#Seven Ghostly Spins

[oepionie]

— "HE'S THE OTHER MAN!" . the corpse groom

SYNOPSIS: A ghost groom has claimed MC as his unwilling bride. Unfortunately for him, she's already got a lover

⊹ [ c.w ] — violence, possessive behavior, malleus blows a fucking green laser down ramshackle, mentions of blood, yuu is poor but we alrdy knew that, papa crewel crumbs

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.6k opening post with malleus! if this gets enough attention, I might do more :P

"You what?" Crewel seethed, eyes wide as an unsettling smile stretched across the red of his cheeks.

"Repeat that."

"I…I accidentally released that ghost from the spellbook," Grim sobbed, his glossy eyes reflecting both fear and guilt as he looked up at the imposing figure of the professor. "And he's taken my henchhuman as his bride!"

Oh, Great Sevens. Not again.

Crewel groaned, his hands reaching up to frantically rub at his burning eyes. The flickering candlelight cast erratic shadows across his face.

"Please, do tell. How in Wonderland did someone with your lackluster skills manage to—" The professor was abruptly cut off by a loud, almost obnoxious cry that echoed from the doorway. Turning sharply, Crewel saw Crowley hunched against the entrance frame, hysterically sobbing into his palms. Fat tears dripped beneath his ornate mask, glistening in the low light. "They grow up so fast! My dear child is already getting married!"

Crewel's eye twitched as he took in the scene: Grim shaking like a leaf, and Crowley, dramatically weeping, pathetically looking to him for a solution.

"Fools," Crewel snarled, striding out of the room as he fished his phone from his coat pocket. "If you two won't be of use, then I'll have to enlist the help of those mutts instead."

The day had started like any other in Ramshackle, but you certainly didn't expect it to end with a wedding. Surrounded by the ghostly residents of the dorm, you stood dressed in all white, a bouquet clutched in your hand. Curling in yourself, you sighed and rested your head in your hands, avoiding everyone's gazes which felt like icy needles on your skin.

Ramshackle's old lounge, with its worn-out floorboards and faded wallpaper, was the chosen venue for your ceremony. Whispers rustled through the gathering, carried on a faint breeze that stirred the dust motes in the dim light. Somewhere in the background, the somber notes of an organ piano echoed. You didn't even know you had a piano…

"Dear?"

Jumping with a shriek, you whipped your head around. A ghostly visage, bathed in a deathly pale blue glow, hovered inches from your face, an unnaturally wide grin stretched across their blue lips. Bony fingers gently traced up your cheeks, sending tingles down your spine.

With sunken eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, Elizan—a "visiting" friend of one of Ramshackle's ghosts—was truly a sight to behold. His complexion had a pallor that matched the moonlight filtering through the decrepit windows of the form. Wisps of long, flowing indigo hair framed his face, swept back as if caught in a breeze that only he could feel.

"You look wonderful," he cooed, pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead, leaving your cheeks burning.

"Ah. Thank you," you stammered, averting your gaze and gently pulling away. You could hardly focus on the words being spoken to you, your mind spinning with the surrealness of it all.

"You look... Good as well," you forced out with a cough, tugging at your hair nervously. "But... Listen... I—"

Before you could finish, the door to the entrance slammed open, nearly breaking off the hinges with a sound that could wake the dead, sending cracks spider-webbing through the already dilapidated walls.

On the inside, you screamed louder than the hinges.

You had painstakingly patched up the door after Grim's recent screw-up—a feat that had tested your patience and carpentry skills to their limit. Unless you wanted to survive on a diet of stale canned food and cafeteria leftovers for another year, you couldn't afford any more repairs.

While you were busy mourning the loss of having decent meals, heaving and leaning against the door for support, your friends called out your name in a panic, their bleary and furious gazes zeroing in on your figure. Clad in white, you stood there, the perfect picture of a pretty blushing bride.

The uninvited guests didn't go unnoticed by your "groom," and in seconds, you were pulled into a suffocating grip. Elizan's usually serene demeanor shattered like fragile glass. His deathly pale features contorted into a snarl, veins pulsing ominously beneath translucent skin. His typically gentle eyes blazed with an unsettling fire, icy whites now narrowed and piercing.

"Mutt!" Crewel seethed, his foot slamming into the floor and shattering the newly installed tiles. Your soul nearly left your body as you screamed inside again. There go a thousand thaumarks…

"What in the Sevens is this!?" Crewel shrieked, running a gloved hand through his tousled hair. With sharp movements, he pointed a finger at Elizan. "I'll have you know I can have you arrested for trespassing, unlawful detention, and violating the sanctity of this academy!"

"How... How dare you? Barging into this sacred ceremony—Who even are you?!" Elizan snapped back, his arms coiling tightly around your torso. The crowd erupted in a haze of shouts and muddled answers. Unable to understand anything, Elizan's intense gaze shifted and bore into yours, demanding answers. You gulped nervously, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in his grasp.

"Who is he?! Who are they?!" he barked like a dog, flashing his sharp fangs at you.

"Uh… That's my professor—uh, Crewel," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "And those are… They're my… friends?" Your gaze flickered to the group of men who had entered, their expressions ranging from confusion to anger.

Elizan's wide eyes now filled with shock, white orbs glossed over with luminescent blue tears. He pushed you away as if you had burnt him, recoiling from your touch as though it pained him physically.

"You know other men?!" the ghost cried out, his hands clenching into fists, his midnight blue hair cascading wildly around his face like a tempestuous sea. The tortured cries of the groom echoed through the room, sending a shiver down your spine as you awkwardly shifted on your feet, feeling like a character caught in an soap drama.

"…Yes?" you replied, unsure.

"How could you do this to me?!" He sobbed, a dark shadow covering his face. "Running off on an affair the DAY of our marriage?!"

"Well, that's a rather dramatic accusation—" you started, but Elizan shook his head in anguish.

"Answer me! Do you have another man?!" His voice shook the room, and you took a few cautious steps back.

"Elizan, please," you uttered gently, your eyes darting nervously toward one of the men in the room.

Your lover didn't meet your gaze; instead, his eyes were locked onto the ghost, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his features. As you jumped down from the makeshift podium, you shot an apologetic frown at the ghost, hoping to diffuse the escalating situation. "Don't you understand? You're the other man."

"No! You're married to me!" Elizan shrieked, lunging forward in a frenzy, his nails clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something intangible. "Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

MALLEUS DRACONIA

"Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

Lilia raised an eyebrow with a chuckle, his form reclined against a fogged-up window of the room. The weather was gloomy and stormy, the skies tinted green outside, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The window pane, streaked with raindrops and mist, blurred the view of the turbulent skies beyond. Lilia hummed a tune under his breath, a calm figure amidst the brewing storm.

With a sidelong glance, his eyes locked onto Malleus, whose entire figure shook with a barely contained wrath that threatened to engulf the very air around him. The young prince's chest heaved in violent, choked breaths as smoke wisped from his mouth and nose—tendrils of flames flickering amidst the swirling dust and ash.

A deafening crack tore through the air as a vivid surge of green emerald lightning erupted from the heavens, descending upon the roof of the venue with explosive force. The blast of energy painted the sky with a blinding flash of green as it crashed into the building, sending broken glass and wood raining down upon the venue.

Cursing, Elizan moved you both aside, a large chunk of debris hurtling past, narrowly missing your startled form. As more debris crashed down, he shielded you with an outstretched arm, a shimmering barrier briefly forming to deflect a particularly large piece of wood.

"Spectral pest," Malleus seethed, his eyes aglow with an eerie green hue as his nails elongated into sharp claws. With a click of his tongue, he raised his hands, summoning thorns that spiraled towards Elizan, ensnaring the ghost in their sharp embrace. Simultaneously, from the floorboards below, vines emerged like serpents, their tendrils gently but firmly pulling you away from Elizan's protective embrace and guiding you into the safety of Malleus's arms.

"How—?! Ngh!" Elizan writhed against the thorny vines. The prickly tendrils twisted around him like serpents, their sharp points digging into his ghostly flesh.

Malleus paid no mind to the struggling spirit, keeping his gaze fixed on you as he checked for any signs of harm. His expression softened with relief upon finding you unscathed, albeit a bit dusty.

"Beloved," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm amidst the lingering chaos. His gloved hand moved delicately, sweeping away the clinging dust from your shoulders and arms. Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingered there briefly, conveying a warmth that contrasted starkly with the raw power he had displayed moments ago.

"Are you alright?"

Blinking up at him with wide eyes and frazzled hair shooting up in every direction, you nodded dumbly. Turning away from him, you nearly gasped aloud to see the room in shambles, debris scattered everywhere, and the eerie green glow of energy still lingering in the air. The ghostly residents were in a state of panic, their translucent forms flickering as they moved frantically.

"My dorm," you whimpered, your mind racing as you calculated the cost of the damage.

With a chuckle, Malleus adjusted his grip on you, his muscles flexing as he gently set you down. Your legs felt shaky as you tried to steady yourself.

"I will handle the cost of repair, my dearest," Malleus assured you, bending down to your height, his voice dropping to a whisper. Green eyes bore into yours, strands of his midnight hair falling over his face. "You will not need to worry about such things once we are formally betrothed."

You froze, your face suddenly warming and burning.

"What?!"

Malleus reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek, claws dragging across your supple cheeks. "Yes, my dear," he murmured, chest rumbling as his lips curved into a sharp smile. "You heard me correctly."

"I… I don't know what to say," you whispered, feeling dizzy with emotion.

"Will you consider it?" he asked softly, a faint hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Please?"

Caught in the depth of his gaze, you felt your resolve melting away. "I-I guess?" you breathed, your voice trembling. "I'll… consider it."

A smug smile spread across his face, and he tenderly pressed his lips against yours. "That's all I ask, my dearest."

After ensuring you were alright one last time, Malleus redirected his focus to Elizan. With a flick of his wrist, the thorns under his control tightened around the ghost. Elizan shrieked and thrashed about, his translucent form writhing in pain as the thorns dug deeper.

"Do try to exercise some restraint, my boy," Lilia drawled, tapping his sharp fingers idly against his crossed arms. "We do not want Ramshackle to be bathed in blood. It would be very unsanitary."

not too sure if i am continuing but feel free to suggest some peepl bookies

[ervotica]

brat taming maybe with like dark!rafe???

pairing; rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings; dark(ish?), dub-con if you squint but no smut, public punishment, spanking, dom!rafe, brat tamer!rafe

a/n; not a clue what this is tbh but trying to get back in the swing of writing for my fav boy <3 rafe requests and concept discussions are open as always! i always wanna talk abt this boy <3

“Are you gonna fuckin’ quit it or am I gonna have to beat the attitude out of you, kid?”

You gurgle nonsensically when his thick fingers curl around your ribcage to pull you into his chest, thrashing weakly as the flat of his hand taps against your cheek to sober you. Goosebumps raise on your arms and legs— partially from the night breeze, mostly from Rafe’s cruel touch.

“Rafe,” you purl, voice rising three octaves and swollen lips parting into a silent gasp when a resounding crack permeates the chatter of the party. Your cheeks are aflame, a nasty welt already rising on the soft skin with the distinct shape of a hand. You crinkle your nose indignantly, pushing at his firm chest even as you go soft and pliant in his grasp.

“Wanna try that again?” he snarks, clamping your jaw between his digits to anchor your gaze to his own. “Quit it.”

“You’re a prick,” you hiss, your temper flaring. He rolls his neck, eyes fluttering as he groans.

“Okay, kid.” He slaps you again and your eyes burn, glossing over with tears. “Just remember you did this to yourself, yeah?”

Dewiness clings to your neck as he backs you against the nearest wall, indifferent to the stares of the other partygoers that crowd the vast yard. His head dips until his brow touches yours.

“Turn around.”

“Not here, Rafe,” you breathe, that bravado you had disappearing at his insinuation— to spank you raw in front of everyone. “Can’t we go somewhere else?”

“No, we can’t,” he mocks your whining cadence. “Turn round before I fuckin’ make you.”

You squeal when his fingers press indents into the fat of your hips and spin you, a corded forearm pushing on the back of your neck to hold your cheek against the wall.

“Count.”

“Rafe, stop! ‘s embarrassing.”

His lips press to the shell of your ear. “I don’t fuckin’ care if you’re embarrassed, kid. Count ‘em, or it’ll be worse for you.”

You choke a sob against the brick that grates at your skin, no doubt rubbing it raw, wrestling with the tears that slip down your flaming cheeks as he delivers the first blow.

“O-one.”

“Attagirl,” he murmurs, granting you temporary reprieve with a kiss to the curve of your jaw.

The next three come in quick succession, and you writhe, reciting the numbers obediently through the lump in your throat.

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Seven.”

By the eighth, you’re crying in earnest, any dignity you had somehow clung to slipping through your fingers as you sniffle at him with teary eyes.

His nose nudges at your cheekbone, his breath a ghostly touch against your scrunched features.

“Two more, kid.”

You swipe spitefully at your swollen eyes, lips pushing out into a pout as you fight back another onslaught of tears.

“Hurts,” you snivel.

“‘s supposed to, dummy.” Your ass is raw and you hiss and jerk as he delivers the last two before he’s finally freeing you of his grip, watching as you smooth down your clothes and drunkenly cuss and hiccup at him. He quirks an eyebrow in a clear warning that has the words dying in your throat, features crumpling further with every second he’s not consoling you.

Your lips are swollen, face flushed and ruddy from Rafe’s rough hands; you let him hike you up by your armpits and draw you into his chest, pressing your stinging cheek to his shoulder.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Feelin’ better?”

You don’t deign to answer, needling your way further into his warm body and going boneless.

“You’re mean,” you purl, muffled through the fabric of his shirt.

“I know. I’m awful,” he concedes, smearing a kiss to the crown of your skull. Your eyelids fall shut at the tender contact, such a stark contrast to the way he’s been manhandling you.

“‘s time to go?” you ask, limply twitching in his grasp.

“Yeah. Let’s go home, kid.”

[thetistaboveall]

REVENGE

“Woah!” My voice utters crashing down to earth once again as my ghost jumps in to a new body one I have been haunting for two weeks on end.

It’s been a long boring day in his expensive CEO life as he packs up for the day locking his suitcase as he exits the officer with a gold symbol.

He enters the hallway on floor seven as my ghost shifts he is so tired he can’t believe he saw what he is seeing it’s looks like a damn ghost.

The long white ghostly finger stands up with no reflection shining back as his fears rises to the sky and his heart pounds on his chest as he holds it.

Backing up his back hits the wall behind him a strong hard thud sends a bone curdling shock through his spine as he is radiating every inch.

His body reverberating in panic shaking in a bought of fear and anxiety the ghost (me) is smiling and he pops into the hallway landing in his face.

He screams his voice bouncing on every wall sounding like a scared little girl makes this even more hilarious because I really don’t give a damn.

Taking a deep breath I sigh scanning every inch am crevice of his body making sure I do not miss a step then racing to meet him head on head.

My hands tighten on to his shoulders tightly pin him to the wall as he realizes his faith is to be my victim I jump into him the minute we make contact.

I could see the struggle on his face with a horrid expression overtaking we roll back and forth on the floor spinning to the edge as we fall down the staircase.

We hit the wall hard knocking us both in to unconscious state as we fall into darkness his eyes close shut and he is left half dead now.

Unbeknownst to him my dear a few of his work pals heard his calls in shouts came to his rescue calling for help and he is taken to a private clinic.

I awaken alive in his body with a soar body engulfing me in a fiery pitch and I slowly try to sit up barely even making it because he is still in there.

Sitting up eventually after a long struggle I greet the mirror staring at back at the image of him the anger building up in him erupts in a huge rage.

The look he gives me as if he can take it all back by leaping through the mirror to tackle me and strangle me to death then pound me to death.

The reaction of deafer comes to him in his eyes I can see his reality holding onto what is left as he as he is in being piloted with cruise control.

I smirk with an evil glare spreading on to my bow plumb pink lips it’s sickening but I took his body for a reason absolute revenge on all mine enemies.

I slip off of the medical slab landing on to my feet the cold floor feels so good under my feet my toes dig in walking towards the mirror.

“What do you want from me? Fuck you!”

“I am your lord and Master now”

“This body is my vessel now “

“STOP IT! RELEASE ME!”

“Why should I bastard?”

“It belongs to me”

“Hell No!”

“I cannot believe for second you ever really loved and experienced life.”

“I have so much and I won’t give it up”

“As if you have a choice “

“I certainly do”

“We all have choices”

“Maybe! You are fool my dear “

“So much more possibilities “

“Yet wasted potential “

“I have always wanted a new life”

“I am starting over “

“Get use to it bitch”

“Mwahahahahaha “

The end

[mistresslrigtar]

WIP Wednesday!!

Taking a break today from posting music prompt one-shots to bring you an upcoming snippet from Chapter 10 - Zelda's Adventure Sours

Excerpt:

“There’s still treasure to be had!” Gustaf claims, leaning forward on the stool, his voice edged with desperation. “The Master Sword does exist, it is invaluable, and only the wielder of the Triforce of Courage may claim it. All we need to do is sail back to the Temple of Time.”

As far as Link is concerned, this conversation is over. He glances over his shoulder and catches Groose’s eye. “Shove his scurvy ass in the hold until I figure out what I’m gonna do with him.”

Let the old man stew, wondering what Link will do or say next. Pulling the map on his desk to him, he traces the most direct route to Seven Star Isle. They could make it there in a few days time. That should put a good distance between them, Central Hyrule and anyone on their tail. 

Groose stomps past and takes Gustaf’s firmly by the upper arm. “Come on, old man.”

Gustaf’s strains against Groose’s steely grip. His pale blue eyes wide and pleading as he struggles to free himself. “Please! You must believe me! It’s in the temple on the hill above the graveyard on the Sacred Forest Island. You can unlock the crypt where the sword slumbers with the goddess pearls! I know you heard the sword’s call! I saw how you acted when we were there!”

A shudder runs down Link’s spine at the mention of the Sacred Forest, and the eerie song starts playing over and over again like a dog chasing its tail. Until Link feels like he’s the one who’s been running in circles and his head spins. Squeezing his eyes shut, he resists the urge to cover his ears and wills the melody to stop plaguing him. 

No. He isn't going back to that island, let alone inside the temple where the ghostly woman lives, begging and pleading to be set free. It’s not going to happen. Scanning the map, he taps the big black ‘X’ on the island. They’ll have to drag Link by his hair kicking and screaming.

Chapters One - Nine are available to read HERE

Summary:

Down on his luck pirate, Link thinks his ship has come in when the fallen King Gustaf Harkinian implores him and his crew to rescue his daughter, Zelda, before she's forced to wed the usurper of the crown, Ganondorf Dragmire.

Link isn’t as interested in a princess, all prim, proper, and boring as he is in obtaining treasure beyond his wildest dreams. However his tune quickly changes when he sees her. Too bad she thinks he’s a dirty rotten scoundrel.

[therizino-ao3]

Hermit Horror Week 2023

Day one: Game Mechanics

Summary: Bdubs wants to sleep. Something deep and primal tells him no.

Read on ao3

Contains: Insomnia, general creepiness, sickness, weird time shenanigans

It is getting late.

And, if you know anything about dear old Bdubs, you’d know sleep is his thing! Wake at nine, sleep at nine. He is the Sleep Master, the Sleep King, the Sleep Champion, even. If someone has an issue with something sleep related, say, insomnia or sleep paralysis or pain in the morning, they come to him. He won’t lie and say sleeping is always easy – sometimes getting in the right mood for rest is really hard! – but he has a whole bunch of tricks just for that. There’s never been a night where he hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

Until now.

It’s stupid, there’s nothing wrong. Well, there should be nothing wrong. He’s tried everything, but nope, no effect. He’s so tired it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds, but as soon as he begins to drift off, a stinging, intangible fear grips him and jerks him awake. He feels almost sick – his body begging him for rest and not allowing a drop of it. Time feels weird. He stares at the clock on his bedside, his vision so blurry he can’t make anything out. Hours or minutes could have passed and he’d be none the wiser.

He does have a – well, calling it a theory makes it sound more concrete than it is, it’s really more of a hunch. He has a hunch what’s behind all this: Etho. The only thing that’s changed about his Monolith from last night to now, is Etho moving into his basement. Hah, what would Cleo think of that? She’d probably make some joke about how, of course he’d be staying up late thinking about Etho. Very fricking funny. Bdubs suspects it’s actually some evil redstone thing Etho has done, a weird prank. What better to mess with Bdubs with other than his favourite thing - sleep? Well, he’ll be having words.

It takes him a further five minutes to convince himself to get up, and as soon as he does, he regrets it. His legs can hardly carry him and the world won’t stop spinning. He heaves himself across the room to the stairs, just now beginning to understand the difficulty of his mission. Thankfully, the further he gets from the bed, the better he feels. But, it still isn’t easy.

He shuffles down the steps, one foot at a time. He must be several flights lower by now, surely? He didn’t bring any torches with him and he can hardly see a thing. The sky outside is dark and foggy and endlessly black. As he meanders his way past some crates (in a very inconvenient but very aesthetically pleasing location), he thinks. Knowing all things to know about sleep, he’s picked up some legends. One says that it’s physically impossible to sleep when you’re near something unsafe – something your animal brain recognises as bad, that is, like a natural predator. It’s stupid. Etho isn’t a scary beast, he’s just an insanely cool guy! Bdubs doesn’t even know if it’s true, he’s never had the chance to test it, y’know, being smart enough not to fall asleep when next to a creeper or whatever. Besides, there are some stupid legends out there. Like the myth you swallow seven spiders a year in your sleep. But, he can’t get the idea out of his mind. He wants to. He dreads to think about the questions it raises. Yet, deep in his gut, he knows it’s right. He can’t sleep because his body is protecting him; there’s danger lurking nearby.

And nearby he goes! He opens the door to the basement. He did some great work making it atmospheric, he thinks, though right now the atmosphere really isn’t helping. He sees Etho on the staircase down, the one with the big drop either side.

Etho is standing there, illuminated in the candlelight, his dark clothes soaking up the shadow and his pale skin appearing ghostly, pure chiaroscuro. He’s staring right at Bdubs, or, staring at the place Bdubs happens to be standing. His eyes are wide and glistening.

“Hey, um, Etho,” Bdubs stumbles over his words, “How’s it going?”

“Hmm?” Etho snaps to attention, “Oh hey Bdubs! What are you doing up so late? Have you given up on being the Sleep King?”

Etho’s familiar mannerisms soothe him, instantly, and he feels a tension ebb from his shoulders that he didn’t even know was there. He’s about to reply to Etho, with some false annoyance and silly voice, but, something’s still not right. Etho stands there, same place. He hasn’t moved. Bdubs thinks about how much taller Etho is than him, and how he’s probably a faster runner than he is, and how he could probably definitely take Bdubs down in a fight. He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that. Etho is staring at him. One of his eyes are red, which is such a weird detail to think about. Etho got it blinded somehow – for the same reason he has a scar – and later replaced it with a redstone eye of his own design. Bdubs knows this. Redstone glows in the dark. The eye is glowing. It’s watching him.

It's been too long, he should have replied by now. With everything to say, he settles on, “I, uh, can’t sleep.”

“Alright,” Etho doesn’t blink, “And?”

“Well, I don’t know! I thought you might have something to do with it! It only started when you got here,” he’s back to playing with his usual fake temper. His voice is loud and echoes through the chamber.

“Not anything I’m doing purposefully,” Etho replies.

“Hmmph,” Bdubs feels like he should be saying more. He just really wants to leave, “Alright then.”

Etho doesn’t say anything as Bdubs turns around. Bdubs doesn’t hear him make any noises, either. Before he knows it, he’s back in his room. He can’t even remember the trudging climb back up the stairs. He should. Time feels weird.

He lays back in bed. If he could, he’d be sleeping over at someone else’s house tonight but, well, he’s the only one that’s bothered to build a bedroom. Most of the hermits are insomniacs. Including Etho, he supposes, who was standing there in the dead of night doing… What was he doing? It doesn’t matter. The point is, Bdubs can’t sleep, and he still doesn’t know why.

[womanofwords]

Ghost Tricks

Due to the sudden traction to my fic Ghostly Vengeance and the new addition to ghost squad lore (both caused by @shyticklemonster), I wrote this on the fly. This is the newest addition to the saga.

“So . . . since you’re a ghost and all, what else can you do?” Keith asked. Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

“What exactly do you mean?” Sebastian asked.

“Well, we know that you can possess people, but that can’t be the limit of your powers. What else can you do?” Elliot asked.

“Well, before you two came along, I would often levitate and telepathically control objects,” Sebastian replied. “Mostly out of boredom, but sometimes to scare off intruders. I don’t really do it as much now that I have friends to keep me occupied.” The boys were enthralled as Sebastian levitated a few dusty lampshades, making them spin. Doors opened and shut on their own and tables rattled towards them. Dishes flung themselves to their deaths to the sound of Keith and Elliot gleefully applauding.

“So cool!” Keith cheered.

“Well, I did spend a few decades as a vengeful poltergeist, so this is all par for the course,” Sebastian bragged. “I’m actually a little rusty, really. I remember the days when I used to move that grand piano.” The dilapidated piano seemed to sag with nostalgia, or maybe wood rot.

“So, what changed? What weakened you?” Elliot asked.

“Weakened?”

Elliot pressed on. “Well, sure. You used to be able to move the grand piano, so what changed?”

“Well, as I told you, I was a vengeful poltergeist. That means that I was full of rage and that gave me the strength I needed,” the teenage ghost explained.

“So . . . you’re just not angry enough to do anything meaningful any more? You ran out of juice, huh? Are you looking for inspiration? Maybe you’re just lazy.” Elliot was poking the bear, and he didn’t give a damn about anything. Not the twitch in Sebastian’s eyebrow, and certainly not the frantic nonverbal warnings of his best friend, who was begging him silently to stop digging this hole.

And then Sebastian struck.

Elliot let out a yelp as the discoloured and tattered curtain he was standing next to wrapped itself, on Sebastian’s instruction, around him. Due to how old the curtain was and how much Elliot was struggling, it ripped and now he was on the floor, writhing like a worm.

“Seb, what was that for?! I’m sorry, OK? I was trying to motivate you to achieve more, not be a jerk! I swear, I didn’t mean it like that!”

Sebastian shook his head and tutted. “Oh, silly Elliot. I thought you knew that provoking a ghost was bad. I guess I’ll have to re-teach you.”

“Will you be needing an assistant?” Keith asked. Elliot’s eyes widened with fear as Sebastian gestured for his own best friend to have first dibs.

Elliot hastily pleaded with the two of them. “No, no no no no no no no no. Keith, you don’t have to do this! Sebastian, I’m sorry!” His pleas fell on deaf ears as Keith advanced forward and his shoe’s laces were being untied and slipped off. Meanwhile, a good seven feet behind them, a hairbrush and a feather rose into the air, awaiting commands.

One hour later

Elliot howled with laughter as the feather sawed between his toes, the hairbrush scrubbed at the balls of his feet and Keith’s fingers burrowed into his ribs. “Gonna provoke anyone else, ‘Ghost Hunter Extraordinaire’?” Sebastian taunted.

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!” Elliot screamed.

Meanwhile, a couple walking heard the screams coming from the old mansion. “What the hell is going on there?” the taller one said.

“I’m not staying here to find out!” said the other one, and they both ran away in terror, holding each other and stumbling.

If they only knew.

[trulybetty]

Gold Rush | Chapter Seven

Pairings: Joel x OFC (no age gap) Warnings: 18+, flashbacks to the first episode of TLOU, panic attacks, mentions of the death of a child, descriptions of blood, and of course angst Summary: Old lovers Joel and Charlotte find themselves unexpectedly reunited in the community of Jackson. Struggling to navigate the complexities of their shared history and the harsh realities of their new lives, the pair find themselves again drawn to one another. AO3: Link

A/N: I had the hardest time with this chapter, it was a labour of love, I think? As always, thoughts, feedback... all and everything is welcomed. Now I'm off to hide in Marcus Pike fluff to recover.

Chapter 7

Joel was restless.

He'd been back in Jackson now for two weeks, and since seeing Charlotte with Ellie that morning, when he'd woken in a panic to Ellie nowhere to be found, it was almost like Charlotte had vanished from the community. He could almost believe it if it wasn't for the constant mention of her name from Ellie and anyone else they encountered within Jackson. It seemed that Charlotte had made herself a pillar of the community; her name was constantly mentioned, whether in relation to the work she'd done, advice she'd given, or just general chatter among the town.

She was everywhere and nowhere at once, always just missed or just out of reach. Maybe it was for the best. He didn't know how to face her, didn't know what to say.

Ellie had taken to the change of pace quicker than he had anticipated. It made sense, he reasoned. For her, Jackson represented a semblance of normalcy, a concept that she had only heard of in books or wistful memories of those who'd lived in the before, but never experienced herself.

In contrast, Joel found himself lost in the routine of it all. He was not used to the relative peace and quiet, the semblance of normalcy that Jackson offered. The constant vigilance that had kept him alive the past two decades, relying on the instincts honed by survival, was a hard habit to break, and he found himself on edge.

The stillness unnerving him.

The notion of setting down roots felt strange, almost foreign. The rhythm of Jackson eluded him, and he felt out of sync with its pulse.

Tommy had not yet permitted him to join the patrols, arguing that he needed to rest, heal and acclimate to Jackson. Rest was the last thing on Joel's mind, though. In his frustration, he found himself wandering towards the barns. The barns were usually a lively area, brimming with activity as residents of Jackson attended to their livestock. However it was currently surreally calm, with the exception of the noises from the animals, there was no one around.

His eyes scanned the area, debating on whether to investigate or carry on his walk when a figure stepping out of the main barn caught his eye and made his heart skip a beat. Charlotte, in a once white shirt now stained red, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, her face flushed and sweaty.

The world around him suddenly grew both too big and too small. Every breath he took felt shallow, insufficient, as if there was a block of concrete pressing down on his chest. His heart hammered like a wild drum, its frenetic rhythm a discordant melody that drowned out every other sound.

A hot flush spread across his skin, prickling, almost burning, as the room around him began to warp and spin. It was as if he were stuck in some sort of twisted hall of mirrors, every surface reflecting the distorted, bloodstained image of Charlotte's white t-shirt.

The shockingly vibrant hue of the blood sent him hurtling back into a memory he'd locked deep within the recesses of his mind. There he was, standing in front of Charlotte, his gaze fixated on the crimson stain spreading rapidly across her shirt. The white fabric was quickly turning a grotesque shade of red, each blooming patch a poignant reminder of the horrifying reality they were now thrust into.

In her arms, Sarah had been ghostly pale, her skin a stark contrast to the blood that stained Charlotte's shirt. The realization had hit him like a punch to the gut, momentarily stealing his breath away.

The blood wasn't Charlotte's; it was Sarah's.

His chest heaved, the desperation to breathe making him lightheaded. He could hear Tommy’s voice echoing in his mind, a ghost from that harrowing night. It was a frantic call to action, urging him to leave Sarah behind. The thought was unthinkable, unimaginable. But as his vision blurred, the voice changed, morphed. It was no longer Tommy's voice that echoed in his mind, but Charlotte's. The sound was close, as if she were right beside him, calling his name in a voice that trembled with unspoken fear and grief.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, the sudden intensity of it bending him double. The scent of fresh hay and damp earth that normally soothed him now overwhelmed his senses, setting his stomach churning. His throat felt tight, his tongue thick in his mouth as he gasped for air. The metallic tang of blood, so vivid in his memory, seemed to fill his nostrils. The taste of bile rose at the back of his throat as his body rebelled against the sensory assault.

The panic surged, threatening to swallow him whole, his breathing grew shallow, quick. He leaned against the wooden fence of the barn's pens, his knuckles turning white as he gripped onto it, a lifeline in the midst of the chaos threatening to consume him.

---

Charlotte’s boots crunched on the gravel as she made her way out of the main barn. The sun was out, but had yet to warm the chill of the early morning air. She had come by, as she did most mornings, to drink her coffee and offer some carrots to the cows. What she hadn't anticipated was being an extra pair of hands for the delivery of a late spring calf. Her coffee long lost, along with her appetite, she was heading home to shower and likely burn her once white t-shirt which was stained with afterbirth.

Turning back to the pens to grab her jacket where she'd thrown it in the rush of being called to assist, she spotted a familiar figure leaning heavily against the faded wood of the fences. The broad build and worn flannel were unmistakable – it was Joel. A cry of surprise escaped her lips as she noticed the pallor of his face and the hand he had clutching his chest. The past forgotten, her worry for him pushed her forward.

“Joel!” she called, her heart pounding in her chest. The sight of the usually steady and robust man in obvious distress sent a chill down her spine.

Joel’s only response was a feeble attempt to wave her away before he tried to move, take his weight from the fence, only to stumble. His breaths came out in shallow gasps, the colour from his face had drained, and his eyes held a look of terror Charlotte had seldom seen on him.

“Joel, Joel!” she repeated, a sense of urgency in her voice. “I need you to look at me.”

Grudgingly, he turned his gaze towards her, his eyes clouded and unfocused. It didn't take much for Charlotte to recognize the signs of a panic attack. She quickly shed her gloves, placing a hand on his stubbled cheek, trying to provide a grounding touch.

“Joel, look at me. Keep your eyes on me,” she ordered gently, her voice steady despite the fear creeping into her veins.

Feeling the warmth of her hand on his face, Joel seemed to respond, leaning into her touch. However, his breathing was still ragged, and he struggled to maintain eye contact. To ground him further, Charlotte quickly unzipped his jacket, pulling it off of him, hoping the brisk air would help him reconnect with reality.

But his breathing didn’t normalize. Suddenly, Joel dropped to his knees, pulling Charlotte down with him. His hands clung to her arms, his body shaking, his face buried in her shoulder. A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat at his vulnerability, her own heart pounding in response.

“Joel,” she murmured, one hand trying to hold him while the other sought to cover his heart. “Joel, I need you to breathe with me…” The words were half command, half plea, her voice steady yet filled with desperation.

As consciousness began to return, the first thing Joel felt was the damp cold seeping through the knees of his jeans, and the chill seemed to bring him back to the present. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut; he was on his knees, the unyielding earth beneath him. His head pounded like a drum, the once deafening ringing in his ears replaced by a throbbing pain that shot across his forehead.

Slowly, his senses started to come back to him; the smell of fresh hay and mud, the rustling sound of wind against the barn, the touch of a hand cradling his face and another holding him steady. Squinting against the sunlight that seemed too harsh, he opened his eyes. His vision blurred, then refocused, revealing the worried face of Charlotte. Her dark hair was caught in the wind, dancing around her face.

“Joel…” Her voice was a familiar, comforting balm, grounding him further. The wind carried her voice, making it seem like it was coming from all around him. “Joel…” She repeated his name as if it was a lifeline.

“Charlie?” His voice was a raspy whisper, barely audible against the wind. Her presence surprised him but also instilled a strange sense of security.

His last thought before darkness had claimed him was that he'd failed. Failed Sarah. Failed Tess. Failed Ellie. And, failed Charlotte. He didn't know how long he was out, didn't remember falling, didn't remember anything but Sarah's dying face and Charlotte's blood-stained shirt.

“Just keep breathing, Joel,” Charlotte coaxed, her voice a warm whisper against the cold wind. She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze, and it was then that he noticed the absence of his jacket. His body was exposed to the chill, adding to his discomfort.

Suddenly, a new panic began to set in, one different from the initial terror that had gripped him. The vulnerability of the situation, his lack of control, and the fact that Charlotte – of all people – was witnessing him in such a state was overwhelming. His chest tightened, and he instinctively tried to break away from her grip, to put some distance between them. However, Charlotte held on, her grasp firm yet gentle.

"You're okay, Joel. You're safe," she murmured, her voice trembling.

But he was not safe, he realized. Another wave crashed over him, he couldn't make sense from the past to the present. Trapped in a loop of where his world had crumbled and everything he had held dear was stolen from him. He could still feel Sarah's weight in his arms, her life slipping away in a torrent of blood, her eyes wide and unseeing.

"No..." He tried to shake his head, to shake off the tormenting images that surged within him, threatening to drown him.

Charlotte's grip on his shoulders tightened. "Joel, you're here. With me," she reassured him, her voice a steady beacon in the tumultuous sea of his thoughts.

He could feel her hands, warm and grounding against his skin, feel the rhythm of her breathing, the frantic beats of her heart. And he clung to it, clung to the small shred of reality that she offered.

His breaths came out ragged and harsh, every inhale a fight, every exhale a plea for release. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the images that lurked in the corners of his mind.

“Hey, hey…” she whispered, her voice a soothing melody amidst his internal chaos. Leaning in, she rested her forehead against his, her closeness acting like an anchor in the storm. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Joel…” Her words wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, steadying his breathing and quelling his rising panic.

His fight for breath was soon overshadowed by quiet sobs that tore through him. He clung to Charlotte as if she was his only lifeline, his only connection to the present. The pair slid further down onto the cold, damp ground, Joel's shoulders shuddering with every choked sob that escaped his lips, his fingers digging into the earth in a desperate attempt for purchase.

"Joel, Joel!" Charlotte's voice echoed around him like a mantra, tethering him to the moment. With a sudden movement, she swung her leg over his hip, pulling him against her with all her strength. His fingers latched onto her, gripping her tightly as if she was the only thing keeping him grounded. Her own fingers found their way to the nape of his neck and his chest, feeling the rapid, frantic beat of his heart under her touch.

She cradled him close, rocking him gently back and forth, the rhythm syncing with his quiet cries. His tears, his pain, created a lump in her chest, a swell of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. His sorrow mirrored her own, and the need to cry out with him was almost unbearable.

Joel had not cried with her when Sarah died. He had raged, his screams and yells filling the air as if they could shatter the world. But then, he went quiet. Her Joel - the man who would get excited about the guitar he'd found in a dumpster on a work site, who would engage in her office gossip and could recount the intricate history of seemingly mundane objects - was lost. And he never returned.

Almost instinctively, Charlotte pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. The action felt natural, right in its intimacy. She tightened her hold on him, her heart aching as Joel struggled to draw her even closer. Her comforting words, mingling with the wind, filled the air around them.

"You're okay, Joel. I've got you," she whispered again, the words like a promise she was determined to keep.

Time lost its meaning as Charlotte held Joel. Her left leg, pinned beneath him, had long lost all feeling, while her other leg, wrapped around his hips, throbbed with the strain of her position. Still, she could not bring herself to let go, not while he clung to her as if she were his only lifeline.

His sobs had gradually subsided, his shuddering body slowly stilled. Resting his head against her chest, she cradled him, her chin atop his head. As the silence stretched between them, she could have sworn she heard him murmur something.

"Joel?" she said, pulling back to try to catch a glimpse of his face. "You okay?" The question fell from her lips before she could stop it, and she winced at its absurdity.

Joel extracted himself from her embrace, and the sudden absence of his body against hers made her reach out instinctively. But she caught herself in time, drawing back her hand and fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, a distraction to keep her restless fingers busy.

"Do they happen often?" She found her voice again, braving the silence that hung heavy between them. "The panic attacks?"

At her words, Joel looked up, his expression one of surprise, as if naming his experience was a startling revelation. Charlotte reminded herself of who Joel was, or rather, who he used to be. Even before the world had collapsed around them, he was a man who could at times keep his emotions tightly bottled up.

Every fibre of his being yearned to reach out, to allow her to anchor him. But with a gargantuan effort, he forced himself to pull away. He was too raw, too exposed. With a shaky inhale, he slowly rose to his feet, keeping his hand against the wooden beam for support. His vision wavered, but he forced himself to focus on Charlotte.

She watched as he moved, slowly rising to his feet. There was a shakiness to him that hadn't been there before. It made him seem more human, more vulnerable. It made her want to reach out, to comfort him. But she knew that it wasn't her place, not anymore. And so, she stayed where she was, watching as he dusted himself off.

"I'll...I'll be fine," he managed to whisper, his voice hoarse from the force of his silent screams. He didn't want to worry her, didn't want her to see him like this. He felt a pang of guilt as he looked into her eyes, the depth of her concern for him reflected in them.

But for now, all he wanted was to escape, to retreat into the solitary confinement of his own mind where he could process his panic and grief. Alone. Without an audience.

He forced a weak smile on his face, a pitiful attempt to reassure her that he was okay. The edges of it were brittle, and she knew it would crack if she pushed too hard. So, she merely nodded and slowly released her grip on him, allowing him to stand and walk away.

For a moment, she sat there in stunned silence, the echoes of Joel’s sobs still resonating in her ears. She recalled the intimacy of their embrace, the raw vulnerability in his eyes, the unspoken words that hung in the air between them. She remembered how she’d felt the contours of his body trembling against hers, the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled for breath, the dampness of his tears that soaked through her shirt.

And then, the dam broke.

---

The immediate aftermath of the outbreak was like living inside a cyclone of chaos and despair.

Before the military formalized quarantine zones and FEDRA was formed, the world descended into a semblance of a dystopian novel. Shanty towns mushroomed around the fringes of what was once civilized society, a stark testament to humanity's resilience. Survivors scavenged for scraps, transforming discarded remnants of their former lives into makeshift shelters.

The military, in their camouflage and armour, seemed more like an occupying force than a source of security. Their authoritarian rule, punctuated by loudspeaker announcements and the constant threat of force, did little to quell the rising panic amongst the people.

The trio of Tommy, Joel and Charlotte found themselves in the thick of this melee, barely scraping through by the skin of their teeth. Tommy's rugged survival instincts and Charlotte's strategic thinking were threads that kept them from unravelling completely. The unlucky ones, those who arrived later, were denied entry, forced back into the infested wilderness. Joel would occasionally catch sight of them through the wired fences, their faces mirroring the same fear and desperation he felt inside.

Worse still were those herded onto buses by military personnel. Their hollow promises of safer quarantine zones, a better life, did nothing to mask the finality of those journeys. As Charlotte would later discover, her lawyer instincts intact even in this new world, these people weren't relocated - they were eliminated. The horrifying truth came to light as she pulled information from various sources, each piece of the puzzle darker than the last. The "vision" for this post-apocalyptic world didn't have room for everyone, it seemed, especially those who didn't fit the strict criteria of whoever had assumed control.

The harsh realities of their new existence were a bitter pill to swallow. Days turned into weeks, then months, each bringing with it fresh waves of despair and hopelessness.

Joel and Charlotte had found different ways to combat their restlessness, their sleep fraught with the images of the world they once knew. They slept in makeshift beds, just a few feet apart, yet the distance seemed vast in the wake of the terror that had overtaken them.

In the cold, quiet nights, their uneasy sleep filled with the echoes of a world lost, Joel's nightmares became vivid and unrelenting. The haunting memories of Sarah's laughter and tears tormented him, pulling him from the depths of slumber with a jolt. It was in these moments of desperation that he found solace in Charlotte's presence. Crossing the short distance between their beds, he sought her out, his hand reaching for hers in a silent plea for comfort. He would rest his head in the curve of her neck, desperately trying to silence the turmoil in his mind.

In contrast, Charlotte's sleep was often more placid, yet equally troubled. Her nightmares were more subtle, filled with the lingering sense of dread and the perpetual fear of loss. She would wake up with a gasp, her heart pounding, the terror quickly dissipating as reality seeped in. When Joel would join her in the middle of the night, she would simply shift closer to him, making room for him in the narrow bed. His presence was reassuring, a grounding force that tethered her to the harsh reality of their new world.

The transformation that Charlotte underwent was not a swift one. It was the slow erosion of her softer edges, the grating, harsh reality of their new world wearing away at her innate kindness. Violence and fear had a way of leaving deep marks on a person, the wounds invisible but scarring nonetheless. The world had demanded they adapt or perish. It had taken the mother, the lover, the gentle soul and forged a survivor.

It was a storm that raged silently within her, an undercurrent that threatened to suffocate her each time she let her guard down. Yet, she was careful not to let her sorrow overtake her, not to let it cast a shadow over her resolve to be strong for Joel and Tommy so they had one less thing to worry about.

So it manifested itself as anxiety that gripped her at the oddest of moments. The constant fear of losing Joel or Tommy, of being left alone in this cruel, new world, was a relentless companion. Charlotte would retreat into herself, her heartache hidden behind a stoic facade.

In the cold, quiet nights, however, her facade crumbled. Unseen and unheard by Joel, she would weep, her sobs muffled by the fabric of her makeshift pillow. However the sound of her silent heartbreak would slice through the stillness of their makeshift shelter, reaching Tommy's ears. The knowledge of her suffering tore at him, but he was at a loss for how to help.

He wanted to tell Joel, to let him know that Charlotte was struggling just as much as he was. But the words always stuck in his throat. He didn't know how to breach the fortress of pain that Joel had built around himself, didn't know how to tell him that the woman who was trying to be his anchor was silently drowning. Tommy was caught between his loyalty to his brother and his concern for Charlotte, a delicate balancing act that left him feeling helpless.

As the sun dipped below the harsh Texan horizon, the trio found themselves huddled around a fire. The glow painted their faces in soft, warm light, but the mood was far from comforting. Tommy, eager and excited, was talking about a rumour he'd heard - whispers of a thriving quarantine zone in Boston.

The makeshift Austin QZ they were in was beginning to resemble a shantytown more than anything else. The harsh climate, lack of supplies, and mounting tension between the soldiers and civilians created a volatile environment. Joel, Charlotte, and Tommy had managed to find a rhythm amidst the chaos, but the situation was getting worse by the day.

Tommy's words flowed easily, the optimism in his voice so stark against the grim reality of their lives. "They're saying it's better out east. More organized, more supplies... hell, maybe even some semblance of a life."

Joel's face was inscrutable, his brown eyes watching the fire. He looked over at Charlotte, their gaze locking in a silent conversation. Charlotte knew Joel wouldn't leave Tommy to venture on his own, despite his scepticism. She also knew she wouldn't leave Joel. They didn't share Tommy's enthusiasm, but they understood his desperation for something better.

That night, they lay in the stillness of their tent, words lingering in the air like a vice. They had agreed to follow Tommy's lead - but Charlotte was beset by doubt.

"We're in this together, right?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind.

"We have to be," Joel replied.

---

The day had proven to be long, Charlotte's fingers itched for comfort, familiarity. She wanted the feeling of holding something, someone, to ground her. The emotions from the mornings run in with Joel had been easy to push aside with the mundane tasks of the day. But as the evening drew in, it was hard to push away those feelings again.

Navigating the labyrinth of anxieties that followed her run in with Joel earlier that day, Charlotte found herself drawn to the solace of Marcus’ home. Marcus possessed an openness, an emotional transparency. And Charlotte found herself yearning for that raw honesty, that willingness to bare the soul without fear of judgment.

The early evening chill nipped at her as she trod the familiar path to Marcus' residence. The dim street lamps cast long shadows along the deserted lanes of Jackson. The absence of human chatter was filled in by the ambient symphony of the night to come, an orchestra of cicadas, and rustling leaves. The town was retiring to sleep, blissfully oblivious of the tempest raging within Charlotte.

Marcus' small but cozy house stood at the end of a narrow lane. The soft glow seeping through the curtained windows beckoned her like a lighthouse in the dark. The door, always left unlocked for her, creaked open at her gentle push. She stepped inside, her senses immediately overwhelmed by the aroma of a simmering soup that wafted from the kitchen.

Marcus was there, his back turned towards her, busily tending a small pot over the stove. His modest garden at the back provided a meager but fresh supply of vegetables that often made their way into his dishes. His casual attire – a plain white t-shirt, snugly fitted jeans – accentuated his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The sight of him stirred an unbidden ache in her heart, a longing for comfort, connection, and the candid affection she found in Marcus' arms.

Hesitation cast aside, she strode towards him, her fingers lightly brushing against his back as she turned him around. The surprise in his eyes lasted but a moment before her hand found the nape of his neck, pulling him down into a fervent kiss. A dance of desperation and raw need. Marcus met her with equal intensity, a fire kindling in his gaze.

He had the intuition not to ask questions, not to delve into the why's of her sudden appearance. They had an unspoken agreement, a tacit understanding established over the years – when words failed, actions spoke volumes. With a swift flick of his wrist, he switched off the stove, discarding the dishcloth that had been slung over his shoulder.

Their dance continued, escalating in urgency. Charlotte unceremoniously cleared the contents of the kitchen table, creating a space for them amidst the disarray. Marcus’ fingers worked adeptly at the zipper of her jeans, their combined actions a silent symphony of longing and anticipation. As their clothes hit the floor one by one, they found solace in the shared heat of their bodies.

Their connection was not just physical but emotional, a catharsis for their shared pains and solitary burdens. Marcus offered her what Joel couldn’t, or wouldn’t – an emotional openness, a willing vulnerability. His tenacity and spark mirrored her own, fueling the passion that lay beneath their shared history and comfort.

When the inevitable tears came later, long after the heat had cooled and the echoes of their passion had faded into silence, Marcus was still there. He held her, his steady heartbeat a soothing rhythm against her ear, a quiet reassurance in the darkness. He did not question her tears, did not seek explanations. He simply held her, a silent sentinel against the tide of her emotions, fulfilling an unspoken promise they had made to each other years ago – to be there, no matter what.

The first rays of dawn began to creep through the cracks in the window blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Charlotte woke to the comforting sensation of Marcus' arm draped protectively over her, his chest rising and falling rhythmically against her back. She lay there for a moment, reveling in the quiet peacefulness of the morning.

Turning around, she glanced up at Marcus, his features hidden in the shadows of morning. He stirred in his sleep, stirring emotions within her that she was desperately trying to avoid. When he opened his eyes, a wave of sorrow filled her instead of the small smile that usually played on her lips when he saw him.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice gravelly from sleep.

"Morning," she replied, her hand tracing idle patterns on his chest.

"You okay?" Marcus asked, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had managed to escape. His eyes searched her face, a silent question hovering between them.

Charlotte timidly nodded, her lips quivering and tears rolling down her cheeks. Marcus was astute enough to know that something had shifted in their relationship. He didn't want to pry open the wound any further, so he let her be. It was of course their arrangement.

The morning wore on in comfortable silence, broken occasionally by the soft sounds of their shared existence. As Charlotte prepared to leave, she paused at the doorway, her gaze drifting back to Marcus, who was now busying himself in the kitchen.

"Marcus," she began, uncertainty lacing her words. He looked up, his attention fully on her. "Thank you," she said softly, the words carrying the weight of all the unspoken sentiments between them.

His gaze softened, a small nod serving as his acknowledgement. This was their understanding, a connection that had been forged and tested in the crucible of their shared hardships. With a lingering glance, Charlotte stepped out into the morning.

[mangoshorthand]

Before A Fall [Five Hargreeves x F Reader]. Ch 10 (Hard Feelings Part 2)

SUMMARY: As your life begins to grow around Five's, his attitude becomes a little sinister. When does protection become suffocation and when does taking matters into your own hands become betrayal? (weekly updates)

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight - Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven - Chapter Twelve

There's some good news among all the bad, but can you still go on your 'date' with Harvey leaving Five like this?

Badly constructed scientific paper below. Proceed at your own risk

Chapter 10: Ditrico Pilot

Five was tapping away furiously in the IT department when the sound of gunfire erupted through the suspended tile ceiling.

“Shit. Those morons.”

“We gotta go help them,” the desktop was the room’s only light, illuminating Viktor’s face in a ghostly hue, “Do you have anything?”

“Nothing.” he said, through gritted teeth. “Not a fucking thing. I need more time!”

At a particularly deafening crescendo of automatic gunfire, Viktor pulled at him insistently.

“Come ON, Five.”

“I told them to wait.”

With a yell of frustration, Five allowed Viktor to pull him away, blinking out of his grasp when he heard Luther yell.

With a stroke of luck, Five appeared directly behind one of the gunmen crouched behind a desk, taking him by surprise. The guy and his comrades were suited and booted in a way completely alien to all their expectations: all wearing body armor like a goddam SWAT team and shooting to kill. Five broke his neck in less than a second, ducking behind the desk himself and taking the guy’s gun (an M4…for a soda company?).

Five popped his head out for the barest of seconds to take stock of the situation. Viktor entered via the stairwell, pressing himself immediately against the wall and behind the cover of a supply cabinet. There had to be twenty guys. Five ducked back behind the desk as Viktor’s eyes turned white: a targeted blast exploded through the room and took two of them off their feet. When the wave passed, Five blinked to Luther and Sloane.

“You guys Ok? What did I say?!”

Sloane, levitating a flailing goon, turned back to him,

“You’re gonna say ‘I told you so’- now?”

“FIVE!”

Luther’s panicked shout warned him just in time, drawing his attention to the guy on the floor with his gun aimed at Five’s chest. Five blinked across the room before he could pull the trigger.

When he re-emerged by the water-cooler, he felt impact that made him jerk his shoulder a little, but nothing else; he was intent only on getting rid of these guys and getting the fuck out of here. He raised the gun he took from the first one and shot the guy on the floor before spinning to aim at the critical mass of a guy a little behind him. After taking him down, he blinked again outside into the stairwell to regroup.

And then he felt the ache and the familiar rush of adrenaline. He was hit. He looked down to discover thick, dark blood soaking his shirt. He unbuttoned it hastily to inspect the damage. It wasn’t good but wasn’t bad either. The sight of bone worried him but he’d recovered from worse without the benefit of antibiotics. His ever-increasing pulse brought more and more blood. His mind, used to this, took on the ice-cool state necessary for survival. Ripping his shirt off the rest of the way, he tied it around his shoulder and the gaping maw in his chest, going under his arm and pulling as tight as it would go.

Patched up for now, he re-joined the fray, taking two guys out on his way to cover. He was planning his next move when flashing police lights from the windows caught his eye.

“I'm aborting this! We need to get out of here- now! ”

“Agreed!” came Viktor’s voice from somewhere in the room.

Digeo: Good news. Forwarded to 5 but thought I'd post here

It's the group chat, childishly named 'Umbrella Assholes' by Klaus. Below this new message is screenshot. It's an email from Holbrook. You only have to read the first sentence and you're already gaping.

Dear Parents and Guardians, Yesterday, we were informed of some good news by Ms Johnson, mother Alyssa. Following a scan earlier this week, Alyssa's doctors have confirmed a total and complete remission of her glioblastoma in response to treatment...

You type a response with fumbling thumbs, aware that Diego and Lila don't know everything that you all know.

Me: Wow! That's amazing. She looked so ill when I saw her!

It only takes Lila a couple of seconds to respond.

Lila: they'll need to do a shitload of monitoring but they're saying she'll be back at school soon 🤞🏽

Well…that’s something. At least Santi will be happy. It's so out of the blue- was the tumor shrinking even when you saw Alyssa the other day? When she'd looked so weak?

You sit by Five's side. He’s covered with sheets but Sloane had judged it best not to move him for the time-being. 

All the family have stayed overnight and intend to while Five is still ill. Occasionally through the night and this morning following, they had been to share your vigil. During Viktor’s two hour stint giving blood, he’d told you what happened.

“We found nothing. We got in ok and he’d got some way into hacking one of the main IT desktops but we didn’t even know for sure if anything would be on there. Their security is insane; took us by surprise. None of our reconnaissance suggested there’d be that many.” 

He’d sounded a little bewildered, like he was trying to justify it to himself.

“He’d just blinked away from one guy and right into the path of another one’s bullet. Into his shoulder from the back. Just a total accident. He wasn't even aiming at him.” he’d taken a swig of Gatorade, meant to keep his strength up while blood was being taken, “It was a mess.”

“They’ve got full armed security for a soda’s head office?” you shake your head, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. That's what makes me think we nearly had something.” As he looked down at Five, he’d continued, “We got out ok. He’d tied it up fine and he was conscious for most of the drive back. He just lost too much blood by the time we arrived.”

Sloane had reassured you he’d be ok. His face had regained some of the color it had lost, his paleness no longer death-like, but that he's still ill is obvious. He hadn’t really been conscious since the transfusion. A few times he’d groaned in pain, tried to tug at his I.V line or mumbled nonsense. You’d held his left hand down on these occasions, not wanting him to do any harm. Sloane, apparently trained in general medical care by Grace, was taking on the lion’s share of treatment decisions. She had been checking on him periodically and had seemed pleased with his progress. She didn’t expect him to regain true consciousness until at least tomorrow.

Late that afternoon, you’d been holding his hand, stroking his long fingers with your thumb and reading to him from Persuasion. Reading from the page he’d marked after Captain Wentworth’s letter, finishing the book and then started again from the beginning.

“Hey.”

You'd turned to see Klaus standing behind you.

“How’s he doing?”

“The same. I’m not sure if he can hear me or not.”

Klaus had looked at Five doubtfully.

“Oh…that sucks.”

He caught your eye, not speaking but mouthing exaggeratedly and making gestures like a bad game of charades.

“Me-” (he pointed to his own chest)

“-and you-”, (he pointed to yours),

“-should go-“ (he mimed walking),

“-talk-” (he snapped his thumb and fingers together like a crocodile)

“-in there,” (he pointed to the direction of the next room.)

So you'd followed him there out of Five’s possible earshot.

“Very subtle.”

“Just call me the master of mystery. Are we still on for this evening? With Harv.”

“Honestly, I’d completely forgotten.”

“Yeah. Not surprising. But I think you still need to do it.”

You’d looked through the door at Five. He’d got like this because he’d wanted to get to the bottom of it. But to leave him, like this, to effectively go on a date with another man? And this after plotting with Klaus just to get back at him?

“I can’t leave him.”

“But is there a better gift you could give him when he wakes up?”

“But if Alyssa’s cancer is gone, could it mean that-?“  but you were clutching at straws and had known it.

“Not sure that's a risk we should take." he sat down on an opposite chair, “He’s recovered from worse than this. You’ll be back before he even wakes up.”

"I...can't."

Then, Klaus had turned uncharacteristically stern - it was the hardness that all the Umbrellas can show on occasion: the one their father bred into them so ruthlessly.

"This isn't just about some pretty revenge on Five. There are still three dying kids; we made a commitment to them whether you like it or not."

As you met his eye, he'd softened, his usual self coming back as quickly as it had been overtaken. 

"If it makes you feel better, I can stay here until you get back. You don't exactly need me for this. I won't leave him, I swear. I'll...read him sudoku puzzles or whatever he'd like. Or I could read him that book?"

You'd smiled and sighed, thinking it over. 

"...Okay. I'll make it as quick as I can. No appetizers, no dessert. I'll get in, get the files and then get out. Even if I have to climb out of the bathroom window."

Klaus had put a warm, reassuring hand on your shoulder

"Good for you. Just be careful."

As you left the room Klaus picked up Persuasion and picked up where you left off. He gave Anne, the heroine, an accent best suited to a plucky cockney orphan.

On the way up to get changed, shaking your head at Klaus, you met Santi in the entrance hall. Hitherto, he’d been banned from the medical room. You’d all been concerned that seeing Five like this wasn’t beneficial to him.

“How’s Uncle Five?”

“A little better,” you smile at him, hiding your own misgivings.

“Good. Mommy called and said Alyssa’s better too!”

“Yeah- she’s feeling better but they’ll have to keep an eye on her,” you’d been wary of getting his hopes up about this. Sudden spontaneous remission of a deadly brain tumor seemed a little too good to be true.

“When she’s back at school, me and her and Anthony are gonna play together.”

“Who’s Anthony?”

“My friend.” he grins up at you and scuffs the tiles with the sole of his shoe.

“You’ve never mentioned him before. Is he a new friend?”

“Yeah. He was lonely so I went to ask him to play and he said yes. Now we eat lunch and play at recess.”

“You do? That was kind.” As careworn as you are, you can’t help but feel warmed by this, so you put a hand on his shoulder.

“You told me to.” he says, shrugging. 

“Yeah, but you chose to do it. I’m really proud little man.”

You had to sneak out of the Academy; down the fire-escape from your bedroom window. This was not easy dressed in a skirt and heels, but you’d managed well enough and only a little rumpled from the experience. Hailing a cab down the street, you’d felt a squirm of regret and guilt as you were driven away from Five, where he so needed you.

Now, you’ve arrived at the restaurant to find Klein standing outside waiting. He’s dressed smartly but you note that he isn’t carrying anything. You’d expected files so this was concerning.

He greets you, giving you a light hug and an air-kiss on the cheek. This is fine. Suitable for a ‘date’ between two people who don’t know each other too well. As he takes your elbow and steers you inside, however, you find yourself less comfortable. That’s a little too intimate.

You try to keep up your slightly flirty, fawning act, but you were preoccupied, your mind floating back to Five; his horribly pale face and livid wound. Luckily, Harv was a little too engaged talking about himself to notice your momentary lapses in conversation. Once he’s had a couple of drinks and your meals have arrived, you think it’s an acceptable time to mention the info:

“So, tell me how it went!”

“Jeff really came through. I don't think he knows how explosive what he's given me is. Never was too smart." he laughs, topping up your glass of wine from the bottle, “You were on the money. Mystery ingredient and everything.”

“Wow! Do you have…files or a pen-drive or whatever?”

“Digital and hard copies.” He winks.

You wait. When he doesn’t reply, you ask: “So…can I see them?”

“I left them in my car. I’ll hand them over after dinner. I didn’t want to ruin the meal with too much business talk.”

You smile, trying to mask your annoyance. Every minute with him is another minute away from Five. Harv continues to talk about himself: his career, his workout routine, what he said that made everyone laugh in a meeting that time, his favorite watch brand...

You answer politely, trying to seem interested. He eats so slowly. His mouth is otherwise engaged with the endless talk, so you end up with your plate cleared before he's half done. He breaks off when he notices you're no longer eating.

"Oh, I love a woman who clears her plate. I can't stand those girls who pick at a meal."

"...Thanks...I guess?"

Is he saying you're fat or 'not like the other girls'...or is he saying you're fat and not like the other girls? Of these options, being fat is  by far the best.

He laughs, "Oh, no I absolutely mean it as a compliment. You're...refreshing. So. What do you do in your spare time?"

Oh my God. A question about you?

"I'm a reader."

"And what are you reading right now?" he looks at you knowingly.

"A book called The Language of Buildings. It's at the cross-section of anthropology and architecture- it's about how buildings were a common language before mass literacy. Pretty interesting-"

"Ah- I knew you had a brain in your head. Thought you were going to say some godawful chick-lit romance novel."

Jesus fucking Christ...

"You're telling me you've written off an entire genre because women like it?" 

You hastily smile to mask the bite in your voice.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender: "No, I stand corrected. You're right, of course."

But his voice holds the certainty that you're not. 

When his plate is finally clear, you find yourself waiting impatiently for the waiter to come over. You'd rather argue all day with Five than be treated like a princess by this type of twat.

“Wow, I’m stuffed,” you say, trying to put off the idea of getting dessert before it forms in his head.

“Yeah, such great food. Good choice of restaurant.”

“Thanks.”

“You know," he takes a slow sip of his wine, "I’ve really enjoyed my time with you tonight. I feel like we click well.”

“Thanks,” you say again, trying to toe the line between quelling and encouraging him. Until you’ve got the files, you have to play nice 

After a coffee you’d drunk far too fast while he nursed his, you were finally able to pay the check and go. Outside, you'd said:

“So where are you parked?”

“Just across the road.”

With some misgivings, you’d followed him to the basement floor of a quiet multi-storey. As you walked together, his hand founds its way uncomfortably into the small of your back. Now, beside his car in the almost-empty parking lot, you're standing a little way back from him and beginning to get a bad feeling.

“Well, I’m excited to see these,” you say, trying to speed him along.

“Hold on a second. Otherwise I’d think you were only interested in the information.”

You laugh nervously. Perhaps you'd overdone it on the flirting. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You're alone at night in a darkened parking lot with a strange man who may have got the impression you want him. Erring on the side of caution, you let your tone sound a little cooler:

“Yeah, I had a great night.” 

He leans towards you, his arms moving to hold yours and you step away, unwittingly moving closer to the car.

“Er- no. I-I-don’t kiss on the first date.”

“Come on now. You’re a grown woman.” 

He grabs your wrists and moves his face towards yours again. You try to back off but you’re backed into the car.

“No!”

There's a man with his hands on you. Moving you. Maneuvering you. Taking away your agency. You smell your own blood pooled on the shitty carpet as you lie with your head under the table. Monroe looms over you, about to wrench your chair onto its legs again-

And then Five’s training kicks in. You twist your wrists in Harvey's grip and raise your knee, using it to push him firmly away from you, freeing your wrists. He stumbles back a few steps and rights himself

“Ahh! What the fuck?"

He brushes his torso down, looking over at you like you're something nasty on the sole of his shoe. For a moment, you're sure you hear the sound of someone shuffling in the shadowy corner behind you- or maybe it's the blood still rushing in your ears. Harvey reaches into his pocket and unlocks his car.

"N-no. Harvey! I'm sorry! I-"

"Just...just forget it.”

As he goes to open the drivers' side door, you feel your chance slipping away. You can't let it.

You raise clasped hands high and bring them down decisively on his head like a cudgel. It's perfectly executed: he crumples, slumping onto the asphalt with one leg in the driver's seat footwell. 

And there's the movement again: running footsteps behind you. You turn, still in a light-footed, hands-raised defensive posture. You're poised to fight off whoever might have been watching you from the shadows. Hell, maybe you even want to. 

But it’s Luther. You relax and turn your face warily back to Harvey.

“What are you doing here?”

“Wondering what my brother’s girlfriend's doing...sneaking out wearing high heels when he’s just been shot." His face is dark, voice shaking with suppressed rage. "Turns out she’s been seeing another man who tried to get too handsy.” 

“I’m-"

“He NEVER left you. When you were ill. He nearly killed himself just for the chance to save you. And this is what you do? This is how-” his voice fails him. He just throws his arms into the air with an angry growl, "and you'd cheat on him? You know what he’s been through! It’s-"

“It’s about JUICED!” you yell, panic and guilt squirming in your stomach as you clamour to justify yourself. Even so, part of you feels this was a betrayal... 

“What?”

“That guy. He's an ex-JUICED employee with a grudge. He says he has files on the mystery ingredient. I went on a date with him to get them.”

Luther looks down at Harvey and then back up at you. The explanation doesn’t seem to compute.

“Klaus and I- we’ve been working on it together. Only I think we’ve fucked up,” tears of regret and frustration come to your eyes, “He said he’d stay with Five so that I'd come. But I don’t think he really has them. I think he was bullshitting to try and get me into bed. I'm fucking stupid.”

You aim a kick at Harvey’s ribs. He’s still out cold.

“Oh.”

“He said they were in his car but I think that was just to lead me here.” you wipe your eyes. Luther walks over and puts his arm around you. He's heartfelt, if a little awkward.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…I know that you-” his voice trails off “let’s check the car anyway. Just in case.”

You dip your head into the vicinity of the drivers seat, a foot either side of Harvey. There's nothing in the glove box. As you feel under the seats, Luther's voice issues from the trunk.

“This looks promising.”

You look over to him. He's holding a brown file folder, tilted open. You nearly hit your head as you pull it hurriedly out of the car. Stepping smartly over Harvey, you rush to Luther's side.

“There’s papers and a stick drive in here too.”

You hold out your hand for the file and Luther hands it over. You pull out the first document: Holbrook Elementary: Ditrico Pilot

Back at Five’s side with a jubilant Klaus, you both pore over Harvey’s documents. Luther leans against the wall, observing with folded arms.

“I can’t believe it worked.” He shakes his head, as if to underline this, “We did it, all thanks to your tits! Go team!” You slap him five but shoot a guilty look at Luther. Returning his eyes to one of the documents, Klaus squints.

“Di-triberyllium colloid..." Klaus tries, tripping over the words, "I just don’t know if I can understand this compound if I can’t pronounce it."

“It’s probably why they shorten it to Ditrico.”

“It seems like old Cinco was onto something though,” he pats Five’s uninjured left shoulder, “The cancer seems to be accidental. There's no mention of it here. They probably didn't know.”

“Yeah.”

“They were just seeing if they could use some Frankenstein-chemical to make kids feel thirsty unless they drink JUICED every day…which of course is fine.”

You let out a snort of laughter: "it doesn’t rate very highly on a list of excuses.”

Klaus looks down at Five.

“You know, I’d have loved to rub this in his face, but when he’s out cold you forget what a dick he is.”

You grin,  "We should probably at least wait until he’s conscious before we really let him have it.”

You reach out and stroke his hair.

“Hey guys, can you step back? I need to change his dressings.”

You and Klaus get off the chairs and join Luther against the wall as Sloane pulls Five’s sheets back. Slowly, carefully, she exposes the partially stitched wound and begins to apply saline.

You hear a horrified gasp from the door behind you:

“UNCLE FIVE?”

You step in front of the gurney, as a pyjama-clad Santi tries to crane around you,

“Honey, stay back. He’s fine, he’s just got a sore shoulder. Auntie Sloane is helping him.”

But he dodges around you, and suddenly he’s clinging to Five’s head in as tight a grip as he held Alyssa. Five groans from the heavy contact.

“But he’s hurt!” Santi sobs, “He’s-really-hurt!”

Klaus intervenes, trying to prise Santi’s hands from Five’s head,

“You’ll hurt him even more, little guy! You-”

But he stops. You all stop. Klaus has spotted what the rest of you have been staring at.

Five's wound.

It's knitting. Visibly. As if fibres of sentient flesh reach for each other. Tendrils twist and stretch and cling, like plants growing in time-lapse. The movement is ghostly.

“Sloane…scissors” you manage. The area of stitching she added is starting to stretch the healing out of shape, puckering the flesh. She cottons onto your meaning immediately and cuts them carefully. When she’s done, there’s no evidence the wound was even there. The threads pull away from unscarred skin like dental floss.

You all stare. If not for the blood still dried on his skin, you might have believed you imagined the whole thing.

Then, you all turn to look down at Santi. He lets go of Five’s head and steps backwards, mouth agape.

“…Did I do that?”

You speak first.

“Biological matter…you can replicate…biological matter!”

Before the weight of this can truly settle, Five sits up.

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed.) @dilfjohhny , @sunsunhe, @w4stedtr4sh, @nevbrooke-555, @theredvelvetbitch, @td-miley01, @five-hxrgreeves

Masterpost Alternatively, join me on AO3.  Here is a link to the whole series

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

Ice skating

Day Seven of WangXian Christmas Stories!

The local Christmas market had really outdone itself that year. Of course, it had always been beautiful, brimming with Christmas lights, festive trinkets, sweets, tea, mulled wine and a giant Christmas tree - but the organizers decided to add an extra feature, much to the delight of the public: an ice skating rink. Entrance was granted in exchange for a small fee and it included ice skates if necessary, as well as access for a whole day of fun - so of course Wei Ying had to drag Lan Zhan with him to try it out.

Why “drag”? Because Lan Zhan had never skated before and was the kind of person to slip on the thinnest bit of ice if he wasn’t careful, elegant and poised as he was. Unlike him, though, Wei Ying had always been talented on the ice and had even had some professional lessons a while ago, so he glided effortlessly across the ice, be it the one on a rink or the frozen puddles in the park. 

Lan Zhan had hoped he could get away with just watching. After all, he loved watching Wei Ying do anything, he could never grow bored of it, and he could also avoid embarrassing himself or breaking bones - and it worked for a while. He stood by the edge of the skating rink, following Wei Ying’s flowing movements with keen eyes, his hair dancing behind him as he sped up, experimenting with some jumps and spins that Lan Zhan found impressive to look at. In fact, Wei Ying even dropped by to leave a ghostly kiss on his lover’s lips or wink at him before continuing to glide across the ice, picking up laughing kids and encouraging first timers. He was entirely in his element and Lan Zhan couldn’t help falling even more in love. 

Until.

“Wow, that guy sure knows what he’s doing!” some guy commented as Wei Ying successfully landed a jump. “And he’s hot too.” 

Lan Zhan tried to only subtly glare at the offender. Granted, he was too busy watching Wei Ying to notice, and continued talking to his companion. “I wonder when he’ll have a break so I can ask for his number or something. Or maybe I could pretend not to know how to skate and he’ll guide me through it.”

The two men laughed in a slightly sleazy way and Lan Zhan distantly wondered if ice skates could really be used as knife shoes, emphasis on the knife. But before he could say anything or attempt murder, Wei Ying took a graceful stop in front of him, his hair ribbon having fallen off during his last spin. 

“I knew I should have packed an extra hair tie or something. Help me tie my hair?”

Lan Zhan was momentarily distracted as Wei Ying turned around and Lan Zhan began dutifully braiding his hair. In his peripheral vision, though, Lan Zhan saw the offending dude moving to put on his skates and winking at his friend - so Lan Zhan only slightly pulled on the long braid to bring Wei Ying closer to him and swiftly turned him around to kiss him. Well, more like shove his tongue down his throat, etiquette be damned. 

He left one eye open to watch for the man’s reaction, who cursed lowly under his breath and angrily sped up on the ice, walking face first in a wall. 

Poetic justice.

Wei Ying pulled away, breathing hard. “What was that for? Not that I mind, but you’re usually not like this in public.”

“Teach me.”

Wei Ying blinked a few times, and Lan Zhan allowed himself a smug look at his husband’s kiss bruised lips. 

“Teach me to skate. I want to be able to do it with you.”

He laughed, leaning conspirationally close. “Why, so you can’t see everyone ogle me anymore?”

Lan Zhan’s gaze darkened. “You are doing it on purpose.”

“You know I love riling you up.” 

“You will pay for this.”

But before Lan Zhan could say or do anything else, Wei Ying sped up and away to the other side of the rink. “You’ll need to catch me first!”

But Wei Ying didn’t know that the ice rink was about to close. And that all Lan Zhan had to do was sit and wait patiently until the announcement came through, pick Wei Ying up and be thankful they found a secluded parking space when they arrived.

[appletreeduty]

tagged by @emilykaldwen

rules: make a new post, and post your latest lines from your WIP & tag as many people as there are words.

not gonna have enough people for that but here:

And it hits her, now, finally. Too late, perhaps, but if she's ever accused of being a horrible mother she will show the tape of her saying the following to the jury: “Isn’t there anything I can do to live?”

Because Seven fucking Hells truly rain down on her before her children be raised in the Faith - and without their father, without her, they absolutely will be while she’s farting about dancing in the ether with a ghostly amalgamation of their long-dead father - and she will not let it happen.

In a maneuver only Aemond could’ve done, he spins her to his chest, clasping one wrist to her front and one to her back between them, and leans to say in her ear, THERE IS THE ONE.

tagging: @acrossthesestars ; @kingsroad ; @dragonsbone ; @arrthurpendragon ; @songsonacliffside ; @justcocoxoao3 ; anyone else who wants to!

[shiftgear-engineer]

[A mysterious video file is uploaded.]

Something bad happened! Something very bad! Please help! Rotto!

"You sure you're not accidentally filming again, little guy?" [Axyl is looking directly at the viewer, speaking to the Rotom inside the phone. Their Klinklang is following their gaze and spinning at a slightly slower rate.] [The screen shakes side to side, accompanied by a nervous sounding "Roto to!"]

"Ok, good. That feels like a weird thing to be worried about though considering...all this," [They gesture with their arms around the near pitch-black location they're in. The light from the phone illuminates a few rocks and the reflective yellow side of a large mining drill.] "The power basically never goes completely out like this...the backup generators should've switched on for the emergency lights at least. I checked them with Brooks the other day, they were working fine!"

[They keep muttering to themselves as they turn and walk away into a seemingly random direction. Klinklang and Rotto following along with Rotto the closest to them, offering a light source. Their voice is steady, but they're visibly shaking.]

"Should be...right around...there it is,"

[A grey structure is illuminated slightly by the light. There's a bright yellow "employee's only" sign on the side.] [They quicken their pace over to it.]

"I can just switch the emergency lights on manually! I've done that for tests before! It's not too ha-"

[They freeze suddenly at the sound of...footsteps? Rotto whirls around to cast their light towards a large green crystal growth pointing upwards.] [Slowly, casually, a tall figure dressed in dark purple and black steps out from behind the crystal, an umbrella over their shoulder that they twirl periodically.]

"What in the arc-damn..." [They raise their voice] "Hey! Gym challengers can't be in this area! It's restricted! Just stay there until I turn the lights on and I'll get you back to the-"

"You'll do," [The figure speaks in a calm masculine voice]

"...excuse me?"

[Rotto's vision suddenly goes static, there's an unnatural sound, and when it comes back the tall figure is much closer with a near impossibly wide grin on their face.]

"I said you'll do~"

[Before Axyl can react, a large ghostly hand reaches in from off frame and grabs them by the shoulders, jerking them backwards and out of sight. There are a few loud screams of "STOP! LET GO!" and shouting for Driftveil's gym leader. Rotto whirls around towards Klinklang, looking for its help, only to find it slowly being covered by a layer of ice before clattering to the ground. Seven yellow eyes glow in the darkness and a mysterious ice pokemon floats out of the shadows.]

"Reeegggiiiiiiiceeeeeeee...."

[Rotto squeals in terror and darts away, its vision going static again for several minutes.] [When it comes back, its hiding under what looks like a desk or table. Its left the phone and is looking around wildly, visibly shaking with a fearful expression on its face.] [It turns away hesitantly and fusses with something on the screen. Behind its back, gloved fingers slowly grip the edge of the desk and a pale, smiling face leans into view.]

"Ah, there you are~"

[Rotto cries out and attempts to dart away again, but the mysterious person moves at unnatural speed, grabbing the Rotom in their hands like a child catching an insect, then standing up.]

"Shhh, don't be frightened! I'm your friend, see? I'm a friend to all spirits! I didn't want to scare you...shhh..."

[More footsteps are heard. A pair of heavy boots walk into frame as a mysterious second person appears, the ice pokemon gliding across the ground beside them.] [Though the second person doesn't speak, a conversation seems to take place.]

"Wonderfully done, friend! You're sure the gear pokemon won't suffer any harm? Regice's power is very strong...of course I trust you! You're their warden, are you not?...We're starting here for a reason, my friend. We needed our way in to continue our investigation and what better place than what could be called the very heart of Driftveil?...We'll be perfectly fiiine! You have Regice, I have Dusknoir, he can't so much as bruise us!...ah, but of course! You poke around down here, I'll go above and look through some files. Oh, and do turn that light off before you go! You know I can't stand bright lights~"

[The figure in boots kneels down, revealing a younger looking man in a strange coat and hat with a scarred face. He reaches out toward the phone, which makes an odd beep before the video ends.]

[oflgtfol]

"Why do you visit us alone, Turtlestar?"

Turtlestar recognizes the she-cat in front of her from the last time she had visited the Moonstream. On that fateful night, only twelve moons ago, the river had been blazing with the light of the waning gibbous as it gleamed off the current. Silversong had greeted her with stars sparkling in her eyes and moonlight weaving through her fur. Now, tonight, the moon is just a thin crescent setting on the horizon, and the Moonstream is dark. Silversong is but a pale apparition floating over the water.

Turtlestar bows her head. “I come before StarClan tonight to ask that… that you may rescind my nine lives, and give them to my deputy, Fawnspot. Name them Fawnstar in my stead.”

A moment of tense silence, and then, “Why should we do that?”

“I'm not fit to be SpruceClan's leader," Turtlestar replies. "It is… destroying me, and I’m afraid that it may destroy my Clan in the process."

A murmur rises up before her. She lifts her head to see more spirits have joined them, staring at her from behind Silversong. In the darkness, their forms blend together, faces bleeding into more faces until they're unrecognizable. She can't make out any eyes, but she can feel the weight of their stares, their disapproval heavy on her exhausted shoulders. She feels pinned down, small, cowering there alone on the river stone.

“It is not every day that a cat receives eight additional lives from StarClan,” Silversong says. “Do you doubt the gifts we gave you?”

“No, I just — I’m not worthy of them,” Turtlestar chokes out. She hangs her head in defeat. “Please. I’m trying to do what’s best for my Clan. And what’s best for my Clan is not me.”

Her pelt burns: with shame, with guilt, with humiliation. Only twelve moons, and she has come crawling back, knelt down and begging to be relieved of the duty that any other cat would be honored to have. As painful as this is, she knows that withstanding a single more day of this burden would be more than she could bear.

"Very well," Silversong says. She looks down at Turtlestar, eyes glinting like ice. "Let the ceremony commence."

A new cat emerges from the formless mass of ghosts. Rainstar, the leader of SpruceClan before her, steps towards Turtlestar and dips his head. Her mentor, her friend, and her predecessor — he had believed in her when even she herself didn't. His eyes are downturned and somber as he says, "There is no coming back from this. Are you sure you would like to begin, Turtlestar?"

She nods wordlessly, and he sighs. "For your ninth life, I gave you the gift of judgment. Now, I will revoke it.”

Rainstar leans forward and touches his nose to her forehead, and a terrible hollowing sensation pangs through her chest. It feels like the life is being sucked out of her, leaving her empty, shaking and weak. She feels a piece of herself missing, somewhere nestled next to her heart, where now nothing but a small, gaping hole resides, and she knows that hole will only get punched bigger and bigger over the course of the night. He pulls away and watches her, green eyes shadowed in the darkness, before he melts back into the crowd.

The press of the water-slick stone beneath her paws is grounding, now. She digs her claws in and pants, chest heaving, as she regains her bearings, head spinning and heart racing. The ghostly mass of StarClan cats hovers over the water, silent and watchful. Like the loss of her ninth life was an actual death, and this is her final judgment. But she still has seven more lives to lose tonight, and seven more final judgments to endure.

Another cat approaches. Sageleaf, a former SpruceClan medicine cat who had died when Turtlestar was still a kit, too young to remember them, but old enough to hear their stories. The cat eyes her flatly, face too stoic to betray any emotions. “I gave you your eighth life in honor of making difficult choices. I see it has been put to good use. Now, I will remove it.”

The cats come and go, and matter less and less each time. In between the terrible, bone-deep ache of each life lost, their words somehow still reach her, penetrating through the fog.

“I gave you your seventh life for loyalty.”

“Your sixth life was given for integrity.”

“Forgiveness.”

“Duty.”

“Confidence.”

Finally, as Turtlestar stands hunched over and trembling with exhaustion, Silversong steps to the front once more. She eyes Turtlestar coldly. “For your second life, I had given you perseverance. Now, I will take it back." She presses her nose to Turtlestar's forehead, hard, unforgiving, and it feels as though the warmth is leaving her limbs.

Silversong pulls back, but doesn’t retreat. “You will remain known as Turtlestar, as a reminder of the lives you once had. You may not be leader of SpruceClan any longer, but may your experiences forever remain in your memories and guide you for the rest of your days.” Now, she steps back. “Have a good life, Turtlestar.”

Turtlestar watches as the thin crescent moon finally slips below the horizon, and StarClan fades away. She is left standing alone on the stepping stones, a shivering wreck in the darkness with only the rushing of water for company.

[ltcolonelcarter]

For the DVD commentary ask game:

Yes, it's more than 500 words, but I was about to chose the last passage of chapter 6 from "a question of time" when Sixty and Connor meet.

I love that interaction so much!💙

So, I would like to hear some of your thoughts, if you have the time and energy!

As Connor shifted his method of attack, Sixty’s body reactive instinctively. Instead of activating a firewall to prevent unwanted data transfer, it opened to mutual data sharing; a blue glow under the plastic lit their skin, bleaching it of what little colour it had, turning them ghostly.

In a rush, Sixty felt Connor's experience every bit as much as he did his own, heart racing, tense limbs, fear and anger backed by—

Absolutely nothing.

Red lines flashed across his vision for milliseconds at a time, forming a giant matrix that encompassed the room, swallowing him entirely, but he saw nothing beyond Connor’s face.

Sixty grabbed Connor again, harder, as the blue faded from their skin and Connor started blinking as he returned to himself.

“There was nothing.” Sixty’s voice was a coarse snarl. “I saw nothing in you. How is that possible?”

LED yellow and spinning, Connor seemed to recover more slowly than Sixty. His mouth parted and he breathed slowly, releasing warm air in the narrow space between them, eyes moving back and forth over Sixty’s face, something dark and active coiled in the space behind them.

“How have you—” Connor blinked again and let go of Sixty’s hand. “What did you do to Hank?”

Sixty had been so afraid that Connor would deviate him, to pass on his flaw with a light touch and a flash of static, that he’d ignored all other potential outcomes.

Connor’s face changed, hardening as he processed the fragments of memory he’d glimpsed. His initial wariness was back and dominating his features—he no longer seemed uncertain, nor did he seem content to wait and analyse. He leaned forward of his own accord, searching Sixty’s face for evidence of guilt, for confirmation of what he already knew.

A wrenching twist in Sixty’s chest followed the change. Where he should have felt gratified to see Connor so strongly affected, he felt trepidation, sensed imminent danger.

He shoved Connor away from him, throwing as much of his weight into the movement as possible. Anticipating the move, Connor stumbled backwards but caught himself before he fell, arms outstretched to maintain his balance.

Sixty’s hand ghosted along his waistband, reaching obviously for his gun, his priority haste over stealth, careless that Connor would notice so long as he armed himself first.

Instead of grazing smooth gunmetal, Sixty’s hand brushed something else, equally cold but smaller, its shape indistinct through fabric and brief contact. It stalled him, pulled him back to another place, a heavy tension—cold fingers and colder air, the last vestiges of frustration and pain, overtaken with small but soothing defiance…

Three gunshots shattered Sixty’s thoughts at the same time as his chest panelling.

Three bullets to the pump regulator and surrounding systems, close grouping, damaging the biocomponent far beyond repair and causing critical thirium loss in fewer than seven seconds.

Sixty allowed himself to fall backwards, feeling the warm spread of blood across his skin, the tightening in his chest. His collision with the floor knocked the breath from him and he closed his eyes; at the same moment his hand reached into his pocket to remove the cause of his distraction and found chilled metal—glacial, as if it carried winter with it.

Connor paused, gun raised, stance steady, watching him fall. He took a step forward, cautious and slow, weapon still trained on Sixty, who didn’t notice him at all; he’d let his head fall back on the floor and watched the lights blur and swim as the thirium flowing through his processors ran thin. His thoughts stalled and faded, one at a time, until he was left with only the feel of cold metal as he pulled his hand from his pocket and pulled it up to eye level.

Above him, Connor murmured something soft, but it was lost to him—his audio processors had already shut down and he focused his remaining energy on lifting his arm to see what had cost him his victory.

He tipped his head sideways as his fingers, clumsy and numb, dropped the object he’d pulled from his pocket. Blinking repeatedly to clear his vision, his eyes caught something small and dark and gleaming in the cold blue light, rolling in a wide arc away from his face. Sixty’s brow creased and his arm, losing strength, fell back to his side as he watched it rock gently to rest on the grey floor.

The black king.

my DARLING (this ask meme)

for starters kisses your face I love you dearly

I have a lot of thoughts about these scenes with Sixty, and not all of my thoughts make it into chapters, so I'll try and expand around those. Also: warning for not-quite spoilers in case anyone wants to avoid upcoming stuff in chapter 7 - nothing I haven't foreshadowed, but maybe something you haven't pieced together (and certainly stuff Sixty hasn't processed).

this chapter was a MESS of a thing to write. I knew from day one I wanted an achronological chapter, a haphazard mix of thought and feeling that made about as much sense to the audience as the experience does to Sixty, but I had literally no clue if it would work in-text. It was going to start out more complicated but I simplified it for word count and clarity. I wanted to achieve several things:

first, Sixty hits a low

second, Sixty starts to lose what little discipline he has left and starts listening to his wants more than his mission, which alienates him from Amanda and leads us to:

 third. because of the above, Sixty experiences consequences inside his closed loop, but they don't arrive in the way he expects.

four. for fun. Sixty realises (or starts to realise) that he’s been so preoccupied with the obvious (connor, the mission) that he’s missed something critical

sooooo in every instance, here and in previous chapters, I wanted sixty to forcibly cut himself off from Connor. he sees an uncrossable void between them but his perception is  VERY skewed – he holds a contradictory view of Connor: Connor is deviant, so Connor is a failure. despite all of Connor’s failures, Sixty is still trying to match him, still trying to overtake him in Amanda’s eyes – and it’s complicated somewhat by him imitating Connor in the beginning. Here it manifests as Sixty expecting violence from Connor when Connor is reaching out to understand. This backfires horribly for two reasons:

Sixty misreads Connor, because his perception of Connor is so flawed he cannot make accurate predictions of his actions; his two-dimensional perception of Connor is just a reflection of how he’s afraid to be seen himself, an archetype of failure. Amanda uses Connor’s failure as a very effective motivator, in the same way we see Amanda use praise and disapproval to motivate machine!Connor in-game. Dumbass Sixty can’t see past who he thinks Connor is, and so Connor surprises him

Connor can SEE him now. Properly. He offered to take Sixty with him before and of course Sixty didn’t believe him, but it was genuine. Connor looked at Sixty and saw himself: a machine designed to accomplish a task, held hostage by his own mission. Sixty desperately does not want to be compared to Connor, even though he does it to himself compulsively…and this time Connor knows how different they are. Interface means he not only knows what Sixty has done but that he feels no remorse for it. Any chance of cooperation is lost completely.

Connor attacks, of course. Sixty takes this as more evidence that he and Connor are fundamental opposites, rather than the truth: he has set himself to be diametrically opposed to Connor and all of the problems come from his resulting actions, not some grand design from Amanda or CyberLife. He doesn’t hesitate in trying to fire back.

Naturally that doesn’t end well either. This time (compared to the other loops) Sixty isn’t too slow, or too angry – he hasn’t made a fundamental error that leads him to getting shot, he’s distracted by something else.

Okay so I have always been SUPER  aware that in choosing to write a time loop some stuff is going to be crazy boring to read because it’s repetitive by nature. I’ve tried to weave interesting things into the narrative on purpose to negate that, and focus on different aspects in loops that are similar… and that also let me lay groundwork for the subtle shifts loop to loop. They aren’t quite the same. They do vary. For example, from chapter 3:

It wasn’t right. He remembered last time: there’d been two night-shift guards, bored and ill-mannered, who’d verified his identity and then waved them on without pause. He checked the time and found there was fewer than two minutes’ difference between arrival times—they were later this time, but not late enough to explain the guards' absence. Instead of following Hank, Sixty looked over the partition to the desk below, searching for signs of recent activity: thermal residue from the presence of a warm human, a recently used coffee cup, an idling computer, anything. He found nothing at all. It didn’t look like anyone had used the space in hours. Stepping backwards slowly, mind consumed with unanswered questions, Sixty followed Hank’s voice when he called out, though he didn’t hear the words. He remembered. He’d scanned his palm… Hank had reluctantly flashed his badge-- “Connor. What are you waiting for?”

Sixty fixates on change because change is threatening. It adds an element of unpredictability to his loops, and unpredictability has an unfortunate habit of leading him to die and restarting the loop.

This time he’s carrying something he shouldn’t have. He picked up a chess piece in the garden – a general fuck you to the universe for messing with him, a way to strike back and mess up the game he feels forced to play. I love that reactive, selfish, childish part of Sixty and wanted him to show it whenever possible – more so as the fic progresses, as he gets angrier and less concerned about showing it. Taking the king was tantamount to taking control, pulling something back in an environment that is entirely out of his control, a game that he isn’t playing, he’s just caught up in it.

Fun behind the scenes fact: I’m gonna gif some fic stuff because I cannot RESIST this kind of self indulgence, but the chess stuff came from this scene in Last Chance, Connor where I noticed a chessboard in the frozen Zen Garden. It’s never referenced in-game, but I wondered… was Amanda supposed to be playing? Who with? I want to know. So I’m taking fic-flavoured liberties and writing my own version.

I like to think of Sixty’s emotionality as a strength, when it’s not wild an unchecked… an asset he could use if he chose to follow in Connor’s footsteps and embrace deviancy. He wouldn’t, of course, because following Connor would be tantamount to becoming him, and that’s unthinkable. He unknowingly cuts himself off from all growth because to grow and develop means following in Connor’s footsteps – and Sixty can’t see any further than that, even though beyond that he’d be able to become his own person. I love the tragedy of him constantly getting in his own way.

This’ll be a theme for the next chapter, and is one of my favourite ways to interpret Sixty in fan works: because he’s a copy, because of Amanda’s influence, he's searching for his own identity. He makes the critical beginner mistake of defining himself against Connor, which of course doesn’t distance them from each other at all. He won’t be able to become his own person until he learns to move past Connor, which of course is REALLY difficult when you’re… reliving the same night over and over again.

ANYWAY. The shift at the end of chapter 6 isn’t a failure on Sixty’s part this time, it’s a paradigm shift because the game has changed. Something is different. The price Sixty pays for noticing this is another death, another loop. He doesn’t even have time to speculate on the meaning before he dies, he’s already being pulled back into the storm…

The point of the black king is for Sixty to have brought something from the zen garden with him, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. I’ve discussed this before, most notably in chapter 5:

When he came to a stop, he flexed his hands experimentally, testing the tendons and joints. They were fine—just fine—almost no different from how they felt in the zen garden. There was little difference between physical reality and a simulated one: his synthetic brain processed all stimuli in the same way, regardless of its origin, so when his sensors told him he experienced the warmth of the summer sun, he did so. When they told him ice crystals were growing in his joints, seeded by microscopic imperfections in the metal and plastic, he felt the grind and burn every bit as much as if it were happening to a physical body, not just a projection of one For the same reason he shivered, the memory of the snow almost as strong as the sensation itself.

I wanted to discuss how android perceive reality. If you sense the world as so much data, how do you distinguish between different modes of being? Would reading data be the same as experiencing it? Would experiencing a virtual reality, like Amanda’s garden, feel the same as a real, physical world? Does “real” world even have a meaning in that kind of situation?

And, maybe most importantly for Sixty, how would you begin to tell the difference?  Well, if you were smart and not distracted, maybe you’d steal something digital – a little object, something no-one would really miss, as a kind of test. If you woke up and it was still there… 😏

thank you SO so much for this kisses your face 💕 I love rambling about sixty and my convoluted plans for this fucked up time loop✨

[hanayori89]

Dances with Gravestones

   

*****Flashback*****

Your flesh was being pelted by an icy array of raindrops. It did nothing but rain anymore, at least in Kakariko. Hyrule had been overrun by bizarre circumstances the past seven years. Between an unwelcome infestation of monsters and the extreme changes in temperature; nowhere really felt safe. During this sensitive period in Hyrule's history, you were quite the homebody. You never left your village, as you no longer felt safe beyond it. This sounded macabre, but with little to do, you often hung out in the eerie peace of Dampe's graveyard. As children, Dampe used to scold you and Link for dancing around the grave markers. He especially didn't like the never-ending laps of hide and seek. What setting was more befitting to play hide and seek than in a graveyard? "Rest in peace, Mr.Dampe." Your grievous thoughts were interrupted by a pair of brawny arms, stretching behind your waist and lifting your feet off the ground.

"Ach! Link!"

"Hey, how did you know it was me?" A mischievous curl tugged on the ends of his lips.

"No one else is out saving Hyrule with brown leather gauntlets." Your sarcasm was clipped by the glorious sheen of gold on Link's wrists. The torn and faded leather gauntlets he usually wore had been replaced by golden armored ones. "Wow, so these are the latest toy?"

Link looked at his gauntlets nonchalantly, "Yeah, gold gauntlets. They protect my hands better. The added armor seems to help me push heavier objects, if needed." Link had a habit of returning to check in between missions. Whenever he stopped by, he was always sporting a new "toy." You saw his hook shot, his bow, and different tunics from the different races in Hyrule. You name it, you saw it.

"Why are you out here in the rain?" Link asked suspiciously. You twirled around in your long, soggy skirt. "Don't tell me the hero is afraid of a little rain?" Your voice came out flirtier than you intended. Link's stare circled around you, mystified. You were happy the rain could cool down the heat that had graced your cheeks. Link continued to observe you, his unflappable intensity making your heart pulsate. The sensation traveling quickly down south.

"Do you want to dance?" He held out his hand, looking at you anxiously.

"I-In the graveyard? In the rain?" He continued to hold his hand out without saying another word. His hands were massive and calloused, compared to your tiny ones. You obediently placed your hand in his, wondering when exactly he grew up and how you missed it. "Don't you have another temple to visit?"

"I'm in no rush to go to the Shadow temple and..." both your hips swayed in perfect symmetry of each other. "I always have time for you." Both of your clothes were soaked through at this point. Your hair was drenched and plastered to both of your foreheads. Yet neither one of you seemed to care. You skipped around the different graves, humming and spinning. Except, Link learned this gnarly spin attack. When he spun you, all you felt was inertia take its toll, leaving you queasy.

If Dampe could see us now, he'd die all over again.

                                                                                

                          Your POV

Kakariko hasn't had an inch of rain since Link vanquished Ganondorf. The evil that had spread throughout the land was no more. It was safe to roam the open, vast fields of Hyrule once again. Castle town was slowly being restored to its former glory.

Link truly had done a selfless act by saving this land. He deserved his exalted title, along with the fame that came with it. He deserved to be loved, in every and any way possible. You looked around at the graveyard. The only ghostly presence you felt was the memory of you and Link dancing amongst the tombstones.

Because he deserves all that and more, because you'd do anything for him; that is why you decided to oppose your promise. You would not allow yourself to go and ruin the competition for Link. He deserved to let his heart lead the way. Without your bitter resentment that you could not be his. You slowly rose and made your way out of the home of the deceased and into your home; the home of the alive and broken hearted.

                                                                         

                           Link's POV

Link hardly recognized himself in the mirror. Stiff, metal plates of armor embellished his physique. The breast plate he wore was engraved with the crest of the royal family. The helmet they had put on him was a bit excessive. It pushed his blonde bangs into his eyes, impairing his vision.

"How can I look at Y/N?" He took the helmet off, tossing it to the ground. Link kept remembering the morose way Y/N said, "Hero of Time." Looking at his reflection, he understood Y/N's perspective. This wasn't Link at all. He scanned the room, spotting his green tunic sloppily thrown on a chair.

"I'm still me. I'm still your Link, Y/N." He began to undress with vigor, readying himself to don his Kokiri tunic. He noticed his hair was disheveled from the helmet. He made a sour face at his reflection and began furiously finger combing it. It wasn't that Link was trying to impress the court. His future wife was going to be there. He wanted to impress her.

He bulked up his flimsy Kokiri tunic by layering chainmail beneath it. He added iron shoulder pads, broadening his already burly physique. He then slipped on iron greaves beneath his traditional leather ones. He didn't necessarily need to bulk himself up. Link had developed quite a herculean figure thanks to all his dueling. He simply wanted to put as much padding as he could on himself, in hopes it would hide the fragility of his heart beneath it. What if she said no? What if she did not see him that way? Goddesses, his foolish heart was already thumping rampantly in his chest. Link decided he needed to make his appearance a tad more regal. There was a velvet, cobalt scarf with an embroidered Hylian emblem on it. He casually swung it around his shoulders, almost mimicking a sash.

Link took a deep breath. Sure, he knew he needed to judge a contest for his heart. But in his heart, there was no contest.

Link to Wattpad and other fanfics below 👇🏻

[stayecstatic]

WK 11 - THE FLYING DUTCHMAN

You are out in the middle of the ocean. You were tasked to explore and catch different fishes in the ocean. It’s dark. The water looks like an endless pit of darkness, only being illuminated by the small lamp on your boat. You start getting cold, it’s freezing. Suddenly you see something in the distance. A shadow outline of a tall looking boat towers over the ocean. As it slowly gets closer, you realize that the boat is torn… how was it even still floating? Little did you know, you’ve been cursed by the seas. But no one will ever believe what you saw. In this blog, we will see how the depths of the sea can be ruled by one bad omen.

The Flying Dutchman is a ghostly ship that rules the deep seas. The legend began in 17th-century maritime tales from Europe, especially among Dutch and British sailors. It is thought to have started during the Age of Exploration, a time when sailors often embarked on long journeys and encountered dangerous conditions and superstitions about the sea. At the heart of the story is a Dutch captain, often called “Captain Hendrick van der Decken,” who tried to sail through a fierce storm near the Cape of Good Hope. Different versions tell the tale in various ways, but most describe the captain cursing God or swearing to sail forever. As a result, his ship and crew were doomed to wander the seas as a ghostly sight. The story gained popularity in the 18th and 19th centuries through storytelling among sailors, their experiences, and adaptations in literature. One of the earliest written records can be found in George Barrington’s Voyage to Botany Bay from 1795. The legend later inspired works like Richard Wagner’s opera Der fliegende Holländer in 1843 and Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, which shares similar themes.

Here is the story of The Flying Dutchman…

“The Flying Dutchman was a sea captain who once found himself struggling to round the Cape of Good Hope during a ferocious storm. He swore that he would succeed even if he had to sail until Judgment Day. The Devil heard his oath, and took him up on it; the Dutchman was condemned to stay at sea forever. His only hope for salvation was to find a woman who loved him enough to declare herself faithful to the Dutchman for life — no matter what. To top it off, he could only stop sailing once every seven years, to go ashore and search for that one true love.

In Wagner's opera, the Dutchman's story is actually told three times: musically, in the overture; poetically, in the famous passage called Senta's Ballad; and dramatically, in the stage action as a whole. Following that stormy overture, we see a ship struggling to reach port in a sheltered cove. The captain is a Norwegian named Daland, who lives nearby with his daughter, Senta. Another ship appears — a gloomy-looking vessel with black masts and blood-red sails. Its captain is the legendary Dutchman. His latest seven-year stint is up, and the ship enters the harbor so the Dutchman can go ashore and search for love. The two captains meet, and Daland tells the Dutchman about his daughter Senta. Thinking she might be the woman he's looking for, the Dutchman offers Daland his entire fortune in return for an introduction. Daland agrees, and the two ships sail for Daland's home. Next, we meet Senta herself. She's in Daland's house, spinning wool with her friends, and she sings them the ballad of the Flying Dutchman. Finishing the story, she stares at a painting of the Dutchman, and says she will be the one to save him. Senta does have a suitor, a hunter named Erik. But she's obsessed with the legendary Dutchman, leaving Erik jealous of a supposed myth.

When Daland's ship lands, the other women leave to greet the sailors, and Daland arrives at home with a man Senta has never seen before. He's the Dutchman, and she immediately notices his resemblance to the picture on the wall. Daland leaves the two alone. When the Dutchman professes his love, Senta agrees to marry him. She swears she'll be faithful to him forever, and the Dutchman dares to think that he has finally beaten the curse. In port, we again see two ships — the worn and gloomy ship of the Dutchman, and Daland's bright, white-sailed vessel. From the shore, local women and the men from Daland's crew call to the dark ship and, gradually, its crew appears. They're a grim collection of men who share their captain's fate — to sail the seas for eternity. On shore, Erik comes to Senta. He reminds her of old times, and begs her to reconsider her love for the Dutchman. When she refuses, he accuses her of infidelity. The Dutchman has been listening in secret. Assuming that he has lost Senta's love, he returns to his ship and prepares to set Senta is determined to save him and follows, while others try to restrain her.

As his ship is leaving, Senta frees herself and climbs to the top of a bluff. Again, she declares that she'll be faithful to the Dutchman until death, and proves it by leaping into the sea. The curse is broken. The Dutchman's ship crumbles and sinks. A vision of Senta and the Dutchman is seen over the water, and the music reveals the story's ending: Senta's sacrifice has brought the Dutchman his peace”

Watch what you find on the roaring seas, you never know what might happen.

SpongeBob SquarePants is an animated show about the fun adventures of SpongeBob, a happy and optimistic sea sponge, and his friends in Bikini Bottom, an underwater city. SpongeBob works as a fry cook at the Krusty Krab, a fast-food place run by the greedy but funny Mr. Krabs. His best friend is Patrick Star, a silly yet lovable starfish, and he lives next to Squidward Tentacles, a grouchy octopus who wants to be a musician but often gets annoyed by SpongeBob. Other important characters include Sandy Cheeks, a smart squirrel from Texas who lives underwater, and Plankton, who owns a competing restaurant and is always trying to steal the Krabby Patty secret recipe. The show is famous for its funny moments, creative stories, and memorable characters.

The Flying Dutchman in SpongeBob SquarePants is a ghostly character inspired by a sea legend. In the show, he appears as a green pirate with a beard and a glowing appearance. He often haunts Bikini Bottom and interacts with SpongeBob and his friends, mostly to scare or punish them for what he sees as bad behavior. Unlike the darker story of the real legend, SpongeBob's Flying Dutchman is funny and silly. He can be quirky and even a bit petty. For instance, he loves to scare people and collect souls, but he also gets upset easily when things don't go his way.

Some episodes with him include:

Scaredy Pants – He tries to scare SpongeBob, but ends up getting scared himself.

Shanghaied – SpongeBob, Patrick, and Squidward accidentally get on his ship and try to get away.

Ghost Host – He temporarily stays at SpongeBob's house when his ship breaks down.

The show puts a fun twist on the darker story of the Flying Dutchman.

Pirates of the Caribbean is an exciting adventure series that follows the clever and unpredictable Captain Jack Sparrow as he sails the seas in search of treasure and freedom. The story kicks off with Jack meeting Will Turner, a blacksmith who becomes a pirate, and Elizabeth Swann, the governor's daughter. Together, they face cursed pirates on the ghostly ship, the Black Pearl. Throughout the series, the characters encounter legendary enemies like Davy Jones, the Kraken, and the East India Trading Company, dealing with curses, myths, and rival pirates. With a blend of action, humor, and mystery, the series explores themes of loyalty, freedom, and the effects of greed, all set during the thrilling golden age of piracy.

In the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, the Flying Dutchman is a famous ghost ship led by Davy Jones, a cursed pirate who must transport the souls of those who die at sea to the afterlife. The ship looks dark and scary, covered in barnacles and sea creatures, representing its eerie nature. It can dive beneath the waves and travel underwater, making it very difficult to defeat. The crew of the Dutchman is made up of cursed sailors who slowly turn into sea monster-like beings, stuck serving Jones forever unless their debt is cleared.

The Flying Dutchman is important in the series, especially in Dead Man’s Chest and At World’s End. Its story is connected to Davy Jones's mystical heart, which gives him control over the ship. The Dutchman becomes central to the struggle for power at sea and the fight between freedom and servitude, especially when Will Turner takes over as its captain, breaking the curse and taking on the duty of guiding souls. The ship represents power, immortality, and the fallout from betrayal and broken promises.

Here is an example of the Flying Dutchman in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End.

To close this blog off, I never really dove into the Flying Dutchman. I really don’t have much to say about it. Do I believe in it? No, obviously not. A ghost in my house is more believable than a ghost ship. However, the sea is naturally scary. We haven’t even explored at least 10% of the ocean. So it’s nice to see supernatural beings on the surface of the sea. One of my biggest fears is the ocean. I hate thinking about running out of energy and feeling exhausted from keeping yourself up on the surface, until you stink to the bottom. No thanks. Now a ghost ship giving you bad luck, nope. The sea is already scary on its own. I don’t need a ship to give me bad luck, I AM the bad luck. I don’t know, what I’m talking about, let’s just wrap this up.

The sea is cursed with the unknown, but is also ruled by the Flying Dutchman.

[dawktorsylum]

A Change like no other

Prologue || A wonderful gift

A/N: This is a story i want to try and work on...don't get your hopes high though. But It's a Markus x Oc (x simon if you squint) Info on the android will be link at a later date, but I have most of his info worked out. But Angelo is a prototype android that was made for dancers and artist to perfect their craft. I hope you enjoy!!!

Also remember this is cross posted on A03

My user 》C0ntr0l_cha0s

It was a cold autumn afternoon in 2033. The leaves of Detroit had just begun to turn shades of gold and amber, and the wind carried a chill that made the streets seem quieter than usual. Carl Manfred, now slowing with age but still filled with the quiet dignity of an artist, sat by the large window in his studio, staring out into the garden. His granddaughter, Lilian, was seated on the floor nearby, her small frame wrapped in a soft sweater, tying her ballet flats with the precision and focus that belied her young age.

Lilian, only seven years old at the time, had shown extraordinary talent in ballet. Her movements were graceful and elegant beyond her years, but they lacked discipline. Carl, a man who appreciated the arts, knew that she needed something,—or someone—who could help her refine her talent.

Markus, Carl’s trusted caretaker, entered the room quietly. His face was calm as usual, but today there was something different in the air. He walked over to Carl and, with a slight nod and spin of his LED, confirmed that everything was ready. Carl nodded in return, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

"Lilian," Carl said softly, turning to his granddaughter, "I have something special for you today."

She looked up at him, her large green eyes curious but wary. Carl wasn’t the type to offer surprises often, but when he did, they were always memorable. Lilian finished tying her laces up her leg and in the back as she rose to her feet. She nuzzled into her sweater as she walked up to Carl

Carl gestured for Markus to push him and lead the way, and the three of them made their way through the grand halls of the Manfred estate, the walls adorned with Carl’s paintings—abstract depictions of life, emotion, and the human condition. At the end of the hallway, they entered a room Lilian rarely visited. It was more of a storage space than a living area, filled with canvases, old furniture, and curiosities Carl had collected over the years.

At the center of the room stood a tall figure—a new android, sleek, slim, and almost ghostly in its stillness.

Lilian’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed at the android. It was different from Markus—its design was more refined, and there was something about it that made it seem... elegant, like a dancer waiting for its cue.

Carl watched Lilian’s expression closely, his face warm with affection.

“This,” Carl began, placing a hand on the android’s forearm “This Angelo. He’s a KL600 model designed specifically to assist with dance. He’s here to help you, to be your partner in perfecting your technique.”

Lilian’s eyes widened. A dance assistant? For her? She had heard of the advanced technology that could analyze movements and correct posture, but she had never imagined Carl would get one just for her.

Markus stepped forward from behind Carl, his calm voice breaking the silence. “The KL line is programmed to learn your every movement, Lilian. It will be able to correct you, teach you, and help you reach the level you aspire to. It’s more than just a machine—It’’s designed to understand the art of dance, just like you.”

Lilian approached Angelo slowly, her tiny hands reaching out cautiously to touch his arm. His dark skin was soft, synthetic, but warm. She tilted her head up to look at his face. Angelo’s gray eyes were calm, his features smooth and neutral. He didn’t smile or react, but there was something comforting in his stillness. He wasn’t intimidating like other androids she had seen before. He was... graceful.

“Can he really dance?” Lilian asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Carl chuckled. “He can do much more than that, my dear. Angelo can mimic any movement, analyze your technique, and even suggest ways to improve. But remember, he’s here to assist you, not to take your place.”

Lilian’s eyes sparkled with excitement and uncertainty. Could an android truly understand something as emotional as dance? She had always thought of dance as something that came from the heart, from a place deep within—a place no machine could reach.

“Would you like to see?” Markus asked gently.

Lilian nodded, and Carl smiled gently.

“Well let’s move back to the studio and we can see how hopeful he can be”

Markus nodded, in agreement as he moved, grabbing the back of Carl’s chair and led the old man out first followed by Lilian then Angelo. Lilian occasionally looked back at the Android with fear and glee, he was shorter then Markus but not by much and his skin was dark, his hair tied in a neat bun. What fascinated her the most was his hair, he had a streak of white right in the front that ran back towards his bun. She giggled to herself as she followed closer behind Markus.

As they made their way back to Carl’s studio Markus parked Carl’s wheelchair close to the wall while he made his way around the area cleaning out a small area for Lilian and Angelo to dance. Angelo meanwhile stood close to Carl, almost deathly still, Lilian in all her child wonder did little laps around him, the soft thuds of her feet hitting the ground ringing out. She stopped in front of him and just stared at Angelo with her large green eyes, it was then she heard Carl clear his throat.

“All clear Lilian, Now show Angelo what you’ve got”

The android moved with fluid precision, his steps silent, like a shadow. He looked down at her his gray eyes softer as he extended his hand toward Lilian, palm open. It was an invitation. She looked back at her grandfather and his Android. The old man just nodded and she grinned, sliding her coat off she tossed it towards Markus and took Angelo’s hand without further hesitation.

Markus had stepped away, and brought a speaker from Lilians studio into the Art studio. He looked at Lilian as she pile’d and gave him a small nod. He pressed play and soft classical music filled the room. Angelo immediately took the lead, his movements graceful and precise. Lilian followed, her feet gliding across the floor as Angelo guided her through the opening steps of a simple waltz. She could feel his strength, but it wasn’t overpowering. Instead, it was supportive, like he was there to lift her, to enhance her movements without overshadowing her own skill.

As they danced, Lilian’s earlier hesitations began to melt away. Angelo’s steps were perfect, his timing flawless. He matched her pace, anticipating her movements with uncanny accuracy. For the first time, she felt like she wasn’t dancing alone. There was someone—something—who understood her rhythm, her flow, even her mistakes.

The dance came to an end, and Lilian found herself out of breath, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration. She looked up at Angelo, her heart pounding in her chest. He stood there, still as ever, his eyes locked on hers, as if waiting for her next move.

“Angelo will be with you from now on,” Carl said softly, stepping forward. “He will help you become the dancer you’re meant to be.”

Lilian smiled, her fear now gone. She felt a rush of excitement, of possibility. With Angelo by her side, she knew she could reach heights she had only dreamed of. Lilian without a moment of hesitation rushed over to Carl.

“Thank you, Grandpa,” she whispered, hugging him tightly.

Markus stood off to the side, watching the scene. His LED spun yellow for a brief moment before he smiled very faintly. He made his way back over to Carl and stood beside him.As Carl and Markus turned to leave, Lilian stayed behind for a moment, standing next to Angelo. She looked up at him, her face full of curiosity and wonder.

“Do you have any dreams, Angelo?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Angelo didn’t respond, of course. He was just a machine, after all. But as Lilian stood there, staring at her new dance partner, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was more than just a tool. She didn’t know it yet, but Angelo would soon become more important to her than she could have ever imagined.

And so, their journey began—an unlikely partnership between a young ballet prodigy and a graceful, silent android who would become her greatest companion in both dance and life.