mean----”

I held up a hand. “Stop, I got it.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “You’re--- you’re telling me it went through his ass then in my mouth?”

Dean leaned over, gripping his knees, laughing so hard he was gasping for breath in no time.

One of the bottles was smaller than the others, and after Octavia handed the first two to Sam and Dean, and they went back into the store to use it, she handed the tiny one to me.

“Give this to her, just in case. It’s for her arm. The arrow lost a lot of steam by the time it got to her, I think most of the juice was off it. Has she been calling a lot or did she show up at your place or anything?”

“Ah, that’s a big fat no,” I answered. “All the crazy has been with these two. Lucky me.”

“You are lucky,” Octavia said. “My aim is so bad, I could’ve hit you, too. Then two of you could’ve been mismatched, along with that other woman, and it would’ve been worse.”

“Yeah… worse…” I said under my breath, my mind wandering for a moment. I shook myself out of it. “Well, look - no harm was done. Maybe a few bruises from your artillery in there, but otherwise we just have some clean-up to do back on the homefront. The candy stuff was pretty genius by the way.”

Octavia blushed. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. And listen, I’m sure where you come from, they’ve got practice areas for shooting, right? That’s all you need. Hell, I had to practice every day for a long time before I got good at throwing blades. You’re creative, and you’re clearly passionate about your job. I don’t know what else heaven could ask for.”

A bright smile came to the cupid’s face. “Thank you. So much. I mean it.”

“So what’s on deck for you tonight, since you pulled this off? You gonna celebrate?” I asked.

“I don’t have any plans, it’s not like cupids have matchmakers, so… But I like being around love. I think I’ll hang out at that little restaurant around the corner, the people seemed happy there, and there’s paper hearts all taped on the windows, and I think I even saw some balloons. There’s no balloons in heaven.”

“Okay,” I said, and I smiled back, but I felt a little sad for her.

I didn’t have time to think on it for long - Dean and Sam emerged, and we all said our goodbyes.

.

.

The would-be paramour was packing up her car when we pulled up to Donna’s place, and after a brief round of rock-paper-scissors, Sam got the honor of explaining what had happened - a win or a loss, hard to tell.

But she was laughing through the whole story, and when it was done, she gave me a big hug, saying, “Bless your soul, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

I laughed, too. “Honestly, it wasn’t so awful. Plus, I get to bring this up every Valentine’s Day for years to come.”

“Great,” Dean said, not meaning it in the least.

“Do any of you have anything going on tonight?” she asked. “Should we go get a pizza or something on the way back to Kansas?”

“Nah, I think I’ll pass,” Dean said.

“Um, yeah. Me, too,” I said.

She turned to Sam. “How about you? I mean, why not make the best of it? And we don’t have to do pizza, we could do a movie, maybe?”

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” Sam asked hesitantly, which got another laugh out of her.

“Yes! If these two party poopers are out, that means we can watch something artsy they’d hate.”

Sam smiled, relieved. “Yeah, that actually sounds great.”

While they discussed their plans, Dean turned to me and said, “That's not a half-bad idea.”

I was surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Making the best of it. We can go make with the best.”

“You wanna spend Valentine’s with me? I figured you’d… what happened to celebrating Lonely Ladies Getting Laid Day?”

“It’s Unattached Drifter Christmas. And I don’t mean anything fancy, or… stuff... It’s just... you know, as friends.”

That’s what he’d said, but he’d taken a step closer, and his voice had gotten a little softer, and if my eyes didn’t deceive me, the expression on his face held something I’d seldom seen on him: uncertainty.

“Friends?” I clarified.

“Well friends with be----”

At my raised eyebrow, he cut himself off and course-corrected.

“Beer. Friends with beer.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Sure.... sure, as in.... you'll....”

“Sure, Dean. I'll go.”

“You’ll go. Okay. Okay! That’s… that’s good, that’s…”

“Do I get flowers?” I asked casually, and at the near-horrified look on his face, tacked on a wink to let him know I was anything but serious.

He grinned. “You get a burger.”

I brought a hand to my chest. “Oh, Mr. Winchester - be still my heart.”

We were ready to get going, but after I filled him in on the rest of my conversation with our clumsy cupid, we agreed we had a quick stop to make before our Valentine’s Day evening got fully underway.

Octavia was at the bar nursing a cosmopolitan when the maître d' approached.

“Miss? Might you be Octavia?”

She swallowed and said, “Yes? I mean, yes. That’s me.”

“This was just dropped off for you,” he said, handing her a plastic bag with a drugstore’s name across it. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Octavia took it, mumbling a thank you as he walked off, completely distracted; she’d never received a gift before. And it was the most perfect thing she’d ever seen. She knew well that most all the cards had long been sold, and she was glad, because this was much more special.

There it was, in her hands, her very own valentine, handmade with what materials were at their disposal. It was a cut-from-newspaper heart, trimmed in cotton balls, with random stickers that weren’t holiday-related but were all pinks-and-reds, stuck here-and-there around the writing. And that writing said:

. Have a happy Valentine’s Day, Octavia. You deserve it. - Your favorite hunters .

After swiping a few tears away, Octavia left money on the bar and upon exiting, scurried around to the back of the building so she could disappear. She needed to drop her valentine off back home. And she also needed to pick up something while she was there.

When she reached her final destination of the night, the cupid watched through the window of the burger joint for awhile, drinking in the happiness before her. It could mean trouble, what she was about to do, but in this case there wasn’t need for an assignment, or cross-checking with the fates or the reapers, because she felt it was right. She knew it, sparkled tips to shiny toes.

Tonight’s arrow was smaller, and coated delicately. Concentrating, Octavia aimed carefully. She didn’t blink, and she didn’t wobble, and for the first time ever she hit precisely the targets she intended.

It sailed clean through both their hearts, and Octavia smiled. They would have an amazing night. As for the rest, well - she’d leave forever up to them.

Author’s Notes: This is not only for Valentine’s Day, it’s also for the Galentine’s celebration hosted by @spnfanficpond and my secret Galentine is fellow Pondie @bookshido (who I cannot tag, but have arranged for them to be tagged, cross my heart!) Hope you enjoyed!

...And a quick PS: While you'll notice standard divisions for change of scenes, the intro and ending are separated from this first-person perspective tale by the heart dividers, and are in third person for the purpose of giving the audience information that the main characters don't know/don't need to know - just FYI so you don't think I've lost my mind... or my perspective, as it were. ;)

See Nash Write : Master  /  See Nash Write : Mobile

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[justice-for-shayla]

The Shadow and the Soul

A/N: This has been finished for hours but I couldn’t post it without a title. The prompt I received (Many days ago) was Historical AU and Secret Relationship, only one of which is a focus for this part. I have a second part planned but it may need a third to wrap things up. 

Word Count: 4000 

A note on Historical Accuracy: The inaccuracy here is intentional. I will break all rules of history in order to steal the aesthetics of a time period, (in this case the Antebellum South, without all the nastiness. I’m not going to write characters I like as former or current slave owners, that’s fucking gross.) Don’t send me messages or write comments about how this isn’t true or wouldn’t work. I don’t care.  

Warnings: Historical Inaccuracy, Civil War Mentions, Death Mentions, Melodramatic Period Piece Tropes, Smut in Later Chapters (18+ Only) 

The locals called them leeches and parasites, the Northerners who’d descended on New Orleans in the wake of the war, but Aurelie never flinched at their hurled insults. She never flinched at all, in fact.

Long ago, she had learned that it was better to be seen as sweet. Sweet girls who never got into any trouble could get away with anything, because no one could imagine a “Sweet girl like her” getting up to any trouble.

Four years of war time had toughened even the sweetest girls, and Aurelie was no exception. Her once round cheeks had grown sharp and narrow when rationing had started, and her soft fingers had become calloused with all the times she’d pricked her fingers sewing up uniforms or burned herself on the water they boiled to bring to the hospitals.

Losing all three of her brothers had toughened her too. By the time they’d lost Henry, Aurelie didn’t even cry, only stood near her mother, somber and steady while her mother sobbed and fell to her knees. Henry had been the oldest, and the one she’d thought most likely to live, but even he had fallen, shot dead on a battlefield far from home. 

Lucas had been first, the first time her youngest brother had ever been the first to do anything, and Jean-Paul had been right in the middle, as always. It had destroyed her mother, the loss of all her boys, and in an effort to help her regain her health, the family had decided to move down to New Orleans to stay with relatives.

Though she had said she was looking forward to living with her sister, Aurelie’s mother never seemed particularly excited about the idea, even as she stepped off of the train into the sweltering air. 

Aurelie was neither excited nor perturbed. Her life up North had been boring until the war and difficult during it, leaving her feeling restless and purposeless now that it was over. Though being sweet had always been a lie for her, now act was heavy against her skin, itching like wool underclothes and cloying like a too-tight corset.

The only thing worth looking forward to had been the presence of her cousin, Eugene, the only young male in the family to make it out of the war. Aurelie sought him out now and found him lounging against a large tree in the garden.

“Is my mama looking for me?” He asked her, politely setting his pipe aside, though she wouldn’t have minded if he’d kept smoking.

“No, just me,” She said, taking a seat beside him and carefully arranging her skirt around her.

“You alright?” She had remembered him as an awkward and sickly boy, but he had come back a sad-eyed man, stronger than he had been before, but wounded in a different way. Aurelie never asked him about it, but she sensed that he was pretending to be well in the same way that she pretended to be sweet.

“You met Sidney yet?” He asked.

Aurelie groaned. “I’ve done nothing but meet Mr. Phillips. There are too many mothers trying to match us; it’ll be the death of me.”

“They just want something happy, I think. He’s not a bad one, you could do worse.”

She just shrugged. “I don’t care either way about him, and that’s just the problem.”

“Well, every surviving young man with any kind of money in New Orleans will be at your welcome party tonight, so if you’re ready to announce an engagement, now’s the time.”

Groaning, Aurelie gave up trying to keep her dress nice and flopped all the way onto the grass. “God, I’d love to make them happy but I can’t get engaged just to see my mama smile, Gene. I just can’t do it.”

“I don’t think you should, even if he’s my friend. You oughta wait.”

“Wait for what? For all the surviving men who fought in blue but live in New Orleans to get married to the other girls everyone’s shipping from up North?”

“Then at least you won’t have to be one of them.” Eugene shrugged.

“And what about you, Mr. Sledge, are you hoping to make your mama smile tonight?”

He rolled his eyes. “She smiles plenty because I came home. She only had one son and I came back. Your mama sent three and didn’t get any, I think she might hate me for it.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Aurelie protested, “But you look like Henry, if she squints and turns her head right. I think you make her sad, but I’m sure she’d like to see you wed and naming babies after her boys.”

Eugene shuddered. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Aurelie accepted this without question. If she’d had other options, she would have said Not Yet about marriage and babies too, but her choices were limited. “I oughta go inside and start dressing.” She shifted but didn’t stand, not wanting to leave her quiet moment with Gene.

“Can I ask you a favor, Rellie?” He asked, using the nickname he’d given her when they were children, before he’d mastered the pronunciation of her name.

“Of course.”

“I invited a friend of mine, Merriell Shelton. This isn’t really his type of party, so it might be nice if someone… helped him. I know he’d like you.”

“Why’s that?” For all the time she’d known him, Gene had only had one friend-- Sidney-- so the idea of him having someone else, someone who didn’t quite fit with the rest of their circle was intriguing enough on its own, but Aurelie fished for information anyway. She was hoping it might reveal something about this mysterious friend.

“You’re pretty, but you’re not soft. You’ll look him in the eye and not let him give you shit, which he will try to do.”

Aurelie smiled, picturing a bold sort of man who wouldn’t be afraid to make jokes around her, and wouldn’t flinch if she accidentally used some of the swears she’d learned from hanging around the nurses during the war.

“Sure, Gene, but only if you try to have some fun.”

Gene sighed and looked away from her, a shadow passing over his face, which he’d tried to arrange into a smile for her. “I’m doing my best, Rellie.”

She nodded and turned away, hating that sadness that clung to him like mud, but unable to do anything about it.  

“Rell?” He called, just before she was out of earshot, “He says he’s got a way with women; watch out.”

Laughing, Aurelie tossed her words over her shoulder. “All men say that, Gene; I’m immune.”

Submitting herself to the terrifying ordeal of getting ready for a party was distracting, but did little to lift her spirits as she was pinched and pulled and powdered until she looked like a perfect little doll nestled on top of a skirt wider than most door frames. Her mother had picked the dress and her maid had picked the hairstyle, she could barely recognize herself underneath all of it.

“Miss? It’s time; folks are waiting.”

She nodded, stealing one last glance at her reflection and defiantly tugging one red curl out of its place and letting it hang next to her eye. It was a small flaw, but with no time to fix it, she would be allowed to keep it, and with it some semblance of herself.

The Sledge’s ballroom was packed with people, though the festive atmosphere felt forced and oddly turbulent, like someone holding a match next to a powder keg. It was obvious that not all the people in this room had fought on the right side of the war, and tension ran high as everyone wondered who would start the first fight.

Aurelie hoped it wouldn’t come until later. She hoped it might not come at all. She wished the boys in gray could all just go home and lick their wounded pride in private, rather than frothing about it at every society party people felt obligated to invite them to.

Though she’d only met a few of the assembled guests-- Eugene’s oldest friend, Mr. Phillips, among them-- Aurelie felt like she knew them all. They were rich and polite and would spend many hours making small talk and pretending that less than a year ago they’d all been trying to slaughter each other. Aurelie hated to pretend, but she plastered a honey-sweet smile onto her face as she swept down the staircase and into the ballroom.  

Her eyes found the person who didn’t fit in almost immediately, and she knew that she’d spotted the friend Eugene had told her about. His suit almost fit perfectly, but even if it had been properly tailored, she would have seen his discomfort in it. This was not a man who spent his time at parties making small talk.

He had spotted her, caught her staring at him.  

His gaze was intense as she stepped lightly through the crowd, greeting people and smiling shyly, always gently dancing away before someone could pull her into a conversational circle. She was an expert at this type of weaving, and she made it across the room in record time, only stopping when she was standing in front of the stranger.

She held out her hand, as much a challenge as an introduction. “You must be Mr. Shelton. Eugene told me about you.”

He took her gloved hand, holding it gently. “Nice to meet you Miss…”

“Aurelie,” She said, flinching slightly when he kept his grip.

“Aurelie…” His voice lilted over her name, reducing it to something smooth and melodic, completely new to her. “Nice to meet you.”

His wasn’t an accent that one found in most society ballrooms, but Aurelie loved it immediately. For a long moment they stood like that, with her fingers still gripped in his hand. She glanced around, sure that someone had noticed this odd interlude, but no one was looking at them.

“Have you been staying with the Sledges long?” Aurelie asked, trying to find a normal conversation with a man who was very, very far from her normal.

“Not staying with them; I’ve got a place in the city. Sledge invited me and I’m not one to say no to a party like this.”

She nodded and then impulsively said, “I might have said no if I could have.”

“Why couldn’t you?” No one in her circle would have asked that. No one in her circle would have had to.

The question made her stumble and answer honestly. “Because this is my job.”

“Your job?” He tilted his head, studying her.

This time, it was his intense stare that caused her uncharacteristic ineloquence. “It’s what I do; it’s what I’ve been trained to do since I could walk and talk. I smile and dance and make conversation with the right people.”

She sounded like a doll, or some sort of teachable puppet, and she inwardly cursed her idiocy.

He looked around, apparently unbothered, though new tension hardened his face when his eyes fell on a coupe of men across the room from them. “I don’t think I’m the right people, but I’m better than those two.”

He pointed to two classically handsome men, similar enough to be brothers. “They fought with the rebels and show up here claiming they were just doing what they were told. Cowards.” He spit the word, glaring at the two, who had noticed his stare and were looking back.

Flushing when she made eye contact with one of them, Aurelie turned away, hoping they wouldn’t comment on her impropriety in front of her parents. She felt that men like them had no business on the Sledge’s property, but her parents weren’t as discerning. If they had money, a decent name, and no wives, she would be introduced to them with the same hope her parents expressed whenever she spoke to any man.

“They’re staring at you,” Merriell said conversationally, watching them over her shoulder.

“Don’t stare back, maybe they’ll go away.”

“They’re coming over here.”

“Damn.” The word was barely out of her mouth when the men approached. Up close, Aurelie could see that one of them was slightly taller, and the other had a very square face, but both had a bitterness in their eyes and stance that made her immediately wary of them.

“Miss Aurelie; it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. We’ve heard so much about you.” The taller one said with a smile that looked like it had been carved into his face and a drawl like thick syrup, poured too heavily over his words and rendering them sarcastic.

“Charmed,” Aurelie said in a tone that indicated she wasn’t. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, Mr…”

“Simmons. And this is my cousin Frederick Pierce.”

She nodded, allowing the conversation to stall in the hope that they might leave.

It didn’t deter them. “Is this man bothering you?” They studied Merriell with barely disguised scorn that made Aurelie bristle, though she didn’t let it show.

“Not at all!” She plastered on her best smile. “In fact he saved my favorite cousin’s life in the war, so I feel I owe him quite a debt.” She took Merriell’s arm in a slightly bold act that would send a clear message. *****I am not one of you.*****

This made those marble smiles falter on their faces, and Aurelie tried not to outwardly cheer for her victory.

“Most ladies don’t pay their debts with their company,” The shorter one-- Mr. Pierce-- said, nodding in a mockery of politeness before he and his cousin walked away.

Aurelie was fuming. “Those bastard sons of whores,” She muttered, glaring at their backs.

Merriell was laughing at her and a sudden flush crawled up her neck and into her cheeks; she’d sworn in front of him. She’d sworn in front of a gentleman! If her mother found out she would die on the spot. “I’m terribly sorry you had to hear that--”

“I’m not.”

“--I just got so angry at what they implied. The audacity of coming into my family’s home and suggesting that--” She paused, realizing that he was watching her pleasantly and seemed utterly unphased by the entire situation. “You’re not?”

“Not sorry I heard that. I kinda liked it.”

The flush burned even hotter, probably leaving her pale skin blotchy and scarlet under her freckles. “I…” She couldn’t think of anything to say.

He held out one improperly ungloved hand. “Dance with me?”

Any polite conversation she might have tried to make died in her throat. “I… Yes, thank you.”

Aurelie didn’t expect him to be good at dancing, and she was correct. Her massive skirt mostly hid his errors, and she was good enough to guide him through the rest without too much trouble, though she caught Gene’s eye and saw his sympathetic smile as he stood off to the side.

“Is he alright?” She asked Merriell as she eased herself carefully into a turn, subtly pushing hm in the right direction. “Gene, is he… happy?”

He looked at her like she was insane, bringing yet another hot flush into her cheeks. “No.”

“Of course, it was an idiotic question, I just… we’re worried about him. He used to smile so much, and he was much… brighter, I suppose. I don’t want to lose him too.” The last words slipped out without thought; they were inappropriately honest, but Merriell didn’t seem to notice or care.

“He’s right there.”

“He’s changed--”

“That shit changes you.” Abruptly, he dropped her hand, stepping away from the dance and leaving her where she stood. It was an awkward rush to go after him before someone noticed that he’d left. Leaving a girl on the dancefloor was an insult, and though she knew she had offended him first, it was hard not to feel the sting of it.

“Please, wait,” Reaching out, she caught his arm, once again surprising herself with her boldness. Though she had thought about it many times, she couldn’t remember ever having grabbed a man like this before. “I didn’t mean it like that. Everyone’s changed after the war, I know. I just… we all lost so much, I can’t bear the thought that he might not get better.”

“Better doesn’t mean same as before,” Merriell said.

“Of course it doesn’t. I’m sorry.” Ducking her head, Aurelie thought about moving away, returning to the comfortably familiar crowd with their predictably polite conversations. Whatever this was with Merriell, she preferred it to the artiface that surrounded them.

“Seems like you’re the same as you were before.” Perhaps he didn’t mean it as a challenge, but she couldn’t help but take it as one.

“You didn’t know me before,” She said coolly, “And you don’t know me now, so you’re hardly in a position to judge that.” She wanted to believe that he was somehow clever enough to see past the carefully constructed mask of words and behavior, rules and etiquette, that she wore constantly.

She met his gaze boldly, waiting for his apology or his next move, swallowing the pain that his words caused. &&&Just because you can’t see that I care doesn’t mean that I don’t care.&&&&

When he didn’t say anything, she turned and walked away from him, avoiding looking at where she was sure Eugene was standing and watching them, unable to hide the guilt she felt at breaking her promise to him.

She spent the next couple hours dancing with various men who were paraded in front of her by her mother or theirs, having the same conversation over and over as they did the same steps to the same dances, with few exceptions made for different songs. The men were, to her, utterly interchangeable, and her eyes drifted back to the only unique face in the crowd, before they would snap right back to her partner’s face, forcing herself to pay attention to whatever droll observation he was making about the weather.

When it all became unbearable, she stepped out into the garden, breathing the thick, warm night air deeply. Underneath the smell of heat and mud that permeated the garden, she caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke, and considered investigating before its source stepped out of the shadows.

“Miss Aurelie,” He said, his accent once again smoothing out her name until it sounded more like a collection of notes than a word.

“Mr. Shelton.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” He said rather stiffly, after a too-long pause.

“You didn’t,” She lied instinctively.

He watched her, clearly spotting the lie.

“I have changed,” She said, daring to be honest in the dim garden, surrounded by night air that felt as heavy as a wool coat. “I never liked all this, but after the war I could see how pointless it all is. Now I’m… I’m so angry it takes my breath away sometimes. It scares me.”

“Makes sense to be angry.” He paused as if considering his next words. “You don’t look angry.”

“Ah, well, you know ‘Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it’,” She quoted, smiling at him.

He nodded, glancing away but not before she saw the confusion on his face.

“It’s Shakespeare,” She explained. “It… It’s a man’s wife telling him how to commit a murder.”

That made him laugh, and she stared, transfixed, at his smile until it had faded off his face. “You planning on killing anyone, Flower?”

The nickname brought back her blush, which she hated. “No, of course not! Though I wouldn’t be sad if Johnny and Jimmy Reb over there happened to not make it through the night.” It was by far the boldest joke she’d ever made in front of a gentleman, and she felt a rush singe through her veins when he laughed.

“See, before I never would have said that; I would have been too polite.” She told him, laughing with him and savoring it.

He nodded. “I’m glad you said it. Been thinking the same thing all night. I didn’t like what they said to you.”

A group of people passed the window nearest you, their voices carrying out into the night, and Aurelie stepped closer to him, into the shadows where she wouldn’t be seen.

She hadn’t been paying enough attention, and she ended up directly in front of him, only a breath away from being pressed against his chest. He looked down at her, his strangely reflective eyes studying her face in the darkness.

The polite, proper thing to do would have been to step away, to apologize and then to take his arm and allow him to lead her back into the ballroom, away from this compromising position. She didn’t do that, though the thought occurred to her, just like it always did. Just because she knew what she should do didn’t mean her mind was made up about what she was going to do.

Even though she was certain she knew what she wanted to do. “I’m different than I used to be,” She said, not sure if she was talking to herself or to him.

“I believe you.” His head bent lower as he breathed the words, so quietly she had to lean even closer to hear them.

At that point, she was too close not to do anything, so she lifted her lips the final inches they needed until they were pressed against Merriell’s. His hands started on her waist, brushing against the satin of her dress before one slipped up to cup the back of her neck, drawing her even closer as his tongue slipped between her parted lips.

She had been kissed before. She had done more than that before, with a soldier the night before he left, his blue uniform in an untidy heap in the corner of her bedroom. All of those kisses had been tinged with the desperation of a man who knew he was going to die, and needed one last thing before he could go.

Merriell had none of that desperation as he kissed her. He was slow, exploratory, and thorough, leaving her breathless when he finally moved away from her, taking a full step back.

“I can’t do this,” He said.

Aurelie stared at him, flushed, wide-eyed, and mortified. “What?”

“You’re Sledge’s cousin, practically his little sister--”

“He’s barely older than me!” She stepped closer, her blush now brought on more by anger than embarrassment.

“--He’d never let…”

“Eugene doesn’t let me do anything,” She insisted. “And he likes you! He wanted me to talk to you, to keep you company tonight--”

He shook his head sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

His hands found her hips again, pulling her close. “Don’t say you’re keeping me company tonight.”

The alternative meaning of her words struck her when he said them like that, with his warm breath against her ear and his hands strong on her waist. “Oh.”

Her lips fell open again, and he hesitated for the briefest of seconds before kissing her again. It was another perfect kiss, possibly even better than their first, but once again Merriell pulled away.

“People like you and people like me… They won’t allow it; you know that.”

Aurelie did know that, but she refused to admit it. “They don’t have to know.”

“You’re my best friend’s cousin.”

“You’re my cousin’s best friend,” She retorted, unphased.

“If he found out--”

Cutting him off, she kissed him again, savoring the feel of his lips as they moved over hers. “I have secrets already,” She told him when they parted. “What difference does one more make?”

Merriell still didn’t reply as he looked down at her, his face a mix of emotions she couldn’t decipher.

“Please, think about it,” She said, dipping into a slight curtsey before she left him in the shadows and reentered the ballroom. She felt warm and strange and powerful and scared, all things she had to tuck away into the back of her mind so she could pretend to be the girl they all expected.

Beneath her placid smile, she let herself relive every moment outside with Merriell, where she’d been allowed to act on impulse, to yearn and pursue and feel in a way that she never had before.

Immediately, her mother appeared to force her back into Mr. Phillips’ waiting arms for the final waltz of the evening. While she spun across the smooth wood floor with him, she felt a pair of eyes, burning into her back, and hoped that Merriell had made up his mind. She wanted her moment of freedom back, she wanted to be allowed to be the girl she’d been with him again.

Before he left for the night, he thanked her briefly, bowing rather clumsily over her hand. When he stepped away, she could feel a scrap of paper in her hand, barely noticeable through her silk gloves. 

In the privacy of her room, she unfolded the note and read his bold, messy scrawl. Our secret. 

[iwillbeinmynest]

Sunshine - Bucky x Reader (f)  Part 1

Authors Notes: I guess I’m making this a mini series because there is just way too much for me to feel good about making it one post. I didn’t proof read a ton so excuse any spelling issues. I just really wanted to start to get this out.

 This whole thing was inspired by @bucky-plums-barnes Halloween day, yesterday. So...here it is lol

AU: Vampire

Word count: 1.5K

Notes/Warnings: angst, spying, minor violence, 

He was cold. He was always cold. His life beyond death had stripped him of ever being warm again. He walked through the rainy streets of the city with his hands in his pockets and his head down; there was nothing new for him to see anyways. He walked this street every night. He wasn’t sure why, but he did.

When Bucky was turned it was on a night similar to this one. The rain pelted his face as he’d lain on the ground dying. He had crossed the wrong kind of men and would pay for it with his life. As his vision faded, he’d felt someone lift him from the ground. He thought perhaps the stranger would take him to the hospital, or be merciful and kill him then as the pain was becoming unbearable.

Instead, he survived. If you call this life surviving.

He listened to the street. Hearing people argue drunkenly or kissing in an alley, a car speeding past on the almost vacant road. Bucky tugged the collar of his coat closer to his neck. It didn’t do anything to keep out the cold but he’d at least look human if anyone was paying him attention.

A group of girls flooded the sidewalk in front of him and he had to break the rhythm of his walk in order to avoid colliding into them. He grumbled under his breath about the inconvenience but stopped short when a ray of sun warmed his cheek.

No, it was raining, and it was nearly midnight.

Bucky stopped in the middle of the group of women, and looked around wide eyed.

“Um, excuse you.” One girl reached for another while giving him an ugly stare.

“Sorry, I just-” Bucky was stunned by the feeling of warmth that he didn’t know how to explain himself.

“Can you please go. None of us are interested.” Another girl sneered. When Bucky only stumbled away slowly she added, “What a creep.”

Bucky faded into an alleyway but never took his eyes from the spot where he’d felt the sun. He listened as the women quicky forgot him and spoke of their plans for the rest of the night.

“We should go to Derick’s bar next!” One of them said as she brushed her hair from her eyes.

“No, let’s go to Club 57. I wanna dance.”

“Hey, I’m going to have to take off.” One of them said in, what Bucky could hear as, false remorse.

“What? No, (Y/N)! We never get to have you out, stay a little longer, please?” The girl who’d called him a creep pleaded.

“Yeah, I have to be up early and I think I ate too much so, I’m not feeling great.” (Y/N) smiled weekly, still trying to convince them.

Bucky looked closer at the girl trying to leave. She was beautiful but there was something else about her, something he couldn’t place quite yet.

The girls argued for only a few minutes longer until they lost interest and moved on leaving, (Y/N) on the sidewalk alone. When she was finally alone she sighed.

That’s when Bucky saw it. A soft glow of light. Just as quickly as it came it was gone and (Y/N) was frantically looking around her to see who was around.

She hailed a cab and hurried inside it. She looked behind her, out the back window with a panic that made Bucky even more curious. Something was different about her and he was going to find out what.

He followed her all the way back to her apartment and watched for her light to turn on. He climbed swiftly to the balcony outside her window and watched. He really was being a creep now but, he was too piqued to do otherwise.

A loud clatter in the alley below him took his attention for a moment and when he turned back her apartment was dark and she was nowhere to be seen. Bucky stepped fully into the frame of the window, careful not to disturb the plants she kept there.

Bucky listened, hard, but couldn’t detect her heartbeat. He silently opened the window and leaned his head in. Her living room was quiet, save for the sound of the air conditioner and the refrigerator in the kitchen nearby. He paused and contemplated if he really was about to invade this woman’s privacy but before he could make up his mind, he was grabbed by the collar and yanked through the window.

Bucky wrapped his hand around the wrist that had pulled him and jerked. A startled cry and he realized his attacker was a woman. Surely not the same woman he’d just been watching. She didn’t appear to be as strong as this one. But, when he dodged a fist coming at his face, he saw that it was.

“Why are you spying on me!” She screamed as he pinned her to the wall. She threw her head back, colliding with his nose.

Bucky grunted and mumbled a swear. “You’re different.” He growled, keeping her against the wall. She fought back and twisted away so hard that Bucky was afraid he was going to dislocate her shoulder. He loosened his grip from fear of hurting her and she ripped her hands from his grasp.

“I’ll be at the meeting with Brock so you can tell him to back off!” She grabbed a vase and threw it behind herself at him with shocking accuracy.

(Y/N) faced him and suddenly the room was so bright that he had to cover his eyes. When the light finally faded she was gone again.

Bucky cursed again and raced to the balcony to try and catch sight of her but she was gone. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number and put it to his ear.

“Stark, I need all you’ve got on a guy named Brock and his association with people like us.”

***********************************************

(Y/N) was shaken from the freak in her apartment but it changed nothing about the fact that she couldn’t be late for her meet up with Brock. The guy was scum but scum whom you didn’t want to tick off. She didn’t get why he’d send someone to scare her, it’s not like she could afford to stand him up. Whatever, he probably just thought it’d be funny.

The parking lot of the abandoned warehouse was dimly lit so, she threw some light to the three nearest street lights around her. She didn’t want to be meeting him period let alone in the dark of this creepy place. And in the rain, no less. She pulled the bag on her shoulder closer to her to keep it under her small umbrella.

“Thanks.” A voice from behind her made her jump. Brock stepped out from around a dumpster with a wicked grin on his face. “It was a little creepy in the dark.”

“Seems like your kind of place.” She said with a minor jut of her jaw. She put her umbrella away, if Brock wasn’t going to use one neither would she. No need to look any weaker than he thought she was.

Brock sucked his teeth. “That’s not how you talk to someone who’s keeping your secret for you.”

“You’re not keeping it, you’re holding it hostage.” She scowled.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked to his left and right. Two men from each side came out from the shadows and surrounded him. “Do you have what I asked for?”

(Y/N) swallowed hard. “You mean what you demanded?”

Brock raised an eyebrow, not pleased with her continuous snark.

“Yes, I have it.” She tossed a duffle bag at his feet. “You meant it, right? When you promised you’d never tell.”

One of Brock’s men grabbed the bag and opened it for him, letting him see the large amount of cash inside. “That’s what I said. Yeah, I’ll keep your little magic trick a secret….for now.”

“Hey!” (Y/N) stepped forwards and Brock’s men each raised a gun at her, making her freeze mid rage.

“You can’t expect me to just forget about your talents completely. I’ll keep them to myself until I feel the need to use them. It’s up to you to make sure I never feel that need.” He smirked, half turned from her.

“That’s blackmail.” (Y/N) all but growled, ignoring the rain that dripped down her face.

“Are you really that surprised.” Brock’s smug grin faded as something from over (Y/N)’s shoulder caught his eye.

(Y/N) turned and stood wide eyed as the creep from her apartment practically floated to her side.

“I said to come alone!” Brock barked.

“She did.” Bucky spoke, his voice low and threatening. “Technically I wasn’t invited.”

“Then you’d best be on your way, now.” Brock warned.

“Sure thing.” Bucky never broke eye contact with Brock and took (Y/N) by the waist, turning to walk away with her.

“Nu-uh. She stays until I say she can go.” Brock didn’t like this new guy coming in and taking charge.

“You don’t own her.” He paused and looked- no, glared at Brock, and if (Y/N) hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he growled at him too. “She gets to choose. You wanna stay with him?”

She didn’t have much choice seeing how she’d never volunteer to stay with Brock. “Who are you?” She whispered.

“Not yet.” The stranger from her apartment turned so that both of their backs were to Brock  and with a rush of wind they were miles away.

Forever Tags:

@heismyhunter @sgtbxckybxrnes @pickledmoon @whimsicalrebirth @marvel-lucy @thisisthelilith @james-bionic-barnes @thedreamingowl @poemwriter98@kimistry27 @annie-lujan @buckyandsebsinbin @lilasiannerd @gypsy-storm-15 @cassiopeiassky @earinafae @the-stuttering-kiwi @obsessedwithatwell @shortiiqt16 @shifutheshihtzu @elaacreditava @nikkitia7 @theonewithallthemilkshakes @gallifreyansass @storytellingwanderer @palaiasaurus64 @iamwarrenspeace @engineeringgirlcve @magnolia-wanders @carameldaemoncakes @canumoveyourseatup-no @melconnor2007 @movingonto-betterthings @spideytrxsh @fantasticmiraclehologram @kapolisradomthoughts @iamwarrenspeace @melconnor2007 @yesiamdeliciouslycaffeinated @mcu-avengerrs @archy3001@mmauricee @barnesvogue @feelmyroarrrr @beyondbarnes @marvelous-avengers @veronicalei @cornflax01 @kudosia @witchymarvelspacecase @beccaanne814 @bucky-plums-barnes

[possiblypeachy]

the hostage.

--; summary: After an unheard of deviant threat is called in, Kassandra and her fellow S.W.A.T officers are called in.

You determine the outcome

> part 1

[determinant factors are in italics]

[warnings that apply to this chapter are in bold]

–; pairings: connor x xk-100, captain allen x xk-100

–; word count: it depends on the path you take ;)

–; themes: slow burn romance, angst, violence, romantic fluff, platonic fluff, eventual smut

–; warnings: depictions of violence, death, suicide

–; note: howdy y’all! so, finally, i have a multi-choice thing out with my wonderful xk-100. it has eight total endings, with two additional (and entirely optional) after-ending choices that you can make-- if you find the pathways that lead to them.

i warn you: some of this will be shit. others might be superbly written. i apologise in advance /: 

i hope you enjoy and feel free to send me messages n whatnot concerning it, if you’d like. i’ll also probably be making a ‘requests’ post soon so i can dabble in writing other things!

please don’t like/reblog/follow the account that the links send you to!! if you enjoyed it, give this post and this account all the love, por favor :) however, feel free to comment under the posts that you get led to

–; tags: @wayablack, @gespirida, @robin-rokossovsky, @heartsarecompatible (just hmu if you wanna be tagged, my loves!)

August 15, 2038

8:27pm

It would've been a serene night-- a clear sky and the gentle thrum of cars on the street, storeys below. The neon lights of Detroit bounced from building to building, illuminating the masterfully constructed apartment blocks and bringing clarity to the all-night stores and evening restaurants. If one was still enough, they would hear the chatter of humans from all around. Nearby homes were settling down for the night and slowly the city would settle into a sleep of its own.

Screaming, sirens, and spotlights tended to break that cycle.

         [ M I S S I O N:

                 SAVE EMMA PHILLIPS ]

Her LED circled yellow for a few moments as she glanced to the deviant outside. It held a gun to the child's head, its expression contorted-- a horrifying mix of complete devastation and rage. The look was not real, she knew. Its emotions were simply mimicry of the human conscience. Was it feeling guilt, she wondered. Regret? Another circle of yellow then back to blue. If its simulation of emotion was as true as it itself believed, it'd certainly feel regret soon.

The sound of her boots upon shattered glass added to the hectic symphony throughout the room. Though, unlike others who were put off by the noises, she appeared unfazed; her features were stoic-- determined. Kassandra gave away no indication that the stress of the situation affected her negatively. Her mind was made for this. Where humans fail, she would thrive.

“I have enough people up here to take a dozen androids out-- let alone fucking one! We have it surrounded!”

“Captain Allen?”

“My men know the risks. Our only goal is saving the girl and the more time you waste the less time we have to acco--”

“Captain Allen.”

Her voice was stern and accompanied by a curt fist-slam to the table. With a slowness that indicated his annoyance, his angered gaze met hers of ice. He wasn't this pissed off all of the time-- just the mix of the deviant and the deaths and her was grinding on him more than he'd have liked to admit.

“We have approximately seven minutes and fifty-four seconds before the most possibilities in which the deviant jumps from the roof occur. Deciding to attack now could kill up to seven of your men and put the child's life at risk.” The certainty in Kassandra's voice and the flickering of her LED as she reeled off values made him falter momentarily. She knew that she wasn't wrong but he doubted. She understood. Dealing with a deviant who had just taken multiple human lives is highly likely to remove trust from any slither of a friendship they had to begin with.

Allen's jaw clenched. Nothing. Audio came through his earpiece and he turned away from her, though Kassandra still listened intently, tapping the fingers on her right hand together as she assessed his next words. She would intervene on his orders if need be; she knew of the best ways to save that girl and she would enforce them.

“I don't give a shit! My men are ready to step in-- just give the order!” The captain paused and he was met by silence through his earpiece. The android watched as his brows furrowed and his teeth bared, hissing a “Fuck!” before moving to inspect the live feed of the child and the deviant on the rooftop.

From what she could see over the shoulder of the overseeing S.W.A.T member, the situation was only getting worse. The deviant's LED was bright red-- never once flickering to a differing colour. Its stress levels were rising at an unhealthy rate. Just by way of noticing that the gun was shaking in its hands, she realised how close it was to arriving at peak instability.

Kassandra's own light blinked yellow for a second-- her eyes narrowed and the artificial muscles around her brows tensed. She was unaware of its model, its name, its I.D; she didn't know how much more an android like it could take. What was its manufacturing date? What physical condition was it in? With a lack of general knowledge on the deviant, she could only make stereotype-based guesses. Her accuracy was wavering with each new development.

The deviant pushed the gun closer to the child's temple, the barrel making a harsh indent into soft skin.

        Seven minutes and four seconds.

“Captain Allen?” The mentioned man turned, his sight tearing away from the surveillance and locking onto-- “My name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife.”

Kassandra's own gaze moved to stare at the android, her posture straightening. He was decidedly taller than both her and the captain though looked less threatening. While she was clad in an ensemble of blacks and reds, he was wearing delicate greys and blues. Upon analysing him for a few moments-- committing his facial structure and build to memory-- she came to the quick conclusion that he was the negotiator that had been due to be there at 8:30; he was exactly on time. A pale gaze flitted down to his jacket. RK-800.

          [ S E A R C H I N G . . . . . .

                     No results.                 ]

One blink of yellow then black to blue. He was unrecognised in her database; he wasn't commercially sold nor did there seem to be a manufacturing line for his model. Though, the android did not appear to be faulty or possess the wrong indicative measures. As far as she was concerned, he was legitimate. If he did anything to get in the way of her task, however, Kassandra wouldn't hesitate to deactivate him.

The heavy sigh that left Captain Allen made Kassandra's sight lock back onto him and, in turn, the live feed of the deviant. “It's firing at everything that moves. It already shot down two of my men.” Allen's tone was weaved with hints of anger and remorse, his body tensing somewhat. “We could easily get it, but they're on the edge of the balcony. If it falls,” He paused, turning to look at Connor, “She falls.”

     A stream of scenarios. A little girl screaming. A hand is reaching for her. The balcony is wet with her tears. Her body is falling, falling, f a l l i n g.

Kassandra's LED flashed a blinding red then bled back into yellow. Her eyelids worked to blink the scene from her vision, pupils contracted and expression tight.

Finally, she was back in the present-- the lights of the outside were clear, no longer dull as they were in her depiction, and the soft sound of background chatter trickled back into her sensors. The conversation appeared to have moved on without her too, much to her dismay. She might've missed valuable information.

“...So either you deal with this fucking android now, or I'll take care of it.”

Kassandra's body lurched into motion and she moved to take a step toward the pair; there was already enough conflict-- they didn't need more. Yet Allen, despite his own levels of stress, was far less volatile toward the RK-800 than she'd calculated, and her overseer simply moved past him. Connor's gaze followed him for a moment or so before his dark eyes began to bore into her.

“Do you have any information on the case?” His voice was calm-- unaffected by the show the captain just gave him-- and held a pre-programmed inquisitive lilt. Kassandra scanned him once more, her lips pursing, before giving him a curt nod.

“I'll transfer all that I know on the case to you now.”

Both their LEDs were struck into a yellow colour, flickering erratically. She noticed how his facial muscles began to spasm during their connection, which brought a myriad of questions to her mind.

         [   TRANSFERRING FILES TO RK-800 #313 248 317 – 51 . . . . . .

                             - Elapsed time of case . . .

                             - Deviant stress level . . .

                             - Biological information of EMMA PHILLIPS . . .

              . . . . . . TRANSFER COMPLETE. CONNECTION SEVERED.       ]

A brief, perhaps intrusive, dip further into her files allowed him to deduce a few more things about her before she snapped the link between them: her assigned name was Kassandra, her manufacturing date was July 21st 2038, a permit signalled that she carried a weapon--

Nothing.

He stopped twitching and gave her a small, thankful nod before turning away in obvious search of more information to fill in the gaps of the case. Kassandra's eyes narrowed as she stared at his back, as though she was still unsure on him. He appeared to have developed unusual habits much like herself. Undoubtedly, she decided that he wasn't the average android and was perhaps developed in a similar way to her. He was advanced-- human-like.

A gunshot was fired and the cry of a S.W.A.T member followed. That was the first thing that pushed that string of thought to the back of her mind-- the questions becoming background noise now. “Kassandra!” Her name was the second. Blue eyes turned in the direction of the call first, then her head followed. Captain Allen. “Get him away from the door.” From his position in the next room over, he pointed at the wounded officer, blood leaking out of a bullet wound in his shoulder.

Other men were moving toward him, ready to drag him away, but Kassandra barked out a short “Leave him!” before hurrying through the apartment-- stepping over glass and the body of a dead police officer on the way. As she hooked sturdy arms under the man's shoulders-- him hissing in pain-- her cold gaze gave the deviant a glance through the window.

She wanted nothing more than to destroy the malfunctioning being.

“Your wounds are not fatal but the blood loss will make you feel light headed.” Her tone, despite usually sounding adamant and stern, held a degree of care within its depths. Unbeknownst to the officer, it was faux but, nonetheless, it made him feel more at ease as he was dragged along the apartment floor, a horrid trail of blood following him. For a moment, Kassandra's LED flickered yellow. “I've informed the hospital that you will be checked in and, in accordance to your injury, I've booked you off of work for a month.” She finished as she propped him up against a wall, far away from the constant commotion near the window. The medical team on the floor with them practically jumped at him, immediately applying pressure to his wounds.

Kassandra stood, looking at the officer's blood that painted her sleeve. Over her black gloves, it glistened in a painfully morbid way. She could wait to clean it off. The crime scene had already been contaminated enough and the android had far more important things to deal with that a streak of human blood on her equipment.

An icy sight moved away from her own body and toward the door-- toward Connor. One of her hands tore through her dishevelled locks, moving curtain-like strands of hair out of her line of sight. He appeared to be preparing to move outside. He was making his attempt to apprehend the deviant and save the girl.

She took a few steps in the door's direction. Her mind was working overtime, producing outcomes to each possible reaction she or Connor made as she moved to get a closer look at the deviant.

Time seemed to slow.

[ X ] GO OUTSIDE WITH CONNOR

[ O ] STAY INSIDE WITH THE REST OF THE TEAM

[astrofireworks]

house of cards: a night circus binu au

ayo the result of me procrastinating my psycholinguistics project for the whole of today lmao this is heavily based on the night circus by erin morgenstern (which i highly highly recommend and which you can find here) in which the two main characters are pitted against each other in a magical showdown to the death by their teachers but end up falling in love :’) but obviously this trashbin has made it binu so 

“It’s a tree made of ice,” Sanha says, dumbfounded. “A tree, literally made of frozen water.”

“Indeed,” Eunwoo hums. He runs his fingertips over the bark, brittle and cold to the touch.

“Who would gift this to you? Wouldn’t it melt? Who decided to put it in one of our tents? Is it meant to be a display? In our circus? It doesn’t even have any leaves!”

Eunwoo’s brow furrows; he’s wondering the exact same thing. There’s something different about this ice sculpture for sure. It’s translucent and frosted the way ice usually is, but there’s something off about it, he thinks. There’s something faint ringing through the tree, something humming under his hands and shimmering in its branches. If only he could dig it out –

His fingers catch in a notch on the trunk, and with a small exclamation of triumph Eunwoo pushes the smallest tendril of magic into it.

The both of them watch as the wisp of silver curls from Eunwoo’s finger and disappears into the tree. Nothing happens for a moment, and then –

Suddenly the tree starts to sing, a melancholic melody that echoes around the circus tent and swirls around the both of them. Sanha looks up, startled and just a little bit scared, “Is that… is that coming from the tree?”

Eunwoo is about to reply, but the song swells to a crescendo and the candles lining the top of the tent blow out all at once. They’re left in pitch darkness and silence, excepting that small silver shadow. He feels Sanha’s fingers grip tightly on the sleeve of his coat, and they both startle when the ice tree starts glowing.

Beautiful, Eunwoo thinks.

The tendril of magic slowly flickers brighter and with a flash, it explodes to fill the entire inside of the tree. It seeks out each and every fork, trailing a path down each branch and detailing the entire structure of the tree and illuminating the entire tent. It’s breath-taking, to say the least.

They watch as the silver flare dies down to a gentle white glow, no brighter than the moonlight outside.

Eunwoo wants to reach out a hand, to touch it again, to see what would happen, but he knows better and hangs back. If whoever gifted him the tree left traces of his own magic, it would show up after Eunwoo activated it, which would be… right about now.

Sure enough, the melancholic melody starts again, a quiet, tinkling sound. Characters start to materialise, hovering lightly before Eunwoo and Sanha.

Your turn, it says, and just as Eunwoo reaches out a hand to touch them, to feel the magic, they twinkle and disintegrate into thin air. The music fades, and so does the quiet luminance of the tree and the faint pressure of magic, and once again Eunwoo and Sanha are left in pitch black silence.

Eunwoo coughs lightly and waves a hand; the candles pop back to life, one by one. He feels Sanha let go of his sleeve to go inspect the tree again, but he remains still, staring at the place where the message was – if it’s what he thinks it is…

Sanha tugs gently on his sleeve, “Eunwoo, look up.”

Eunwoo glances up. There are gilded leaves tipping each and every branch where it was empty before, a full foliage of gold. In the candlelight they look almost soft, rich.

He hums, and reaches up to pluck one. It’s harder to pull out than he expected, and when he finally manages to yank one out, it crumbles to a fine gold shimmer between his fingers. His eyes meet Sanha’s.

“Your turn?” Sanha’s eyes are full of curiosity and his voice, laced with child-like interest, shines with excitement. “A contest?”

Eunwoo’s mouth is set in a grim line. “I’m not sure,” he manages, “I believe I will have to check.”

If it’s what he thinks it means, Eunwoo thinks, it means his wait is over, and his challenge has begun.

~

“Has he activated it yet?” Jinjin asks from where he’s sprawled out on the floor. He’s tossing an apple up and down, and they watch as Bin flicks his fingers almost lazily with each throw and a bullet of gold magic strikes the apple with deadly accuracy and it changes colour.

“Not yet,” Bin answers. He leans back in his chair and doesn’t even spare a glance at the gold leaf resting on his desk. He knows he’ll feel it in his bones the moment his opponent activates his gift.  

It was generous of his opponent’s teacher to grant him the first move though. That damn tree took two months to craft, and now whoever his challenger is, they’d be under pressure to return with an equal or grander display of magic. All he can do is sit and wait.

“Did the Magician not tell you who your opponent is?”

“Don’t think I’m allowed to know. I think he thinks I might fall in love with them and abandon the challenge or lose on purpose or something.”

“A healthy fear.”

“Shut up, it was only that One Time!”

“You’re lucky I was there to save you from certain death, bitch.”

“It was a dog, Jinjin. And of course I lost on purpose, who wouldn’t fall in love with a small retriever puppy?”

“Heck, I forgot you thought the puppy was your opponent, Rocky was so confused –”

“I was five!”

Jinjin waves him away and continues tossing his apple as if he was never interrupted, “And Rocky was four and had no problems tackling you. You’re lucky that challenge wasn’t life-binding or you would have died when you surrendered to Rocky in two seconds – “

“But now both you and Rocky are my best friends, so who lost, really?”

“You, if you can’t top whatever your opponent sends back your way.”

Bin just huffs in response. Jinjin’s not wrong – the whole point of the match is for he and his opponent to send each other displays of magic until one of them gives up. He wonders what his opponent will throw back at him, and wonders if it’s too early to start thinking about a retaliation. He has plans for something to do with sounds, something to do with clouds…

There’s a sharp tug in his gut and he nearly topples his chair over in his haste to reach the leaf.

Jinjin’s up like a shot, purple apple thumping to the floor and rolling somewhere under a chair. They both watch as the leaf glows a pure silver, then fades back into a dull gold.

“He’s silver,” Jinjin breathes.

“If it’s a he,” Bin mutters distractedly. A silver. He’s the only gold he knows, and for him to meet someone with silver magic? This guy must be pretty close to his level.

“What do you think he’ll send back?” He looks up at Jinjin. His heart is thumping hard in his chest; it’s the first round and already it’s become something more difficult than he expected.

Jinjin shrugs, still staring at the leaf, “You’ll have to wait to find out; it’s his turn now.”

“Why do you think the Magician matched me with him? Do you think it’s someone we met before? What do you think he’s like – “

Jinjin reaches a hand over and smacks Bin on the side of the head, not tearing his eyes away from the leaf, “I know he’s your first actual opponent, Bin, but you know that his teacher and the Magician matched you for a reason and you know that we won’t find out why or who it is until one of you gives up or chooses to reveal who you are. I didn’t find out who my first opponent was or who his teacher was until they surrendered to the Magician and me.”

Bin sinks back into his chair, sulking until Jinjin sighs and tosses the leaf at Bin’s chest. “Go keep it in your Box. Did you take note of the time he activated it?”

Immediately Bin’s eyes widen and he scrambles for the clock.

~

“Opinions on ramen for lunch?” MJ chirps into Eunwoo’s ear. The deafening din in the mess tent should make it nearly impossible to hear MJ’s voice, Eunwoo knows, but that man could try to whisper and still be heard all the way from the moon.

Eunwoo snorts. It’s not like they have any choice; they just eat whatever the circus cooks decide is worth their time that day, and he knows MJ knows it.  

They collect their lunch and head over to where Sanha’s waving to them. Sanha looks bright and expectant, sitting on the edge of his seat and waiting for them to arrive before starting on his own lunch.

“So what are you planning to do?”

“What am I planning to do? I’m planning to eat this ram– “

“Not you, you idiot, me. I got a challenge last night.”

MJ looks up from where he’s breaking apart his chopsticks, “The one your teacher warned you about?”

“No, the one nobody warned him ab– hey!” A yelp from Sanha and a small laugh from Eunwoo as MJ reaches over to smack Sanha on the shoulder.

Eunwoo lets Sanha describe the Tree and the whole process with his wide eyes and excited hand gestures, choosing to start on his lunch and only correcting Sanha on small details here and there.

MJ’s eyes are sparkling at the end of it and he turns to Eunwoo, “So have you planned your move?”

“Nope,” Eunwoo mumbles through a mouthful of noodle. He sat up throughout the night looking through his records of the different challenges he’s done before, but none of them seem impressive enough to match up to the Tree. This guy’s a gold magic user, for god’s sake. He’s the only silver user he knows, and the next strongest person he knows aside from his own teacher is Sanha’s pearl.

He can only hope he gets a good idea within the next week so he can start creating it soon.

~

It’s an interesting tent, you think as you slide into it. The rest of the tents have multi-coloured seats or at least a colour scheme. The wildcat tamer’s tent had red and yellow plastic seats; the acrobat’s a green-blue scheme; the fortune teller’s a pearlescent white. This one is full out black, with wooden benches painted midnight and arranged in a ring around the edges of the tent, and a sole spotlight lighting up the centre. There’s a glow illuminating the whole tent, just enough for you to navigate your way past other circus patrons to an empty spot, but when you look up, you can’t see a source of light.

As you take your seat, a man in a suit steps out of nowhere and everyone falls silent. His hair is combed away from his forehead and you can see his eyes – they’re bright and sparkling as he smiles in welcome. He’s easily the most beautiful person you’ve seen in your life and you feel instantly like you would trust him with your life. From the titters in the audience, you know they feel the same.

He adjusts his bowtie, and begins to speak in a gentle but clear, ringing voice, soft as moonlight.

“Thank you for choosing the illusionist’s tent. You probably saw the sign when you walked in, but just in case you haven’t, welcome to what will be a whole new world. Don’t believe your eyes. Don’t believe your ears. Everything will be different from as you know it.”

The man takes a deep bow, and waves his hand.  

All of a sudden, you’re in an orchard and it is midday. The leaves are orange and red and the sunlight filtering through them is warm and cool all at once. There wafts a distinct smell of apple in the air, and all of you in the audience collectively take a deep breath. You’re disoriented – this isn’t at all the type of illusion you were expecting to see. There’s a rustling of leaves overhead, and a quiet crunch of leaves under your feet. It’s a comforting and warm sound, like someone wrapping a blanket around you and kissing you on the forehead. Some stretch out their hands, almost as if to touch the leaves on the trees, and you catch yourself nearly doing the same.

The illusionist waves a hand, and the scene changes.

It’s night-time, and there are sirens ringing far in the background. It’s a busy two-way street in New York City, lined with bars and pizza shops and there are college students shoving at each other and laughing. You can hear others in the audience laugh indulgently, those having been through college distantly reminiscing the false sense of freedom college afforded. There are skyscrapers in the background, lights glimmering with a promise of something more. It feels like you’ve been standing there forever, with the traffic lights changing and people crossing both ways and sliding past where you’ve been quietly observing.

The illusionist waves his hand again, and the scene changes.

There’s a crisp wind blowing from behind you and you feel your coat swishing around your thighs even though you have no memories of standing up. There are small snowflakes drifting down around you and as far as your eyes can see, it’s just a white expanse. You feel a shiver run through you – you weren’t prepared for this weather. There’s a figure slowly walking towards you from a distance and you’re squinting to see who it is, when the snow disappears.

You’re back in the circus tent, but the illusionist in the black tent is nowhere to be seen. There is only an empty spotlight, and if you squint carefully, you can a wisp of smoke where he was before. There’s the distinct feeling that you’re no longer in the illusion, the vague shimmering in the edges of your vision fading into nothing, and everyone starts looking around in confusion until the illusionist’s voice echoes down from the top of the tent.

“From the illusionist’s tent, this has been Cha Eunwoo at your service, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your night at the circus.”

~

Eunwoo slides into Sanha’s tent. He has a half hour break between shows, and right now there’s only fifteen minutes left of this one. It’s just enough time to throw an idea at Sanha and see what he thinks.  

But the curtains of Sanha’s inner room, the one he uses for fortune telling, are swung closed. He probably has a client right now, Eunwoo muses. Perhaps later.

He turns to leave, but a small white flash catches his eye. It’s a piece of paper thrown to the floor, half-hidden under the sofa. It looks crumpled up at first glance, but folded too sharply to look like trash. Although, of course, it’s amazing Eunwoo saw it at all given the amount of actual trash scattered on Sanha’s floor. He should remind Sanha to clean up.

But as Eunwoo bends down to pick it up, he sees the sharp and crisp folds of a crane. Origami, he thinks. Immediately his mind flashes in a hundred different directions. A paper torch charmed to burst aflame and stay burning until the challenge is over. A paper scale model of the circus, with each tent charmed to move and light up, accurate down to each minute of their schedules. A room full of origami charms hanging from the ceiling, each containing a different spell.

Eunwoo taps the crane with the tip of his index finger, and watches as the crane stretches lazily, glowing a dim grey. It flaps its wings, once, twice, thrice, before deciding that Eunwoo’s palm is too soft and warm to leave and settling down and tucking its paper head under its wing.

Eunwoo bursts into a grin, eyes crinkling up. He’d have to ask Zuho from the wildcat taming tent for help on the behaviour of some of the animals, but it’d work, he thinks.

An origami menagerie. Perfect.