#Seven brain rot for real | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rel124c41 · 6 months ago

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BACK TO CHEST (SOUL TO SOUL). jade leech

Saprophytic organisms obtain their nutrients by breaking down dead organic matter.

tags: main character death (permanently tho?), dark magic, family dynamics, survivor guilt, established relationship, malleus’s unrequited crush on reader, & happy halloween

a/n: jade & floyd's mother's name siphon from @mochinomnoms

word count: 12, 802

When Malleus Draconia, prince of Briar Valley, overblotted, you were beheaded.

Jade has been rolling that sentence in his head for the entire month. He has been trying to make sense of it. Like a student retyping a sentence, he changes it up every so often; when housewarden Malleus Draconia overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia, born January 18th, 202 centimeters tall, green eyes, a hundred or so years old, overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia, nicknamed Tsunotaro, overblotted, you were beheaded; when Malleus Draconia overblotted, Jade had to watch you be beheaded from Diasoma’s dormitory barbican. The facts do not seem real no matter how much he edits them.

Part of him deducts that it might be because beheaded is the wrong word. Beheaded implies decapitation: the head fully cut off from the body. You did not resemble a cleanly-made dullahan. The slashing, void magic Malleus Draconia sent out cut from your frontal bone diagonally down to your occipital bone.

Jade hopes more fiercely than a child wishing on a star that it felt like a painful flick to your forehead than nothing else. He does not want to entertain the thought you might have been conscious, wondering when your hair caught fire as you suffered through incomprehensible pain. Visible brain matter stuttering with a few painful last thoughts as you were cut apart.

So, with that said, it has not really registered in Jade Leech’s own brain that you are really dead. He can find the words perfectly fine. He cannot find the meaning of that mysterious poetry, no matter how embellished or how nudely plain.

Which is why his brother has to say certain words to him real slowly. Make sure the meaning sticks. Elongating them, sometimes repeating, “Today’s (Name)’s funeral, Jade. You have to get up.” Which comes out as fuuuh-neeer-al, yooo-u, and uuuh-puh.

Floyd has to repeat ‘get up’ four times because Jade refuses to. As he has been for the last month, he rots in bed. Luckily, Jade has always been an exemplary student so he will still be able to graduate his second year with all his high marks. Thank the Seven for small miracles.

“Cooome on, Jade. Jade, please, get up. Jadeee.”

Roughly, and then softly and sorrily, Floyd tries to shake Jade out of his pretend sleep. His brother has been doing that a lot – sleeping and then, not sleeping, but still laying in bed with his eyes closed. Who knows what is so alluring about the ebon made from flesh-shuttered windows. A week ago, Floyd had a thought that turned his stomach rotten. What if Jade has been sleeping so much so he can pretend he is still under Sea Slug’s spell, before anything happened?

He does not like to think about it. To be frank, he has been hating thinking this entire month. It makes bile poke its tiny fingers on the muscles in his throat, watching his mirror reflection lie somnolent in bed, looking halfway dead. Which is why Floyd shifts back to shaking Jade at a harsher pace – which he will eventually slow down again, feeling regret for being rough.

“Jaaadiooo, waaake uuup. Jade. Jade Jade Jade!”

Floyd wonders if he has to get Azul to assist him in picking up Jade. It is not that Jade puts up a struggle when getting dragged out of bed; it is just that his weight feels like dead weight and that makes Floyd queasy. He likes having Azul there. Azul dresses Jade; Floyd brushes Jade’s teeth. They both take turns taking cups of water and rinsing shampoo out of his hair.

However, Azul is not needed because Jade voluntarily opens his eyes a moment later. Dull, rusted gold and olive peers through black eyelashes. Lifeless eyes flicker, registering what the waking world is showing him.

Shoes that are worth a king's ransom crease because Floyd decides to crouch rather than kneel by Jade’s bed. His hair is neatly slicked back, gel fixating his black strand behind his piercing. Dressed in a simple black suit, Floyd gives a shy smile and whispers, “Hey.” Jade notices something that makes him close his eyes.

Floyd did his tie correctly this time.

“Hey, no goin’ back to sleep. Ya gotta get up today, Jade, c’mon. I’ll eat one of your mushrooms if ya get up. You can decide which one, whatever works for me. Hehehe, how does that sound? … Jade, please. Get up.”

“What’s the point?”

“Because you’re gonna be pissed at yourself if ya don’t. Ya gonna hate yourself more if you don’t get up.”

“Not possible.” Jade’s nose wrinkles when Floyd starts to run his fingers through his hair, combing back black hair.

“You have to get up today. If you do, next week, Azul and I’ll leave ya alone.”

“Leave me alone now.”

“Ya have to get up to say goodbye. Come on, (Name) deserves you there. You have to get up for (Name).”

Jade does the only thing that allows Floyd to know his brother is not a corpse - he sheds a tear. Dried-up, pruning corpses cannot shed tears. It comes with a double edged sword of relief and pain; Floyd watches the tear escape from Jade’s left eye, descending down over the bridge of his nose, and onto his pillow.

Emptied of one of a thousand tears, Jade whispers back, tormented, “I can’t.”

In your absence, Floyd’s verbose brother has turned into a man of little words. As if the action of talking is just as strenuous as getting up. It is unnerving for Floyd who is so used to his brother talking so much.

Grief shackles a body like an anchor. So used to swimming through life with dexterity, grief has tangled itself upon Jade like cutting, tangling fishing gear or stabbing, soda-can-holding plastic. Each limb is ten times heavier than it has ever been. His tongue is an iron paperweight.

And, Floyd knows. That weight has been crushing him too.

Floyd still looks towards your designated seat in Mostro Lounge by mistake. Waits with a heavy heart to see you sitting there, ordering one of their chocolate-or-caramel themed drinks. Waits for your voice to just suddenly be in his ears talking, asking about basketball practice or new menu items.

But, he has been brave for his brother’s sake. Which is why he requests, touching their foreheads together, “Then, get up for me. Get up for me.”

For the first time in the month, Jade brushes his teeth without help. He cannot manage to do his hair but Floyd gives no complaints, slicking his own hands up with opaque green gel.

Only one month after death, a body fully liquifies. Life deflating, the soft tissue starts to decay. Oval holes in the skin appear with the ease of stretched dough. Flesh’s solidity fails and melts like candle wax. In a month’s time, a cadaver is expected to expose its vulnerable skeleton.

Against all physical laws, you have not rotted away like an apple attacked by fungi and bacteria. In fact, it would be appropriate to say you look alive. It is inappropriate though because of the downward, diagonal scar across your forehead. Magic keeps your body fresh but your grave-ushering wound remains.

They stitched you back up? Jade wonders which friend of yours had picked the top part of your cranium off the rain-soaked ground.

Even though Ace and Deuce were the closest to you – both physically, you had thrown them out of the way of that slashing attack and emotionally, you had thrown them out of the way of that slashing attack –he cannot picture them picking it up. Neither Grim; paws are too small. Perhaps, aspiring not-yet-doctor Riddle Rosehearts had the guts in his tiny stature to scoop up the top half of your brain. Holding a hand under like one does with a napkin full of broken eggs, making sure nothing drips onto the floor. Jade grows too sick to think of the hypothetical of who stitches you back up.

Jade only remembers shaking, cold due to the rain and the sight. A hand reaching up to his breast pocket to grab his magic pen. Then, Floyd grabbing his shoulders to stop him from making the awful mistake of firing a spell at THE Malleus Draconia. Jade forgets the rest.

Apparently, he screamed himself hoarse. Apparently, Floyd got a broken wrist from their tussle. Apparently, Azul knocked him out with a powerful sedative spell. Apparently apparently apparently.

The following memory goes like this: waking up in bed the next morning, throat sore, thinking about what tea you might generously brew for him to fight off his evident illness. Usually in good health, Jade is a bit surprised that morning to wake up with a flu. Then, his world is torn apart. Then, Azul and Floyd explain to him slowly – they are always talking to him slowly now – why his throat burns. Not from bacteria-made illness, from screaming, from losing you.

Sometimes, just for a span of a few moments, Jade wishes another thing with childish ferocity — prays to a shooting star.

He wishes he could have stayed in that peaceful dream — “There is no need to shed tears nor are farewells necessary! … A new world in which none shall ever experience the pain of loss!” he had said — that Malleus was bestowing upon them. I wish Malleus had succeeded in his overblot. With a similar vehemence, he wishes Malleus Draconia died.

There is no graveyard on the northside of Sage’s Island. No one expects to bury a student. So, someone, perhaps Dire Crowley or your trio, has chosen to bury you just a bit off the hiking trails you and Jade use to venture on. A glade chosen by someone to put a coffin smack in the middle of, still on land owned by Night Raven College.

Your dead body rests ahead, laid in a virgin’s coffin. A tree line formed by an expanding corpse of trees marks a clean circle. Him, Floyd, and Azul come upon the funeral last. Right at the start of the column and rows of seats, Jade’s feet suddenly grow roots into the ground, on par with a neem tree which has the strongest taproot system. He is paralyzed by the sight: you, arms resting on your abdomen, laying in a fairytale’s glass coffin.

The casket is elegant beyond elegance. Silica sand dug from Al-Asim’s numerous deposits was smelted for the glass. Inscribed with gold, your name playfully stretches its arms across the coffin, bordering angels and swans kneeling before it.

Your head rests on a pillow-bouquet. Speckles of white daisy, ivory white carnations, and eggshell white spider mums kiss your hair. The centerpiece flower is Easter lilies, though. Trumpet-shaped, with shooting stars of pollen branching out from the center of them, Easter lilies crowd the bouquet like purple prose in a literary work. They crowd around your resting, stitched head with delicateness. Another bouquet of identical pattern rests too in your hands.

The fairytale ensemble makes you look like a martyr.

You are not a martyr. Jade hates the very thought that that could become your legacy. Wrongly transcribed and reprinted, a publisher who does not know you writes you as martyr. It makes his stomach rot. Neither hero or villain, you are not to be idolized. Bread should not be broken in honor of you and wine should not be drunk in honor of you.

You were wonderfully simple, with flaws and strengths. Now, you are gone.

“Jade, come. There is a spot up at the front for us,” Azul says softly and slowly.

A gentle hand pushes on Jade’s back — Floyd’s hand. “They’re not goin’ to start without us.”

That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried that —! Jade, not really thinking well, rips himself away from his brother too fast.

“Woah,” Floyd shouts like a cowboy whose horse has started acting erratic. His gold and olive-brown eyes flicker with concern. Once more, Floyd goes to put his hand on the back of Jade’s suit, only to feel more like he is touching stone rather than flesh. Hm?

Out of Floyd’s knowledge, students, close friends of yours, have started to turn around, and one of them happens to be Malleus Draconia — who makes direct eye contact with Jade Leech.

I can’t breathe.

Eyes that shimmer like Sheecle’s green take their poisonous green hands, stealing oxygen from the eel-mer’s body.

Jade finds himself breathless. In his chest, his heart grows in weight tremendously. All of the hurt in his bones is pulled towards his center, acceleration like fire. Heavy as osmium. Heavy as tungsten. He feels like something is crushing him with a sleep paralysis-esque weight. Out of his nose, his last breath slithers away; out of his brain, all his thoughts file out of the building in fire-drill-fashion. Buh-bye, Jade! his thoughts wave as they go. His breath walks out like a scorned lover, never to be heard from again.

I can’t breathe.

Suddenly, Jade’s motionless chest is grabbed by a wayward arm. His spine collides into a breathing, functioning chest. Over his shoulder, Floyd whispers to his brother, lazy drawl slithering in Jade’s ear:

“Follow along to my breathin’ pattern. Try-a match your breath to mine.”

The words are spoken carelessly, with a lazy drawl, but the intent is vigilant. Seeing his brother needing help, Floyd reacts. He holds him close enough to feel the bones of his ribcage.

On Jade’s back, he can feel the rise and fall of Floyd’s chest — Floyd elongating his breaths to gather deep oxygen in the very bottom of his lungs. They come in slow, constant waves. An inhale causes his chest to expand. An exhale causes his chest to flatten. Each slow rotation hits Jade’s spine in measured breaths — that I’m supposed to follow along to. Match the tempo of.

Jade closes his eyes so he can focus upon the rise and fall of Floyd’s living lungs. It proves difficult to hear the sound of breathing over the ringing in his ears, like detecting a single scent in a saturated perfume store. Earth makes itself into a curlicue of sensations. Amongst the raging riptide, Jade tries to grab his brother’s hand. Grab onto it and share the same breath.

It takes a few moments, a continuous rise and fall. Deeper lungfuls of oxygen push at his spine; heavier exhales stir through his three-piece earring. In. Out. Jade is trying. In. Out. In. Out.

He breathes in through his nose and out his mouth until he can complete the cycle of in and out with a skip between the steps. When he takes his first complete breath, eyelids fluttering open, he sees only the back of Malleus’s haircut and curling horns that hook up like antlers. As he studies ebony locks cascading into layers, Floyd whispers in his ear, “We don’t gotta go up. I’ll stay back with ya.”

A coward down to the bone, Jade nods his head. Well, not always a coward; he is quite a capable eel-mer. In this particular setting, he finds himself to be as cowardly as the lion in The Wizard of Oz. For this month, he has felt that only the worst traits of his personality have survived the aftermath of a torrential blot-storm.

He lets Floyd push him down to sit at the last row on the right. Your friends in Savanaclaw and Pomefiore are in the back rows as you are not too close to either. Diasomnia and Heartslabyul are gathered close to the front. The remaining dorms are in the middle.

Ebony locks styled into a jellyfish cut sit in the second row, left side. If Jade looks straight, he can completely dispel Malleus Draconia from his eyesight. Azul moves up to the front, perhaps to tell Dire Crowley or your friends that everyone in attendance, time to start. Jade is beyond grateful for the hand rubbing circles into his spine, as if the touch keeps his breath circulation working.

There are a few moments of talking. Deuce Spade shuffles a bit closer to hear what Dire Crowley is saying; Azul gestures with his hands and when passed a paper, passes it back in rejection; Grim, who now attends in Heartslabyul, starts to grow louder in volume but so far Jade cannot catch a word. Eventually, it is Riddle Rosehearts who stands up. In his hand, the paper that Azul recently rejected.

Even though it is given an introduction, explaining the contents, Jade would have known it without prelude. Off Riddle’s tongue, your poetry falls like a meteor shower, silver fish-tails stretching with warm tenor. The title and author already given, Riddle reads:

“In a sea of nightmares, I spy a rock

Smooth, with a thousand freckles of fresh rain

The maelstrom brings inky monsters and villains

When I place myself upon your shore, I stop drowning

Across the water, you and I are on a rock, braving the storm.”

You wrote a lot of poetry. You were never good friends with Rook Hunt though; you clashed a lot with Pomefoire, unable to make friends with them. Perhaps because your poetry and beauty is different. Not very often did you string words together amorously, rather the words were desolate.

Your persona – the cultivated, embellished image of the artist you were – was always sort of tortured and damaged. That worst of you created poetry with the rigorousness of an inventory. This one Jade knows well – you wrote it for him. You were embarrassed about it but brave enough to tell him: “I wrote something. I feel … I feel it describes us.”

He misses those nocturnally active times in the botanical gardens. Transcendent music playing between the spaces of silence, filling you with his feelings, sharing feelings like they were heat and you too were cold-blooded. Under a gazebo of stars on the edge of the universe, you once said. A pocket of paradise stolen was found in the moments creating and cultivating with him, you once said. It feels like a dream, you once said.

Jade stands up from his seat, not able to withstand hearing another word. This gross, wrong interpretation of your work feels like dirt and maggots grinding his mouth. It is not a poem meant for a funeral. Between Floyd’s knees and a chair, he squeezes himself tight to escape.

Bystanders expect him to do just that: escape. Floyd anticipates it too. He takes those expectations and breaks them. In a domino effect, row by row, people notice Jade drawing closer. Murmurs start to rouse awake the sleepy, forlorn crowd.

Undeterred, Jade walks closer and closer. When he briefly passes the second row, he lets his gaze flicker over to his left. Eyes pinched together in small slices, gold and brown irises catch just the briefest glimpse of rotating horns and a sharp nose. The curious quirk of Malleus’s lip has his heart electric with lightning bolts of hate.

Across the water, across the wave, Jade approaches you on that lone rock. He is going to save you from the grave and help you weather this maelstrom. The divide between you and him in life and death is a thin, easily breakable glass barrier.

“Jade,” Riddle questions.

Back to him, Jade responds, “You should sit, Riddle. Your words were very courteous but I have a few of my own to say. Can I ask you to forgive my gross impoliteness?”

“No,” Riddle fumbles with his words, “no, no it is quite alright. Go ahead … I’m - I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Your sympathy is much appreciated.”

The crowd watches on with gross intrigue, wondering what your boyfriend could possibly be thinking of or what his next move might be. Is it not obvious from your poetry – he is going to outstretch his shore towards you. He does this through violent action.

Jade brings up a fist. Jade brings down a fist.

Though it does not give easily, the glass still breaks in fractures. Triangles and rhombuses branch out from underneath Jade’s fist. Jagged, uneven connect-the-dots shapes make up a circular pattern that splinters from the point of contact. A little less than ten pieces fall into the tomb, landing on your ebony dress and bouquet.

Steeling himself, Jade turns his attention to your face. Gloss from the glass makes you look angelic, like a shimmer of makeup glitter. Someone has painted your lips in a dark, blood red – (“I can’t stand bright lipstick! It makes you look like a clown. Jade, you’ll catch me dead before you catch me in dark lipstick”) – which boils up Jade’s month long, hidden away anger.

His second punch causes glass to land on your dress like snow knocked off a branch, heavy with volume. The plummeting glass is also followed by a trickle of blood. Jade pulls back his bleeding hand, hooks it underneath a section of glass, and pulls it up like one might do with rotten floorboards. Glass pierces through the material of his glove, hitting bone. He grabs another part of the coffin, snaps it off like it is a mere graham cracker, and forms a fist with shrapnel of glass embedded in fingers. Fragile glass hovering over your face breaks and showers down like freckles. Steadily, he keeps punching and breaking off glass until none remains.

When he pulls back his right hand, the leather is thoroughly drenched in a red flood. Instead of spraying bloody water in thin sheets, it flows off his fingers like a spilled milkshake. Black and red combined, Jade adds the last color to the Snow White triptych.

Avenging, he takes the bouquet of white flowers from your hands. The stems crunch in his harsh grip; the flowers sway in their downward descent. He brandishes them down by his thigh like one might hold a sword in the midst of battle. Nitroglycerin sweat bubbles and propane sweat pops on his palm. His black gloved hand catches fire, enveloping the bouquet in a blaze that rises vindictively up to his shoulders.

As the last bits of a fire spell, done without the conductor of his magic pen, start to shimmer away in ash and smoke, Jade lets the incinerated, curled inward, black flowers fall to the ground. He takes his dominant hand and slowly places it upon your cheek.

Soft. You are so soft. I should have taken off my gloves. His bleeding hand infects your skin with a new paint. Jade puts his thumb over your lips where someone has put clown lipstick on you. When your lips part slightly under his ministrations, no breath hits his thumb.

His precious pearl, breathless. He wishes nothing more for you to open up your eyes and dispel his worries.

“Jade!” Ah, it seems people are starting to come out of their stupor at the display Jade is presenting. He looks vexatious over his shoulder, briefly catching eye contact with Azul. “What are you possibly doing!” Jade also manages to catch his brother breaking comatose to stand up.

“There is no need to fret about me overblotting. I have a secure lid placed on my emotions. Unlike others.”

Hurt flashes in Azul’s eyes. Jade cannot stomach to check if his insult hurt who he intended it to hurt. Instead, he gingerly lifts you in his arms. Limp, you tumble into his embrace with gravity-obeying limbs. Your neck tilts back and your toes point down in Jade’s careful hold.

“Jade!”

This will prove difficult with both my hands holding them and no magic pen as a conductor. It is the only thought in Jade’s head as his brother shouts his name. Worry rarely crosses his twin’s face with such an intensity; most would judge it as anger. Ah, I am really being so impolite today. Sorry Floyd. The starting sparks of a teleportation spell start to pop around his shoulders and torso like fireflies.

With a deep breath, Jade disappears in a supernova.

More or less, Jade Leech has returned to being himself. Verbosely polite and formal; eager to lend a helping, subservient hand; jumping right back into the schedule he has: classes, duties for Azul, Mountain Lovers club activities, etcetera. He is a different picture of the man laying in bed, stricken with your absence; now, he has returned to the man he was in your presence.

Is it because you two are reunited in presence? That old tale of Hercules and Meg, interlocked souls, finally touching again? Are you reunited? Azul cannot be certain that is true. Nobody has been able to locate your body since that day.

Behind his glasses, Octavinelle’s housewarden traces the motions of his vice. He cannot see Jade’s expression, only scrutinizing over his back as he pens the order of a customer. It is a week after your uncompleted funeral. Azul’s stomach turns sick, watching Jade work effortlessly in Mostro Lounge, not knowing where Jade keeps your corpse.

Corpse … All his limbs shudder at the word. It could be hidden under his own bedroom’s floorboards or locked away in Ramshackle with your three ghost companions. You could be anywhere.

Every thought Azul has on the situation makes it feel like salt and ice are colliding in his abdomen in a hissing burn. So, he decides to stop thinking about it. Which is why he is almost grateful when Jade comes up to him, distracting his mind from slipping into darker speculation.

Hand on his heart, Jade says, “Table Fifteen is requesting your presence. They have a question about one of our discontinued menu items – the salmon and lemon-ricotta pasta. I already divulged about the excess supply getting thrown out because of low demand. However, your presence was requested nonetheless.”

“Ah, thank you, Jade,” Azul says. It is just the distraction he needs before he thinks about anything more ghastly. Stock issues and dining will not haunt him with goosebumps and night terrors. He starts towards Table Fifteen.

“Though … I can return and take care of it, if need be.”

It is that odious sentence that gives Azul pause. Because that is exactly what the old Jade would offer, using a bit of rough, predatory treatment to de-escalate an issue. Same old Jade Leech, hiding a corpse somewhere on campus … who even knows if your body is on campus.

“No … No, you are dismissed from the issue. Do whatever you please for the rest of your shift.”

“Very well. If you’ll excuse me.”

I have to go make preparations, Azul thinks as he goes to greet Table Fifteen. I don’t see it as necessary but, Azul glances one last time at Jade as the distance between them grows, Jade’s spine once again all he sees, I should prepare for the event of him overblotting.

Saprophytic organisms obtain their nutrients by breaking down dead organic matter. Fungi, bacteria, and water molds all have an exclusive diet of nature’s cadavers. In the simplest of terms, they eat death to sustain their own life.

Not all mushrooms are saprotrophs. After all, mycorrhizal and parasitic and endophytic mushrooms have a different diet; it is just that a majority of the mushrooms one finds, one will find them living among them dead. As active decomposers, they refuse to let death be finite. As Jade opens his terrarium, chip-esque mushrooms that mimic the look of a body’s heat signals, he recalls fondly how saprotrophs are the easiest to cultivate.

He takes out the turkey tail mushrooms, ripping them from their roots. Well, mushrooms have no roots but the image is still true. Turkey tail mushrooms are fascinating – they look so much like thermal heat vision, little branching waves of red, yellow, and white, thus making them look alive. And, they have a history of being used as medicine.

So vigorous with life yet bloated after a meal of death.

Jade opens the book on his desk in the botanical gardens. People always chastised him for his love of mushrooms. If he had an affection towards flowers or perhaps even pretty yellow weeds, he supposes it would not be as frowned upon. He has always been this way, preferring the ugly duckling over the swan. You were of a similar disposition.

Around his work station, an incense holder burns wisps of Worm’s Wort – which can dull the odor of anything. He flips through pages at a languid pace. From the window panes, moonlight slithers down a thousand maggots and makes their congealing home on Jade’s desk. Interlocking light lies down to rest as Jade stays awake into the night.

I’m so tired. The thought seeps in like a maggot in the ear of a cadaver. Numerous times, Jade changes his pair of nitrile gloves to rub at his eyes, warding off sleep. Moonlight maggots crawl over his skin.

It is only after his sixteenth failed potion (eighty-first if you count the others he has made in the past six nights after your funeral) with the wrong color, wrong texture, or wrong smell, does Jade’s head start to slip off his neck. On the verge of burning out, eyes blinking close, the desk rushes towards him like ground to a meteor, about to kiss his nose and face with pain, and – you catch him in your hand despite the smoldering sting of touching a meteor.

“You make and pick the strangest beds to fall asleep in. I can’t take my eyes off my Jade for a second, can I?”

Jade blinks to see you resting next to him, forehead on your forearm which lies on the table. His cheek is warmed by your right hand which acts as a bridge between his flesh and the desk. Even though some of your hair is in the way and the left side of your face is shielded in the cradle of your arm, Jade can see it clear as day. There is no scar threading itself across your forehead.

You give him a warm smile and Jade, who is a cold-blooded creature, replicates that warmth. The last exhausted fuses of energy left in him lift up his lovestruck lips. “Tired, baby,” you ask him.

“Mmmmh, just a bit. I have been at this for quite some time.”

“We should head back to Octavinelle then. Can’t have you knocking over a potion in your sleep.”

“No, no. Let’s stay here a little longer.” To bask in your presence, Jade needs that to a higher degree than he needs water or air. “Don’t go so soon.”

You are dressed in your school uniform. It has all of your soul’s idiosyncrasy in each article. Not really enrolled in Night Raven College, therefore lacking a uniform, you wear a leather jacket without pockets and a grid pattern collared shirt. The sleeves of your button-up gently pull away from being sandwiched by his cheek and desk. You busy yourself with brushing strands of black hair into its correct placement.

“Okay, okay. We can stay here for a while, but you’re definitely going to have a sore neck and sore shoulders in the morning.”

“Pamper me tomorrow?”

You hum, considering it. By now, most of the mismatched, colored tresses have been tucked gingerly behind his ear. You follow the diamond outline of a single sturgeon scale with your finger as you say, “If the price is right.”

Jade's smile grows stupid at that, showing just a sliver of his teeth. You always did like poking fun at his Octavinelle habits. Allowing himself to melt under your ministrations, he murmurs, “Anything for you.”

“Happy to do business with you then, Mr. Leech.”

You move the nail of your index along diamond scales’ edges, content to do as he says. Stay here a little longer under a gazebo of stars. Sevens, it might have been cheesily poetic what you said in the past, yet Jade agrees in totality with your poesy. The universe has collapsed, burnt away worries and responsibilities, and all that remains of creation is you and him.

Jade lifts his face so the hand playing with his earring falls over his mouth. With pouting lips, he plants a field of kisses on your palm. Such a warm palm. Your hand smells of raspberries and whipped vanilla from a foam soap you were particularly fond of. Jade can even smell it over the Worm’s Wort. And, Worm’s Wort – that is meant to keep his potion-making a secret – is an overwhelming, astringent scent that blankets other smells with high efficiency.

Everything, even his nose, narrows down to you. It is not an unpredictable feat. Azul once said your voice drags him out of any task with the ease of a siren working to drown a sailor. Which is why he hears you clearly even as you mumble, “Oh, I have this poem I want to workshop with you.”

Jade mourns the loss of your hand when you move energized. Leaning back in your stool, both hands fall behind you to grip under the seat. You throw back your head, conjuring all the verses up in your head. When you tilt your eyes to look at Jade, you have this grin on your face that balances on the fence of being sleazy with gross intent or being liberative with genius intent. Like you will either tell him you found a dead animal or you found the cure to cancer. He is all ears for whatever you throw.

He is only thrown for a bit of a loop as you swing your feet to the side and leap off the stool. Not perturbed over your body but rather an article of clothes. The noose around your neck is a blood-red tie with a stark white pattern of skulls upon it, mimicking the look of cut-out paper snowflakes. Patterned by two distinct rows: skulls connecting forehead to forehead then skulls facing the viewer. It vanishes from his sight as your back faces him.

Out of your mouth, poetry diffuses in the heavy, wet air of the botanical gardens.

“Wake up. (your feet carry you out towards the stretch of cobblestone, then playfully, you turn and disappear behind large, flowing leaves and unusual flowers)

Door Death, I knock upon thee (“(name)?” jade springs up, a deep fear swimming through him because you are out of his sight)

I ask the eternal question (when he pushes back the large leaves and peculiar flowers, you are no longer in that same spot; his head moves on a swivel, looking for you)

Has my life all been a dream? (your voice carries on the eastern air)

Has all my life been a dream? (your voice carries on the western air)

The eternal question unanswered (pressure falls over his eyes and heart, where are you!)

Door Death, I knock upon thee (a finger taps his shoulder-blade)

Wake up.”

When Jade turns, your embrace retreating slowly, you are holding out a solitary Easter lily out towards him. The gesture plainly tells him to take it. A white trumpet-shaped mouth yawns at him, five or so tongues of yellow pollen sticking out. It looks so correct in your hold that Jade almost doesn’t want to accept it.

Heart knocking with lingering desperation, he takes the Easter lily in hand all the same. In replacement to his palm, he rests his knuckles to his avalanching chest, careful of the flower in his caress. Before he can comment on the verses, you beat him to the punch. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret; my Jade isn’t stupid.”

He chuckles at that, eyes squinting with mirth.“Don’t I always say you should set your expectations upon higher platforms when with me?”

“My expectation towards your stupidity or your intellect?”

“Oya? I’d prefer the latter.” A teasing eyebrow is raised.

However, you grow grim like this is a matter of life or death. You twine arms around his neck and ensnare him to lean down to your height. In your eyes, a maelstrom of mental unease rages and causes your hues to appear milky-gray with worry. Under the concern of your bruised eyes, Jade responds, “You think I’m making a rash decision? Or perhaps, one that is not fully educated. I assure you that I have rigorously studied this.”

Your mouth quirks. “I think you are choosing the wrong method.”

“Then, enlighten me please.”

You lean close to him, nose to nose. Unlike the sweetness of raspberries and vanilla, your breath is something foul. Cadaverine and putrescine scent that he can only compare to the smell of his mushrooms at peak rot. Jade cannot focus on the scent because your voice hypnotizes him.

Slowly, you recite a song like it is poetry. “A dream is a wish your heart makes; when you’re fast asleep; in dreams you will lose your heartaches; whatever you wish for, you keep.”

Whatever dust of happiness is holding Jade’s lips blows away. The frown cuts his features. It takes a great deal for him to respond over the commotion of rain and lightning storming around in his ribcage; he only manages one word, perfumed in hurt and hate. “Him?”

Your next breath smells like mint. He imagines it would be something lovely to taste in a kiss. “I trust him. He is dear to me.”

Hate and hurt dull Jade’s casual loquacity. “But he hurt you.”

“So have you.” Now only hurt remains on Jade’s tongue. You do not let him refute, listing off, “So has Riddle, so has Leona and Azul, so has Jamil, so has Rook, so has Vil and Idia, so has Sebek, so has everyone that has known me. What is one more scar?”

It is the harsh truth, Jade knows. Magicless and fragile, you have been in the infirmary as often as an alcohol back to the liquor cabinet. Nothing worse than scratches and one broken wrist, nothing like this, Jade wants to desperately argue but your eyes silence him.

“So please,” you continue. “Please, give him a chance … You know, I’m still so sad that I never got to arrange that joint club meeting – Mountain Lovers and Gargoyle Research Studies. I think it would have been a peaceful walk at night, looking out for mushrooms and gargoyles.

“You two are so alike. It amuses me.” This truth takes its knife and thunders itself into Jade’s gut. Maneuvering with incredible dexterity, truth stabs into the eight tic-tac-toe regions of his abdomen, cutting deep red mouths into pallid flesh that tell him: yes, this is a truth. We love the same person. Jade does not voice this growing pain.

“I assure you, it is beneficial to have full faith in me. Have I ever made a split -choice decision? Do I not map out everything ahead of time? Besides, failing to my weaknesses in magical areas is not something I’m inclined to do, my dear.”

“Consider it. Anything for me, right?”

Ah, how villainous you are. To use his own words against him like that is a quality he both adores and loathes. Jade maneuvers the Easter lily so it sits in his hand like a cigarette. A loving hand raises up to one of the arms entwined around his neck, rubbing along the sleeve, as he slyly objects, “Surely you can understand my hesitation. After his -”

“I almost died –” Jade’s heart stops beating, fear is a powerful clog to all his heart’s arteries. You continue softly, “ during Azul’s overblot. What happened –”

“Let’s not talk about it. Just trust me.”

“Jade.”

“(Name).”

“No matter how your heart is grieving, if you keep on believing, the dream you wish will come true … Please, consider it for my sake.”

“... I will play around with it in my head … No promises that I won’t crush it like it’s a bug.”

The tone of the conversation turns light. “I hope the sound of it buzzing annoys you.”

“How cruel of you.”

“Ah, NRC has really rubbed off on me. I’m just too wicked.” A laugh breaks your lips.

“The worst. Worse than the worst. Vile.” Smiling with a mouthful of glass, shark-like teeth, Jade finally closes the gap between the two of you. The scent of mint too enticing and the sight of you too dopamine-inducing, he has to kiss your lips until you cry or moan. It is in his biological nature.

The gazebo of stars rebuilds itself. Each cedar wood paneling falls back into perfect placement. Yours and Jade’s lip find all the old familiar spots of pleasure; first just lip fat smooshing together until you both in perfect sync open your mouths to each other. It might be seen as tedious already knowing the moves but Jade thinks it is a testament to how truly made for one another each of you are.

And, of course, he never allows it to get boring. Tongues like magma flowing in combining rivulets, Jade takes to moving his hands down past the curve of your shoulders to the side of your cheeks. He tilts your head in the opposite direction of how he moves his, deepening the kiss.

You grip the back of teal strands and real pain ignites on his skin. Pain made by your physical grip. Jade follows along to mimic that harshly loving gesture. However, when he rests his fingers to cup the back of your head, he stumbles upon a scar line. A few inches above your nape. It lies like a jagged river cutting apart two pieces of land.

A warning bell blares in Jade’s mind. The sound causes him to break away. It is not buzzing though, like you were predicting.

Night Raven College’s clock chimes twice, deep in the bowels of dark, interlocking hallways. It knocks on Jade’s skull and pulls him away. When he lifts his head off the desk, blinking at the sight of potions, his shoulders and neck are incredibly sore. 2 A.M. Two chimes after all mean 2 A.M. The air is so thick with Worm’s Wort that he almost chokes on it.

He does end up choking. Not on something as flowy as Worm’s Wort smoke. Rather, he chokes on something rather salty and dangerously watery.

At 2:47 A.M, Jade Leech walks into the Diasomnia dorm.

At 3:08 A.M, Jade Leech walks out of the Diasomnia dorm, a deal made.

Floyd wakes up facing an empty bed. This is not entirely odd; Jade has a scheduled A period while Floyd opts to keep his first period free. With thick fog still lingering in his brain, it does seem a bit odd not to see Jade because for the past month he has remained in bed. But – Jade is doing better. What gives Floyd pauses is the lingering thought: did I hear Jade come in at all last night?

Floyd is a light sleeper, always has been, so he should have been able to hear him at least enter the dorm last night or exit the dorm this morning. He doesn’t even think he heard a ladybug on the creaking floor; all of Octavinelle was unnaturally still last night like a graveyard. Before he can ponder longer on dead silence, his phone rings.

What Azul hisses over the phone has Floyd kicking his covers like they have caught fire. “Tell me you know where Jade is. Tell me right now; where is your brother?”

From point A to point B, Floyd and Jade Leech’s dormitory to Mostro Lounge’s VIP Room, the distance is about eight minutes for a normal person. Due to their longer strides, Floyd and Jade can cut this measurement by two minutes while Azul takes the full eight. It takes Floyd three minutes to point B, as while Azul curses his ear and Floyd curses under his breath.

Floyd knows it bad when dogmatic Azul does not scold him for walking through numerous hallways and his precious Lounge without a pair of socks, and it gets worse when Azul does not scold him for still being in his pajamas – an XL shirt with poetry in a downward pattern saying: “®, 40S & SHORTIES, BAD DECISIONS. GOOD TIMES., WORLDVIEW” with a pair of white striped, blue cotton pants – at nine on a Tuesday morning. Two Azuls speak in unison, one on the telephone receiver and one in front of him, “I think he has sealed it up with magic.”

It is a book. Just as Floyd’s hand had fallen on Mostro Lounge’s VIP door, he had inquired why Azul Ashengrotto of all people was having such a hard time getting a single book open. A book is easy to open; a book sealed with magic should be easy too, for a mage of Azul’s talents.

“Well, can’t ya just break it? It can’t be anything stronger than what we learned in Practical Magic?” Floyd disconnects the call as he talks; he does not need two Azuls in his ear.

“If the charm was something from that course then of course. This is more on par with the third year Conjuration course … or Ancient Curses.”

Though only seventeen, one would think with the maturity etched in Azul’s features that he was nearing twenty-seven instead. He has a hand depressed on his face and his eyes drawn into a sharp squint. Behind the shield of his glasses, a dozen speculations and calculations dance like sparks of lightning. Floyd hates it as much as he is glad to see that incisive prowess.

“But … it’s just a book about mushrooms.” Which is entirely true. The book that Azul’s stare is burning a hole through has written plainly on it: Chanterelle Dreams, Amanita Nightmares.

When considering current events, the title causes Floyd’s stomach to turn inside out. However, it is something Floyd has seen Jade read before Malleus’s overblot. It is just a boring book. A boring book that for some reason won’t open.

Azul verbalizes Floyd’s inner doubt, “A book that Jade left behind. A book that is not opening no matter what elementary magic I throw at it.”

Left in the botanical gardens. Left there overnight when Jade said he was going to be right back after tending to his terrariums. Getting back into hobbies was a sign of healing from trauma, right? Floyd feels like the skin of stomach is not only inside out but being torched by fire.

“I‘ll open it. I’m on the same level as Jade. Can’t be too hard.” Just as Floyd starts walking up to Azul’s desk, he is stopped.

“No! No … we shouldn’t risk your health if this takes something more to open.”

Vexation falls on Floyd’s face. His teeth displayed and brow crinkled, “Huuuh?” He stomps over to the desk. “It’s Jade magic. It ain’t gonna kill us.”

“No, but it might drain one of us. And,” Azul hesitates. But when Floyd slams his hands down on the VIP desk, determinate coals burn in his sky-blue eyes. He stares down Floyd without a single flinch. “And you run the fastest out of the two of us, so we cannot risk your energy.”

It takes a moment for him to back down. Reading the map of the plan on Azul’s expression, it comes to Floyd’s attention what exactly Azul is hinting at. “Fiiine.” Floyd’s dominant hand still crosses up to rest on his right shoulder. “Doesn’t mean I’ma be happy about it though.”

“Trust me, neither am I.” And he really isn’t. This entire situation leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

On the ledge of Azul’s desk rests his staff. The octopus’s bulbous head keeps it steady on the surface. Authentic silver shines elegantly under the expensive lighting. Between the nest of curling tentacles, Azul’s gray gemstone sits, ready to be utilized. White gloves wrap around the sleek black handle.

When Azul holds his staff above the book, Floyd interrupts, “Ma called me two nights ago and said – (Floyd sits in his bed, stricken by the sound of his grown, emotionally shielded mother crying. The sound of her sobs feel so artificial in his left ear, like hearing a creature trying to mimic human speech patterns. Something so visceral wrong laced in the vocal cords of it.

“Mama, Mama, what’s wrong,” Floyd pleads, about one breath away from grabbing a transformation potion and rushing to the Mirror Chamber.

“Tell – Tell Jade to pick up his phone please – I just! I – auh – Floooyd,” his mother sobs.

“Mama, he’s in class. He can’t pick up his phone right now. He’s in class. What’s wrong? Ma?”

That seems to soothe something in Narissa Leech. There is a slick sound of her wiping away tears, probably bringing talons under her eyelids and probably bringing her forearm across her nose. After a few tearful breath, she whispers, “He’s not sleepin’?”

“No, he went to his A period class. Mama, what’s wrong?”

“I,” she sniffles, “I had this awful dream. You and Jade were tiny and still sharing your bedrooms. I went to wake up both of you for breakfast but Jade wouldn’t wake up. I kept shaking and shakin’ him. It was like he was in a coma and just wouldn’t get up. He looked like a tiny corpse.

“I kept calling for you and Dad, but neither of you would come help. My little baby. I kept trying to wake him up. I just tried and tried. Then, I pried his left eye open and ah!” His mother cries once more. “He looked so dead in his sleep!”). – and I haven’t been able to stop thinkin’ ‘bout it,” Floyd finishes.

It is very rare for either of the twins to show their fears. Fear is a delicious seasoning that gets you devoured in the Coral Sea. Though it wears a mask on Floyd’s face, fear is still evident in his voice despite the steadiness of each syllable. Sometimes friends can just measure how much fear the other has, even when it is not shown.

Azul frowns sympathetically. He has only really had his mother and step-father; worrying about a sibling is uncharted territory for Azul. However, if he had friends with a bond as close as a sibling relationship, it might be Floyd and Jade. It just might.

It probably is not though. Probably.

“Since we were little, your brother has always been capable. Both in his magic and in his wit. Even … even in this instance, I doubt Jade will ever make a decision hazardously.” Which is exactly what worries them; Jade is brilliant, who knows what an odious mixture of intellect and grief could end up making.

Azul touches the octopus’s forehead to the cover of Chanterelle Dreams, Amanita Nightmares. In reaction, the room explodes with the power of a violet tornado.

“Fuck,” Floyd shouts as wind body-checks him like a obese linebacker.

Azul’s hat flies off his head. His glasses would risk being magnetized into the same wind-polarity if he tilted his face away from the shimmering violet. However, Azul does not wither even once at the tremendously powerful locking spell. The violet that stains his face like grape only hones him into the irrefutable fact that this is Jade’s magic. Despite being on the verge of being knocked over by it, the realization fills Azul with relief.

Floyd’s violet nails scrap lines into Azul’s desk but Azul does not twitch out of his resolve. Papers lying on his desk go airborne. The housewarden grits his violet teeth so hard that he risks breaking his jaw, his mole stretching down with the shape of his grimace.

C’mon, c’mon! Slowly, the tentacles on Azul’s staff start to unfurl from their comatose state. His gem stone and the octopus head remain fixed to the handle unlike the squirming appendages. Silver metal moves fluidly and wraps itself around the cover of the book like a starfish.

Then, with a burst of brighter violet that fades away to nothing, chanterelle dreams and amanita nightmares reveal their faces to the two of them. Well, not to Floyd. Temporarily blind due to the atomic explosion, he is wiping his eyes with his knuckles, blinking away little spots of endless black and blinding white. Which is why for a vital moment, Floyd misses the look of absolute horror that paints Azul’s face.

“Th-This –.” As the tentacles of his magic staff congeal back into their normal state, Azul sets the handle’s end down on the ground. Uncoordinated, it tumbles to the ground just as Azul picks up the book, holding it close to his chest.

“Wha? What’s in it? Shit, this kills,” Floyd hisses, hunched over. A stray tear falls down Floyd’s left eye as he slowly straightens out. “Stupid Jade.”

With each page flip, Azul’s face turns a lighter shade of white. When a hand reaches out to grab the book, Azul slaps it with so much force that Floyd groans in pain.

“C’mon, let me see,” Floyd whines. It is not a childish whine but more of a warning, he is going to get violent if Azul does not hand over the stupid book now. Floyd grabs the desk and leans over the top, trying to get a glimpse of whatever Azul is hiding. All he sees is paragraphs of text and a block where an image is drawn.

He does not get to know what the image is because Azul slams the book shut and demands with urgency, “Where is your brother, Floyd?”

A dragon’s treasure is guarded and hoarded with a shield-and-sword-heart acting as its knights. Malleus has found his treasure to have become his memories of you. If each recollection was a shiny ruby or bright diamond, Malleus puts them all in an isolated, inaccessible cache. In times where comfort is needed, he returns to roll a precious gem in his talons, moments of just you and him unshared with others playing in his mind. Right now, Malleus rotates a rose quartz.

This particular rose quartz was formed by magma crystallization as all are. The time period it was formed in was before you knew his true identity.

You two are perched miles above the ground, on one of the eastern turrets of Night Raven College. You curl into your notepad as Malleus takes in the scenery.

He took you up here by teleportation. You have improved in leaps and bounds from your first time being maneuvered about the earth by a teleportation spell. Unlike your first time, you only gag now rather than puke. After a spell (not performed by his hands) of dizziness, you two took your seats upon the roof. Meters in front of you lies a single gargoyle. Wingspan extended out and the spine facing you.

He has already explained it to you in great detail, and you listened. Really listened. So used to be stared through, Malleus has recently been finding his ears turn pink at how you look at him. Tonight, he has cut off his presentation earlier than normal. Bashfully empty of words burnt out from your smoldering eyes.

Malleus welcomes the reprieve with gratitude. Chirping crickets and grinding graphite is the only music playing in his ears – though he can sometimes hear the jazz notes of you going no, no, that line does work, no, what’s another word for … no, too pretentious and has to keep himself from chuckling fondly.

Soon, the crickets find themselves without any further accompaniment; you have stopped writing. Curious, Malleus looks away from the stone he has been studying. His neck rolls. Rejuvenated, his pulse pounds in the taut muscles found in his throat at the sight of you. What a sight you truly are, unafraid to be here with him.

You catch onto his unshakable staring. Tongue in cheek, pencil clenched in hand, you announce “I.” The pencil weeps under your strength. “I think I got it now.”

Malleus raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You tap your pencil on the edge of your notepad anxiously. Then, taking a deep breath, you read your haiku:

“Apathy on stone

My prince, do not reveal tears

Gargoyle, keep your face.”

The look you give him is uneasy. He imagines you are anticipating harsh criticism, writing a poem on a subject matter he is so endowed in. Rather than criticism, the only thing in Malleus’s heart is a quick skipping beat.

You have such a way with words that it leaves his spellbound despite the unequivocal fact that you are very magicless. The words seem so knitted together for his especial heart. His own face of stone. However, knowing you do not know he is a prince, he considers the five-seven-five syllable poem and covers up his growing blush with one inquiry , “tears?”

“Because gargoyles are waterspouts. So, I wanted to layer an emotion to the functionality, the rigid job.” For a moment, you consider the poem in your hand then your mouth moves a mile a second. “Ugh! Truthfully, I wanted to say ‘a prince must never cry’ so it can keep the chain of commands like ‘keep your face’ but then the line would only be six syllables! Ugh, I hate haikus! I can’t write a single good one.”

You look about ready to crumple up and toss the note away with hatred. It would not be surprising, you do this a lot. Enough to the point where Malleus has a collection of crinkled up poems — “If you want them, you can have them. They fucking stink though,” you had first bemoaned when Malleus first asked to keep your workshopping words. This one though, Malleus wants you to be proud of it.

“I happen to think it is quite beautiful, spellbinding almost.”

The way your eyes shimmer when looking at him leaves Malleus choking on the night air. He continues despite his temperature rising in his gut and nape.

“The first and third lines feel impersonal, but the middle line is soft. It is the gentleness sandwiched and withered away by the stone. Despite the cold exterior, there is a heart in there.”

The way you look at him — all the ways you look at him, but even more so now — has him falling helplessly in love with you. Stars blaze in your eyes like he has opened up the jaws of the universe and plucked your favorite part of the cosmo down for you. He would do so for you. He would do so much for you – divide the ocean down the middle, change the phrase of the moon, or tear the sky in two. Wounded so tightly across your finger that it surely cuts off circulation. You look at him so sweetly, bathed by the night’s glow. Malleus bites his tongue bloody to keep from telling you that you have the prettiest eyes.

“That’s — That’s actually really a revolutionary way to look at it. I —,” you glance down at your work, “I really didn’t have the optimism to see it that way.”

“You should be more prideful of what you create. Your work too has a heart despite its cold exterior, even at its most tortured.”

“Stooop, I’ll blush.” You raise a hand over your eyes but a sleazy grin is underneath your fingers. You enjoy praise a lot.

“I am just being honest with you, Child of Man. You always asked me to be.” He pauses then asks, “however, may I inquire why use the word prince?”

“I don’t know. Don’t they seem regal to you at times?”

“Hm, there seems to be a resemblance.”

“They remind me of you a lot. Regal. Ah, not that you’re a prince though … What’s that grin for? Don’t tell me I inflated your ego.”

“Nothing of the sorts, Child of Man.”

“Ah, whatever.” Despite your grumbled tone, you flip to the next notebook page. It is the first one he has seen you save rather than tear up.

Rain pitters on the building, starting out soft like the languid pop of popcorn in a microwave. No, not on Night Raven College’s roof. Rainfall taps like fingertips on Diasomnia’s dormitory, and Malleus realizes it is time for him to put this rose quartz back in his treasure hoard. When his and Jade’s eyes meet across the room, his breath grows thorn in his lungs. Now is not the time to reflect.

From the towering polygon windows, the icy clouds heavy with rain are just barely visible through the shower sticking to the panes. Worser weather is certain to come like an expected guest. Malleus, tongue heavy, announces, “All that is left now is to retrieve their body.”

Diasomnia’s lounge has been cleared of all its furniture and rugs. Tables teleport away and rugs roll themselves up. Black leather couches and chairs are depressed tightly on the southern wall behind Jade and Malleus, blocking the entrance. Not that they are necessary barricades when the bombay blackwood doors are locked firmly with ancient magic.

It is set in motion to take place in the lounge’s heart. The nook bordered by two grand staircases and twenty feet below where Diasomnia’s throne resides. Upon the cement ground, illuminated by no light, lies a circle of complex patterns and symbols made of thorns. In the middle of linking sigils, Octavinelle’s vice-housewarden stands with an apathetic, stone face. The same expression he had worn when he and Malleus made their contractual deal.

He keeps his cards so close to his chest, you once bemoaned on your nightly ventures. Malleus remembers it well; you were reaching tear-out-your-hair hysteria due to cooking a meal for Jade Leech and not receiving a clear glimpse into his opinion. He’s impossible to read! Your teeth flashed with frustration.

It is an appropriate analogy. Like an experienced gambler, Jade knows not to leave his hands vulnerable to any ill-intent strikes. At first, he was incredibly suspicious of your kindness until evolution changed your kindness to a craving. With Malleus, Jade hides his cards behind his back and then shields them with an illusion spell to change the faces of the playing cards.

Making this shrewd deal was one of Jade’s finer moments. Like an experienced brain surgeon, he knows where to pull with roughness or push with softness in the intricate webbing of nerve-endings. Using survivor’s guilt as keen forceps and using his own signature spell as hooks, Jade performed a deal Azul would have been praiseful of.

Which is why he will comply with the terms, because he has already prematurely agreed to them. Green eyes watch him pull black gloves carefully from his hands. He folds them once, pockets them, then unclips his magic pen from his breast pocket. A collision of two stars bursts in bright colors on the surface of Jade’s pen.

From out of thin air, you appear. You fall into Jade’s arm with all the grace of a dead body. Jade catches you in a dancer’s standard dip. Limp, your neck stretches as far as it can while dangling strands of hair point down at the ground like a thousand knives.

He plants a gentle kiss on your cheek. Mourning and love mix in his heterochromic eyes. Jade takes to silently brushing away the pieces that cover up your forehead’s scar as if to almost say to Malleus who watches Jade lift you bridal style: look at what you did to them, look.

Malleus’s otherwise imperative stare moves to a window. The rain is starting to get gradually heavier. When Malleus looks back, Jade is kneeled in the middle of the circle of thorns, as was pre-planned. The stone-faced prince of Briar Valley interlocks his gloves underneath the gem’s handle base instead of just holding it in one hand.

“No matter what you see or hear, your focus must never flicker from the Child of Man. A single interruption is a breakage in a dam of irreversible consequence. I ask you to heed these words carefully … Jade.”

“Of course.” Curt and clip, Jade’s confirmation is nothing more than contractual obligation.

The vines from the head base to gemstone bring to shift. Two interlocked vines rotate in a downward spiral, dancing around one another.

“Then, let us not waste another second.”

The spindle’s wheel starts to spin. Slowly at first, it moves at a pace where one can keep track of the mismatched sized spokes. Gradually, the spindle picks up pace. Inner spokes start to move in a heartbeat-esque pattern, up and down from long to short to long to short. Bombay blackwood twirls; the natural grain melts together into one smooth surface. It keeps picking up pace, twirling faster and faster. It is now impossible to distinguish where the spokes lie as they all melt into nebulous black. Accumulating to its peak, Malleus’s spindle moves so swiftly that it appears to slow down, moving counterclockwise.

Wind picks up in Diasomnia as if a tornado is tearing through the stone ribcage. Malleus’s hair flies around him like ebon seaweed caught along a boat’s racing hook. The obsidian markings on his forehead stay relenting to the fierce winds, tight upon his increasingly crinkling brow. Behind his pointed ears, ebon strands whip back and forth with a vengeance.

Jade’s and your hair move in tandem, blown in the same direction. Despite the discord around, despite when Malleus starts to chant, nothing tears his gaze from you. His eyes are intent on you like a mere blink would cause you to dissolve into seafoam. Despite the lighting hitting the ground, he keeps his stare.

A breath later, the lounge is plunged into green.

On the tongue of a stone bridge, Floyd and Azul appear out of thin air. Not entirely out of thin air though; around their shoulders, the shimmer of the transportation mirror into Diasomnia fades over their bodies. Rain smacks them in the face with a grievous scorn. Azul loses his footing temporarily but Floyd catches him by the elbow.

He pushes up his glasses, rain falls so hard and fast that they become more of an obstacle than a helper for sight. Getting drenched by the second, Azul stops with Floyd to watch the show of dancing lightning. “By Sevens, do you really think Draconia is overblotting again?”

Diasomnia staff and students in Mostro Lounge had started checking their phones as Floyd and Azul stepped out from the VIP room. Apparently, there was a storm brewing in the Diasomnia dormitory. Apparently, the main foyer was closed off and the vice-housewarden was evacuating students. Apparently, Malleus Draconia is overblotting a second time. Who knows if the information is reliable. All that is important is Jade was seen days ago, walking on this very stone bridge past midnight.

“I don’t care. I know Sea Slug knows where Jade is.” Floyd’s lips pull into a beastly snarl. “C’mon.”

A cold sweat breaks on Malleus’s forehead. From the two connecting diamonds imprinted on his forehead, sweat drops. It trails down over his nose to his lips which are harshly breathing air in and out.

Malleus Draconia has to minutely remind himself how breathing works as the tornado rips through Diasomnia like a savage bear. Pressure stomps on his chest with an iron boot. Through all his wild chase to keep oxygen in his lungs, he recognizes it not as pain but rather a deserved punishment. I’m sorry, Child of Man. It is an unheard sentiment; even if said, it would be torn from his lips and thrown yards away by the wind.

There are many unheard sentiments chopped by the furious air. Most of them come from Silver, Sebek, and Lilia, behindthe barracked door, drowned out by turbulent winds. Harsh air chops up the syllables like a knife, turning them into incomprehensible poetry. The sentiments matter little until among them a single voice shouts, “JADE!”

Stricken, Jade tears his hell-bent gaze away from you. He does not answer loud enough to be heard over the maelstrom but the sentiment is still sincere. “Floyd?”

“Ignore it! Focus on them!!” Under Malleus’s instructions, Jade fixes the nucleus of his sight back onto you. A resurrection can only be completed with the kiss of true love. Without that passionate embrace, the body will lose the returning soul it momentarily holds. A true love’s kiss seals it back in the body. He waits for the predestined moment where he can connect your lips together with unwavering focus.

“Just a little longer now, my love.” Jade’s lips pull into a lovestruck grin. “Soon.”

Among the wind, voices converse:

“Pry open the door!”

“We have been trying to!”

“Your hands are not broken or bloodied! You obviously have not!!”

“Malleus, this could kill you! This could kill you both!”

“ Malleus!!”

“Jade, you fuck!”

Azul shouts with all his remaining strength, “Jade, don’t do this!!”

A black star forms silently over Jade’s head.

All of his life, he has been unapproachable. All of his life, people have found his teeth nightmarish and his eyes ghoulish. All of his life, he has waited for someone like you. You mean the universe to him; driven to the point where he would do something as forbidden as this. Malleus grips his staff tighter and Jade grips you tighter.

The black star is an abomination. Quantum processes work in rotation, lapping over each other like yin-and-yang. Ebony water shimmer in the middle of the black star while the outer ring strangles the air atoms with thorns. Atomic particles split into twos, going smaller than scientists thought possible, with the strength of the semiclassical, gravitational abomination.

It thumps like a grotesque, wet heart and churns with the sound of visceral tearing. From the black thorns, the atmosphere collapses into blue-gray dust, destroying the atoms in its way. The black star gives a pained groan before it expels what it has taken.

From the inky depths of a black star, wisps of smoke start to seep down like water from overhead greenhouse hoses. The plumes of cloud hiss with head-splitting volume. Slowly, those misty clouds spiral back into a congealing mass. A split tornado swirling back into its original shape. Smoke tightens and arrows down before erupting into a cloud over your face. You swallow it; from your eyes, to your nose, to your ears, to your mouth, you swallow all the mist until there is nothing left in the collapsing air.

Perhaps you are not swallowing; perhaps it is entering.

Jade watches intent each centimeter square of your face with glassy eyes. He waits until each wisps of vapor diffuses into the very pores of your skin. When the air is clear of the smoke, he brings up his right hand to move hair that has fallen over your features.

Onto the skies of your lips, Jade Leech whispers his heart. “I love you. I cannot live this life without my heart and soul. Come back to me; where you belong, my love, is with me.” Under a gruesome black star, he kisses you.

It is an unreciprocated kiss. When kissing a corpse, one should never expect to be greeted with tender amorous sensations. This is why Jade does not despair when he feels nothing, suctioning your lifeless lips in two kisses before pecking harshly for the third and final kiss. It is alright – he can have his real kiss soon – because the black star is killing itself.

Collapsing air closes in a snap. Leftover blue-gray powder hangs in the air like dust particles seen from the sunlight’s rays. Slowly, green light starts to slither away, dimming in quanta measures. All is so tranquil; even the tornado winds bottled in the lounge start to dim away. Then, like your heart is trying to jump from your chest, you start to hyperventilate in Jade’s arms.

“(Na-Name) … (Name),” love washes over Jade’s tongue. You twist violently in his arms, throat and chest pounding up and down with irregular breaths. Like a cornered prey, your eyes are wild with confusion. “It’s okay … I got you. You’re safe … Oh, you’re so beautiful. My love.”

Neck rolling back, seizure-like eyes go white and you cough out a mushroom-shaped cloud of blue-gray dust. Black blood drips down your left nostril and trails like a tear off your cheek. Exhaustively, your chest continues to punch in and out with air that misses their connection in your lungs by centimeters. If you do not find a way to breathe, you will surely die a second time.

Not that Jade would let that happen after just getting you back. Jade maneuvers you with ease. He moves your back so it lies on his chest and whispers, “I know it will be difficult but follow along to my breath. Feel it go in … out … in … out … in … out … there, there … out … in … good, so good.”

Your chest beats wildly like the tempo of a metal song while Jade’s chest beats with the measured drum of rhythm and blues. Ungloved skin rests, fingers spread wide, on your chest. Each groove of each other’s bones are felt. Past the layers of muscle, skin, and clothes, your lungs touch together in a kiss. Jade depresses his chest on your back, bending you into a hunch. His words are almost delirious.

“I love you. I love you so much. I love you, please see it and believe it. I would do anything for you, (Name).”

Slowly, the tempo of your lungs start to dim like the lightning, green lights, and wind do. Jade moves his hand from your chest to your left shoulder. He depresses his lips on your neck, holding onto you painfully tight.

“ … Right where I want you to be again. Be here with me. Be awake with me. I love you.”

You capture your first real breath as the door to the lounge bursts open.

You turn, eyes wide as saucers. Behind you, Jade’s timid smiling face greets you from your eternal sleep. Another string of black blood drips down your face, this one coming from your right nostril. Your brows creases then flattens out, recognizing the face after a moment of hesitation..

“Jade?”

In response, Jade smiles with all his teeth.

Separate from you two, Malleus lies on the floor. His own heart and lungs beating erratically, panting like a dog on a smoldering summer’s day. Lilia may put his hand on his shoulder to try and vanquish the tidal wave of breathlessness but Malleus shrugs it off. His staff is knocked by his side from the explosion of the black star collapsing. Malleus uses it to push himself up on his knees.

His heart floods with relief and love at seeing the sight of you breathing in Jade’s arms. Besotted beyond belief, he whispers lovestruck, “Child of Man.” Then, the calm expression melts off his face and reveals panic. Because that is not –!

“Jade!”

Floyd breaks into the room like a storm; shoulder-checks Sebek who is trying to reach Malleus; jumps over the furniture that prove to be useless barracks. “Jade,” he shouts again when he notices his brother has yet to turn away from you.

Their eyes find each other across the room easily. It is incredibly hard to see in the Coral Sea, biological and environmental factors working double-time together to ensure they stayed in the middle of the food chain. Their shared beacon of gold keeps them tethered together in the sea and on the land. No one else, not even their parents have an eye similar to theirs. That’s my brother is what that single ring of gold means.

Floyd can recognize Jade as such even now at the worst of times. However, a marginal note is stapled onto the thought. That’s my brother and, right now, I’m terrified of him. It is an odious thought. Sevens, Floyd can feel the tap-dancers of bile make their merry way up his throat at this very moment. What keeps them tethered together feels more like a chain than a security line to use.

“Bad decisions, good times,” Jade reads off his t-shirt. “Hm, Floyd?”

How can he speak so calmly with that in his arms? Perhaps, that too is part of why Floyd feels goosebumps on the back of his thighs. A prey or lower predator has signals receptors to recognize danger. A cat shows its fear in a twitching tail; Floyd wonders how he must be showing his own fear. Call it animal insight but a part of Floyd knows deep down, that is not you in his brother’s arms.

“Ja-Jaido.”

“Florido.”

Do this for me, Jade’s eyes seem to implore. Ah, you asshole, Floyd’s eyes respond.

He walks forward through a graveyard of thorns. “They probably can’t walk that well. Gotta be winded.” Floyd outstretches his left hand; Jade’s eyes squint in gaiety and your own gape wide in curiosity. The grip Jade has around you is protective. “C’mon, get up.”

“Thank you, Floyd,” Jade says, placing his hand on his brother’s.

#twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland #malleus draconia x reader #twst jade

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 8 months ago

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Chapter 7: Are We Old Friends Or Old Enemies?

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter seven of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 5K

Warnings: I'm going to rate this 18+ just to be sure. References to Past Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Cursing, Blood, Guts, Graphic Death, (spoilers?), Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, a little OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Present Day

Your motorcycle crunches loudly against the black gravel driveway outside of Crimson Countess' trailer. It looks worse than you imagined, shoved behind Vought-land, and sprouting out of the ground like a fungus. Not an unusual thought given it's ogre-like inhabitant.

You weren't looking forward to seeing her after all these years, because you knew it wasn't going to end well. Deep down you hoped that she had let go of everything that happened in the past, like you had tried, well, until Butcher and Hughie showed up at your apartment. Then again, you're not sure that you've really let go of everything that happened. Sometimes it felt like you just shoved all your feelings into the deepest darkest part of your brain where they’d been festering for the past forty years.

And ever since Butcher and Hughie showed up, those feelings had been clawing their way out like a banished Titan climbing out of Tartarus.

You think again about driving away. If you saw her, there wouldn't be any going back. You couldn't go in there pretending to be your daughter, you had to be you. Which meant the possibility of losing the life you'd constructed in the aftermath that followed your long superhero career.

Was it worth it? Was Ben worth it?

You sigh considering that thought. After the fight it was difficult to answer that question. If the answer was no, you might as well just leave. But the answer was yes. You hated that after everything that happened between Ben and you, the answer was yes.

And that meant you needed to know the truth, needed to see it in her eyes. Which also meant there was only one choice.

You look around the clearing where the trailer sits. It’s in a circle of trees that filter the setting sunlight through their lofty branches, making patterns on the gravel where weeds and patches of grass break through every few feet like an oasis in a desert. Further down the road to the right you see a collection of empty circus carts that rust onto yellowed grass, rising from the earth to tangle in the wooden wheels of the carts.

At least the trees are pretty. You think to yourself trying to focus on the positive. They were, after all, one of your favorite things to paint.

You consider your apartment downtown, the open floor plan and large windows, very different from how she chose to live her life. Your eyes trace the mobile home thinking back about the fungus analogy.

The trailer was covered with peeling white paint stained black and yellow in some areas where sticky mold had begun to fester against the structure. The rickety porch was rotted, so much so that when you walked across it, it creaked loudly beneath your feet and you stepped around several foot-sized holes, where others had fallen through.

She definitely didn't budget her money well. I wonder how much money she got when she was a hero? I know that my salary wasn't amazing. Ben definitely did better than me because of his films.

Then again, you were living off money from your father, and your grandfather's investments in real estate, not to mention your artwork was selling better than it ever had.

Your knock against the flimsy front door of the mobile home, not using your supe strength, but the entire house still shakes.

Probably wouldn't withstand a thunderstorm. Hopefully she's invested in an umbrella.

No one answers and for a moment you hope that she's not here or she's dead, but just like always you’re disappointed.

"Who the fuck is it?" You hear Countess' familiar voice shout from inside.

A swarm of memories flock across your mind at her voice, but you push them aside.

"Your best friend in the whole world." You respond, before you can stop yourself. Sarcasm was an easy fallback. If your mother was here she'd say that it wasn't ladylike.

Really just disappointing her in every century. The thought makes you happy.

"What?" Countess rips open the door so savagely that you wonder how the door didn't come off in her hand. You watch her eyes widen and her face pale as her gaze lands on you.

Well, that's certainly not a normal reaction to seeing me.

"Y/n?" You hear her heartbeat spike in her chest. "You're-" She sputters to look for the right word.

"Alive? Yes." You smile at her. "Well, aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Um-"

A flash of the last time you saw her comes roaring back. The smug look on her face when you caught her and Ben together, the way her face was flushed bright red, sweat dotting her hairline while he- You clear your throat to stop the memory.

You push past her into the small residence, not waiting for her to invite you, and your nose wrinkles as the smell of sweat and her rancid perfume invade your nostrils. It was barely two rooms, the small kitchen/living room was separated from the bedroom with a red beaded curtain that doesn't hide the unmade bed and clothes covered floor.

This was unusual given the fact that she was wearing her supe suit, complete with cape and mask. It was a little tighter in some places than you remember, her reddish hair reeked of cheap dye, her perfume like a cloud of sulfuric acid, and her pointed, cruel face was more wrinkled that the last time you saw her.

"I'd like to say that this is cute," You turn to look back at her from the small kitchen/living room, that was covered in dirty plates and take-out boxes. "But it's kind of a shit hole, isn't it?"

That was fast. So much for trying to be civil. Too much history I guess.

"What are you doing here?" She keeps her voice calm, but the tempo of her heart suggests otherwise.

Your eyes trace the lines of her face, the wrinkles, the subtle graying of her hair that the dye couldn't cover. "Just thought I'd check in. See how things are going. You definitely didn't age well."

"What the fuck do you want?" She snarls this time.

You can't help but smile at her. Something about this whole situation was utterly ridiculous to you.

She said Ben died. Why am I even here? What did she have to gain from his death? The thought swishes around in your brain. But then why was she afraid when she saw me? You think about all the times you spent watching her manipulate the others on Payback and all the other times you were around her, she never showed fear. Why now?

"I'm here because somebody showed up the other day asking me about Ben." You shrug, running one of your hands against the dirty kitchen countertop examining the tip of your finger as if looking for dust. "And it's funny, because as they were asking me questions I realized that you and I never talked about what happened that day. I mean I heard what you said through Stan and Legend, but I never heard it from you. Thought it was time we had a little heart to heart."

Her pulse spikes again, but she covers it with a smirk. "You want to talk about Ben?" Her voice drips with false sweetness. "Well I'll say this, he was a good fuck. But I'm sure you knew that."

Your entire body goes rigid, remembering the night that you found them together, the night after you finally told him you loved him and he pushed you away.

"I mean, after all, he popped your cherry didn't he? Made you a woman." Countess' smirk turns into a rueful smile. "You definitely waited long enough. Ben told me how long you’d been friends. He told me the sex was so boring, that you were so inexperienced, that he wanted a real woman who could actually please him. A woman who wasn’t quite so-." She sniffs, tapping a bright red fingernail against her hip. “Big.”

Her words are like a slap in the face and you feel the cold disapproval of your mother for the first time in eighty years. The anger that surges up underneath your skin flares hot against your cheeks.

Ben wouldn't have said that about me. He- he knew how special that was for me. He said that he wanted it to be special for me.

You remember how happy he looked when you woke up in his arms the next day, before you said the three little words that you couldn't hold in anymore, the ones that you had wanted to say to him since you were eight.

"Poor little y/n. You worshiped the ground he walked on for so long and finally he decided to pity fuck you. It’s so sad. You wasted your life pining for someone who will never love you. And you thought you could just come here and intimidate me? You’re still the same little girl who begged Ben to fuck yo-"

Her body flies forward telekinetically into your outstretched hand, that clamps down around her throat.

"But I do intimidate you." Your eyes shift to purple with your display of power. "Your heart rate hasn't dropped below 120 since I got here. So obviously there's a reason why you're afraid of me." She gasps against your hand, but you don't let go. "Tell me what happened that day." Your voice has slipped into a monotone, tinged with rage. “And I promise that I’ll let you live. In what condition, well, that's up to you.”

"I don't have to tell you anything!" She spits, pushing her hands together and sending you flying backward as the ball of fire hits you just under the right side of your rib cage.

There's a high pitched popping sound, an immeasurable amount of pain, and everything goes black.

It wasn't the first time you'd died. You'd heard of other supes being able to come back from the dead, and of course the others like Ben and Homelander who were almost invulnerable to injury, but your gift was different. Yes you had enhanced senses, speed, and strength, which were the original powers that were displayed after you received the injection of Compound V, but there was more to it than that.

It took you the first two deaths to figure it out, and you could remember both clearly.

The first was a few weeks after you took Compound V, when you and Ben were on his tour overseas promoting the might of the United States. It was supposed to be safe. The shot fired from the crowd was meant for Ben, but you pushed him out of the way. It was before you figured out he was bulletproof. Your gut reaction was to protect him as it always was. He ripped the guy in half for what he did and turned back to you. You remembered how he looked, remembered the fear in his eyes he never allowed to break through the façade he wore as Soldier Boy as he held you across his lap, holding a hand against the wound where blood poured freely from your chest. You remembered gazing up at him for what you thought was the last time and then the darkness that followed, welcoming you like an old friend.

And then thirteen seconds later you woke up, gasping for air, the bullet wound healed leaving only a circular scar behind. You didn’t understand at first, it wasn't until you died the second time that you realized how powerful you could be. The second time was Ben's fault, a scorned lover, a telekinetic, with a bone to pick with him. When you got in her way she'd snapped your neck with her powers. But this time when you woke, it was different, you felt different. You could feel her powers stirring beneath your skin, and it wasn't until you flicked her away from Ben that you understood. When you died a normal way you came back after 13 seconds, but when a supe killed you, you came back in 13 seconds with their powers.

You didn’t know why 13 seconds. In fact it was Ben that told you it was exactly 13 seconds, why he knew that you didn't know. It seemed that for everyone else 13 was an unlucky number, but for you it was the difference between life and death, literally. You also didn’t understand why you kept the powers. Sometimes you wondered if when you were killed by a supe your body analyzed how you died, understood it, and then you came back with that forbidden knowledge like you’d just eaten the fruit off the wrong tree.

Ben was the only one who knew and when anyone asked, you attributed your sudden ability to move things with your mind as something you never used in public. Having that much power scared you. You weren't sure what people or Vought would do if they found out, so you kept it to yourself and so did Ben. Honestly, sometimes you think the reason why he kept it to himself was because he didn’t want anyone to be more powerful than him, but you didn’t care about the abilities. You didn’t think you were a god despite Vought’s constant worship and praise. If anything, you felt closer to hell and in a binding contract with the devil.

Exactly thirteen seconds later, you sit up from the floor completely healed while Countess stands there over you, a horrified look on her face. She'd never seen you die before.

"Did you just try to kill me Countess?" You ask.

She puts her hands together to shoot another fireball, but you make a motion with your hand to that flicks her away. Her body soars backward illuminated in the purple glow that manifests with your telekinesis, into the small hallway that leads to the bathroom on the other side of the mobile home.

"You know," You stand from the ground looking down at your melted motorcycle jacket. "This was my favorite jacket. Had it from the 80's it was vintage. Damn.”

“How-“ She groans stumbling to her feet and leaning on the wall for support.

“We all have our secrets don’t we? And I'd love to hear yours."

Her eyes flash to where the front door is, but you beat her to it, yanking her back towards you by the arm, crushing her right wrist in your hand. Her scream of pain quenches the anger fueling in your chest from the words she snarled at you earlier.

"You're pretty worthless, even with your powers." You sigh. “I was hoping for more of a challenge.”

She cradles her broken wrist to her chest, backing away from you. Fear flashes in her eyes when she realizes that she's made a mistake, but instead of it making you feel powerful, it makes you pause.

Being a hero was difficult. You watched how so many others abused their powers over the years, feigning to be pure and heroic but really succumbing to dark urges when no one was looking. It was also why you hated Herogasm.

You hated it because you knew what happened to the normal people, the ones that thought they would be safe with the heroes they admired so much. You'd watched Ben lose control more than once, knew stories of innocent people that were hurt, not that Countess was innocent. But you never liked to hurt people with your powers. Standing here in this trailer made you guilty and watching her cower away from you made you guilty despite your shared history and her harsh words.

"So I'm just going to ask one more time, what happened to Ben?" You force your voice into a snarl, shaking off the guilt.

Because it was necessary. It wasn't just about you settling something from years ago, it was about Ben.

She deserves this, she isn't a good person.

"Go to hell." She spits at you.

You grab her by the front of her red suit and throw her away into the small kitchen. Countess' body crashes into the lopsided brown cabinets with a solid thwacking sound smashing through the flimsy structures. Blood drips down the side of her face from where she hit the cabinet corner, blending into her reddish hair. She rises from the ground with an angry snarl, clutching a dirty knife in her hand.

"I don't want to get tetanus from that. I can't remember when my last shot was-" You begin to say with a sigh.

She swipes the air in a vicious arc, but you grab her by the wrist, dodging the knife. "You never learn do you?"

The wrist twists to the side in your hand with a loud snapping sound followed by Countess' scream that reverberates in your skull as you break her other arm. "Pretty soon you're gonna be out of limbs, so I'd start talking."

Countess drops to her knees as the pain begins to seep into her body. "Fine. I'll tell you-"

"Then do it."

"He's not dead."

As the world stops spinning a high pitched ringing in your ears takes over, filling the monotonous drone of seconds ticking past. The past forty years no longer matter, the next hundred wouldn’t either, because Ben wasn't dead. As much as you hated him, the thought chilled you to your core, because then where the hell was he?

"Or at least he wasn't when they took him." She mutters, holding her arms to her chest.

"What did you do?" Your voice comes out in a whisper because you can hardly speak let alone comprehend what she's saying. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" You scream, grabbing her by the front of her suit.

"They wanted him." She spits.

"Who did?"

"The Russians. They wanted him and they took him!"

"You sold him out to the Russians?" You roar, hauling her up into the air so close you can smell what she ate for lunch. "Why? Did they pay you?"

"No. We all hated him!" She snarls. "But you were always around." Her mouth twitches into a painful smile. "It was so easy to get him to fuck me. I knew it would drive you away, you'd wanted him for so long and he didn't give a damn about you. And then you weren't there to protect him!" She laughs through the pain that builds in her chest.

I was right. She fucked him to make me angry, to get me to turn my back on him. I wasn't there to help him and they sold him out the first chance they got.

"He always wanted me more than you, knew that I could satisfy him better than you ever could. You really thought that he could love you? Ben doesn’t love anyone!” Her eyes glint with malice. “And you’re still the same pathetic little girl who begged Ben for his co-“

Her head tears from her shoulders in you hands cutting off her next words, the explosion of blood from her carotid artery spraying your face, and soaking into your ruined clothes. The ringing is back, filling the void of silence in the air that followed the tearing of bone and sinew.

You stand there for a minute holding it, not quite comprehending what you've just done. You hadn't lost control in a long time, not since you had the fight with Ben about Countess, or when you threw your sofa through one of the walls in your apartment and then broke every piece of glass, windows included, and had to move when you found out he was dead.

Or not dead. The thought chills you. Payback handed him over to the Russians, where he's been for the past 40 years? Why? Just because he was irrational, angry, and a dick? There's got to be more to it than that. Stan would have never allowed that. Soldier Boy was his golden boy, his meal ticket-

You think about the last forty years of hating Ben, cursing him, trying to forget him, wishing that you'd never loved him. The night you fought washes over you, bringing the anger, frustration, and heartbreak roaring back. The head in your hands smashes into mush as the memories barrage your mind, surging over the dam you built to keep them away.

You and Ben had always watched each other's backs. It was the promise you made to each other before all of this started, on the night he asked you to come with him and leave everything you knew behind. You knew him better than anyone else.

And yes maybe he fucked me once and I told him I loved him and he immediately went out and fucked Countess-

Your heart cracks in your chest with the thought, the heartbreak coming back in a wave of sadness that makes you shudder.

But you couldn't leave him, because you knew he would have never left you. Ben may have said that he didn't care about you, but you knew in your gut that Ben would have torn anyone apart who hurt you. He's always protected you. Even before you became supes together.

You stare back down at the mush coating your hands and the front of your clothes.

Why the fuck is everything so complicated?

When you get back to your apartment you're covered in a thin layer of soot, from blowing up the trailer, and a layer of blood and brain matter from removing and crushing her head. You hoped that by blowing up her home and burning her body with your newfound abilities that it would be enough to cover your tracks, but you were uneasy. The buzz of killing her and the shock of her revelation had worn off, but was now replaced with a numbness when you think about what could have happened to Ben, what could still be happening to him.

The shower does little to ease your mind and sleep evades you, despite the exhaustion that pulls at your limbs for using your powers. Dying usually meant that you needed to replenish that energy, but you couldn't muster the enthusiasm to do that. You just felt listless. The last forty years felt like a lie, felt like a waste, because as you’d been living your life Ben had been trapped in Russia.

So you open your laptop on the counter, wet hair soaking through your sleepshirt, and begin to research flights to Russia leaving within the next few days.

I have no idea where I'm going. I go to Russia and then what? Where in Russia? The Kremlin? Yeah let me just waltz right up to that.

You lean forward with your head in your hands thinking about Butcher. He came here because he wanted to know more about Ben. Maybe he knew where he was. He was the one who mentioned Russia.

You pull the card he left behind on your counter towards you, rubbing your thumb over the number. Legend said he kills supes. So is that what he wanted? To find Ben and kill him? The thought makes a chill travel down your spine, immediately followed by the primal urge to protect Ben. But what had Ben ever done to him?

You look at the number again.

If I call him, he's going to know that I was lying. Not that I'm scared of him.

You finally pick up your phone and dial the number, but it goes to voicemail.

"Hey this is Y/f/n Y/l/n. I just remembered a few things about Soldier Boy and thought you'd like to discuss them. Just give me a call-back whenever you get this."

You hang up the phone and sit there for a minute, eyeing the coffee that sits untouched next to your open laptop.

I killed someone today. The thought should be chilling, but you feel no remorse, no guilt.

Is that because I think she deserved it?

Your mind goes back to what she said about Ben sleeping with you, what he told her about you. The urge to cry rises in your chest with the memory of her words.

You remembered that night. You had been so excited. Ben had taken you out to dinner for your birthday, despite your insistence that you'd celebrated enough of those. The restaurant was quiet, secluded, different than the flashy world the both of you were living in. It had reminded you of before you took the Compound V, when you were still normal. The food was good, there was flirting and hand holding at dinner, and finally a slow dance when he kissed you for the first time.

And when he took you back to your apartment and to bed, it didn’t seem like a quick fuck, it didn't feel like cheap sex. The way he took care of you, held your hand, said your name, looked at you, held you close to him after, and the soft smile on his face that he had only when it was the two of you- it felt special. He made it special for you because he knew how important it was for you.

Tears slip down your cheeks. It would have been one of your favorite memories if you didn't know what followed, what was going to happen the next morning or in the next 24 hours.

"Guess it was just a lie." You mutter to yourself, wiping the back of your hand across your eyes.

The next morning when you woke up in his arms you couldn't help but tell him that you loved him, whisper it to him, more happy than you'd ever been curled against his chest. You remembered the way he looked at you, like you were crazy and then he left for his movie premiere even though we were supposed to go together muttering flimsy excuses as to why he had to leave. And finally the image of him and Countess in the bathroom crashes over you, sending shards of glass back into your heart.

You thought that by now you'd picked them all out.

More tears drip down your cheeks, as your thoughts drift back to Ben and the years that followed that night. You sigh considering what to do.

I wish I could just forget, wish that I could leave him, but I can't.

But that didn’t mean you had to forgive him.

After a night of no sleep, you stand poised over the wooden chest in the back of your closet. Packing for the flight that left in two days was turning into a bigger task than you'd thought.

Your current wardrobe wasn't suited for storm the capital city of Russia and kill everything in your path to find Ben, it was more suited for late night painting and art shows. The amount of paint stained overalls, oversized band t-shirts, sweatpants, and dresses in your closet was astounding and none of which screamed "fear me." You would definitely need to go to the mall to find more things that you could move in, if need be, and find things that hid your identity. All it took was one photo or video linked online and everyone would know that you weren’t dead.

You knew that no one would be willing to talk to you, give up the information willingly, not to mention if you really had to break into the Kremlin it was not going to be a walk in the park.

It wasn't that you were out of shape. You still trained during the week, took self-defense classes, and worked out to prevent yourself from going soft, but fighting Countess was the first time in forty years that you had faced another supe and you weren’t up to speed on the supes that the Russian government employed.

You also didn't like the idea that you were going in blind. There could be any number of men there, any kind of supes, and anything waiting for you.

But the truth was, deep down you didn't care. What the rest of Payback did had ignited something deep inside you. You knew that people were going to die if they stood in front of you, but the urge to protect Ben rose above all else. Because you still loved him, despite everything he said, despite everything he did, he was still Ben after all this time and you couldn't let him go that easily.

You hold up your supe suit in front of you. It was made specifically for you, designed of a breathable material that made movement easy, not to mention the hood and mask did a wonderful job of concealing who you were.

I really don't want to wear this again. You think to yourself, eyeing the smooth material. It wasn't that you hated your suit, it was what it represented. If you wore that again, you'd be Indigo and you'd spent the past forty years trying to put as much distance between you and your superhero career as possible. You would be recognized instantly.

Could I even squeeze into this thing again?

You look at yourself in the floor length mirror on the opposite side of your walk in closet. You looked the same as you always had. Countess’ jeer about you being big makes you flinch again, bringing another cloud of insecurity over your mind.

Maybe that’s why he never slept with me before that night. Maybe that’s why he ran to Countess.

The thought is immediately followed by the image of Missy Callahan at your 16th birthday and how Ben clung to her. Then followed by your mother’s constant attempts to hide your figure. And finally, followed by all the other women you had ever seen Ben with. None of the others had looked like you. You shake off the urge to cry and look back at the suit.

Maybe I can paint over the purple, make it only black? Would that really change it that much?

Suddenly your phone rings, shattering the still silence in your apartment. For a second you hope that it's Butcher returning your call, but when you lift the phone to your ear you realize that it's something much worse.

"Hello?"

"I need you." The familiar voice says.

Shit.

Thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series let me know :)

Taglist: @roseblue373 @anundyingfidelity @cheynovak @cassiecasluciluce @muhahaha303

@deans-spinster-witch @kayleighmeister @demodemo909 @fruitfacess @bobbobbobinogs

@bughill126

#soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x you #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x y/n #soldier boy/ben #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #jensen ackles #soldier boy fanfiction #the boys series #the boys tv #soldier boy fic #the boys season 3 #the boys s3

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merakiui · 6 months ago

Note

MEEEEERRRRAAAAAAA AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH aksndlbwibfecw flwqnbefdobqljqlecf

Winters woes is so fucking good!!! Hits all my fav questionable tropes Breeding dub-con and yandere. I'm eating good tonight!!!! Thank you for writing this piece of art!!! I adore all your work and literally get so excited when i see you post something.

God whenever eggs come up in your works i can't decide on the size of those babies. Are they massive things like the size of pool balls (or even bigger 🥴) or maybe its the the size of a marble just so that they can absolutely stuff the mc with hundreds of eggs..... please tell me what Azul's Floyd's and Jade's eggs look like and maybe Malleus since hes the only other I can think might have eggs.

Brain rot idea that Jade doesn't get MC pregnant this time so next season his body goes into over time to make a ridiculous amount of eggs... so many that even in his human form you can see a few odd looking curves and indents around his pelvis...

Also could i be ™️anon if its not taken

AAAA THANK YOUUUU!!!! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ I'm so happy you enjoyed Winter Woes!!!!

Omg eggs,,,, there's so much potential for all sizes!!! If we wanted to be close to real-life biology, eel and octopus eggs are very small in size and come in very plentiful amounts. Since many sea creatures produce and lay lots of eggs because very few fry actually survive, it's a fun route to go with the trio. <3 giving you lots of small eggs (which only grow bigger as the fry develop inside until it comes time to lay) just to ensure that, out of the many they've stuffed inside you, at least one will survive life's lottery.

Hehe Jade making so many eggs in his next season just to be certain he'll have a baby (or two or three) with you......... yes yes!!!!! It's also cute to imagine tako full of eggs. >w< desperate to have you fertilize them,,,,, orz orz so many thoughts.......

As for Malleus!!!! (spoilers for book seven beneath the cut)

Seeing as this is the size of the egg he hatched from:

It's safe to say the eggs are bigger than the trio's. ;;;;;; it's more of a bird situation rather than soft, small, and gelatinous mer eggs. This egg is hard shell, so perhaps there's only room in your human womb for a few. I remember reading something in relation to book seven that the egg will only hatch if it is given love??? Maybe it's wrong, but it's fun to consider so many failed attempts to have a child with you and nothing's working because you can't love the child your kidnapper has put inside you....... aaaaa the angst,,, T^T

In any case, all egg sizes are delicious. („ᵕᴗᵕ„)

#twisted chit chat #™️ anon #tw: oviposition

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archangeldyke-all · 7 months ago

Note

My brain rot is going CRAZYYYYY

Sevika with scientist reader? And she’ll just blurt out random ass facts about Sev anatomy? Especially during sex.

hahahahahah i love this

men and minors dni

you've got her underneath you, two of your fingers in her cunt as she shakes. "you're so fuckin' pretty, sev, i love you so much." you whisper.

sevika whimpers.

then. "did you know a vagina's acidity is the same as most tomatoes? they both have an average pH of 4.5..." you trail off, ducking down to kiss a path down sevika's chest.

she bursts into laughter, pushing you away from her. you blink up at her, confused. "what?!" she asks, still giggling.

"what?"

"'s this your way of tellin' me my cunt smells like ketchup or somethin'?" she asks. you snort.

"no!" you laugh. "no, sorry, i just-- i just learned that yesterday." you say, embarrassed.

sevika giggles and pulls you back on top of her body. "you're cute. but... maybe pick a sexier vegetable to talk about it bed next time. like eggplant..."

"techinically tomatoes are fruits--"

"for fuck's sake babe!" she laughs.

it happens more often than you'd expect. you've got two real passions in life: your passion for biology and your passion for sevika. it's not surprising to you that when you're rambling about one, the other sometimes slips out too.

like when you guys are scrolling through a sex-shop online, half shopping, half making out. sevika hovers the cursor over a unique dildo, named 'unicorn's horn.' it's got columns spiraling up the shaft in pastel colors, the head rounded off. she chuckles. "could feel good..." she considers. "'s seven inches..."

"you know, ducks actually have corkscrew penises, similar to this. though, theirs are only one of these columns."

sevika bursts into laughter, then opens a new tab. "hold on, i gotta see this..." she mumbles as she starts typing 'duck dick' in the search bar.

or when sevika's kissing her way down your abdomen, heading straight for your cunt, and you lean back against the pillows, slide your hands in her hair, and speak.

she's expecting something romantic.

she isn't expecting: "do you know that some species of bats have been observed giving their partners cunnilingus? scientists think they're trying to lick competing sperm out of the female bat."

she just groans. "baby... please say something sexy so i can go down on you without that image in my head."

taglist!

@fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther @gr0ssz0mbi3 @ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @leomatsuzaki @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @vikasub @glass-apothecary @m0numents @macaroni676

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #sevika smut

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clarionglass · 6 months ago

Text

yeah, we all knew this one was coming. 5395 words, if you're wondering exactly how bad the brain rot has set in ^^;

----- deja vu (sam reich!master cinematic universe, part 2)

Right from the beginning of Game Changer, Sam had had a small monitor in his dressing room where he could watch the show being recorded. He'd always appreciated it being there, but never quite understood the point of having it, if he was going to be on stage hosting the shows himself.

When his doppelganger was hosting, though, being able to watch the show while hidden away was absolutely ideal.

Since Escape the Greenroom, the pair had been less cautious about being seen in the building together. It was always more enjoyable to debrief immediately after a show, and besides, they had their secret weapon. The magic technology that kept anyone from thinking too hard about two Sams in the one place had turned out to be nothing more than a small lump of circuitry attached to a key on a loop of string, and whichever Sam wasn't on set at the time held onto it and watched the session from the dressing room. It was an extra precaution—hell, if everyone knew Sam was in the middle of a recording, why would they be going into his dressing room—but it was handy to have nonetheless.

It didn't work if you knew what you were looking for, though, so when the door creaked open and his doppelganger walked in, pure glee painted across his face from ear to ear, he turned his megawatt smile on Sam straight away.

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Good record, was it?”

“Oh, was it ever.”

“Well, great!” Sam replied. “You were pretty keen for this one, glad it lived up to expectations.”

As his double nodded with satisfaction, Sam's eyes flicked back to the monitor, now showing a view of backstage, and Trapp, Ify and Siobhan talking quietly to each other.

Something felt off. They didn't seem distressed or anything bad, bad, but the energy between the three contestants was weirdly muted. As it was for everyone, actually. Josh, Zac, Brian—the general vibe backstage was sitting noticeably lower than usual, particularly with such big personalities in the room.

“How'd the cast take it, though?” he asked. “They all look exhausted, was everything alright?”

His doppelganger flapped a hand dismissively. “Oh, they're fine. It was just a long record.”

“No longer than usual,” Sam said, with a brief glance down at his watch and a frown. “We had seven loops planned, right? And you definitely didn't get through all of them, you only did, what—”

“Five, yeah,” his double agreed, speaking with him. “For the episode, we ended up recording five.”

There was an odd tone in his voice as he said it, an emphasis on the specifics that was just a little too weighted. Sam grimaced.

“I'm sensing there's a but coming.”

“Yeah,” his doppelganger admitted slowly, then grinned, a bright, twinkling expression of pure mischief. “We actually ran a lot more loops than that.”

“Wait,” Sam said, “wait. No, you didn't, I was watching the entire thing.”

“Come on,” his doppelganger shot back, a bite of impatience bleeding into his excitement. “You really think I'd fight to do the fake time loop episode and not throw in a real time loop or five?”

“Oh my god.” It was all Sam could say, and he really couldn't tell if he was impressed, or dumbfounded, or just really fucking worried. “Oh, my god. What did you do?”

The giddy delight shining in his double's eyes as his smile broadened even further, brilliant and infectious and only slightly predatory, did nothing to calm Sam's nerves.

---

The first loop went well enough, and confusingly enough. Weird trivia, questions that clearly had an answer, but no way of working out what that answer was, cameos that didn’t seem to relate to anything—it was strange, but you knew that was what you were getting into when you signed up for Game Changer. Trapp, Ify and Siobhan knew that there was a solution to it, but they’d just have to work until they found it.

And then Sam pulled out that bizarre dance that he expected them all to join in on, and accidentally kicked Kevin’s camera out of his hands, and the three of them shuffled offstage for a two minute reset.

The second loop, the pieces were starting to fit into place. The trivia was a memory tester; the weird questions had answers that could only be worked out with knowledge gained in previous rounds; Zac’s—sorry, Grant’s—spaghetti was going to cause problems by way of Brian’s podium inspector; the list went on.

This time, it was pretty clear that the kick wasn’t accidental.

The third loop, everyone knew they were dealing with loops right from the start.

“I think my watch battery is dead,” grumbled Ify on the t̷͖͗̅h̶̥̔͗i̴͉̞̊r̴̭͘d̵̢͔͌̈́ loop.

Loop aft̵̐͜e̷̘̓r̵̩͊ ḽ̵̞́o̷͉̬̼͈͘ö̸̖̠̭́̈̀p̶̡̣̖͂ ạ̸͌͘f̸̱̲͐͗t̶͈͐̇ẻ̶͇̮̄ř̷̤̗͝ ̷̹̌l̸͎͎̔̀̅̀̀̕ò̸̢̨̜͓̳̮̀̕o̶̮̕p̵̪̫̠̝̘̒͒͗̚ͅ, ad infinitum ad nauseam.

A few loops in, Siobhan watched Brian get paler and paler as he examined the trio of podiums. And this time, he was actually taking the time to look at them properly, not just making an act of peering through that stupid little magnifying glass in order to justify a foregone conclusion. He was acting weird, even for him.

Still, he put a good face on it, declaring each one dirty in increasingly elaborate ways, just as he had every time before. Something had clearly rattled him, though, and it made her uneasy in turn.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” she said, just as she had the last few rounds, and smiled sweetly with a dollar bill folded in her palm. As Brian came over, she locked eyes with him, hoping the look was enough to convey her question.

“Camcorder, Jan ‘97,” he muttered as he took the money, and had given her the (bribed) point and hurried backstage before she could ask what he meant.

She knew the video he was referring to, it was one of his. Creepy, definitely, but very well-done, all about rewinding tape and rewriting time. And—yeah, man, duh. This was the time loop episode, apparently, so why state the obvious? And why so cryptically?

Unless… unless it was something to do with time loops that wasn’t to do with the format of the episode.

How long had they been recording, anyway? All their phones were in the box backstage, Ify’s watch was dead, she wasn’t wearing one at all, and with her and Trapp on the outside podiums, there was no way she could ask him without making it look stunningly obvious. But it had been a while, for sure, and Sam wasn’t showing any of his usual signs of wanting to usher the recording session towards a natural conclusion.

If anything, he was looking wolfishly pleased with the way things were turning out. He'd even favoured Brian with a wider grin than usual, where Brian's own smile had been kind of watery.

Another part of that video, Siobhan couldn't help but recall, was that sinister, looming silhouette.

Through more and more loops, and the brief interludes they were granted backstage, they’d worked out the rules, sort of. People weren’t affected by the loops resetting, they carried through pretty much as normal. Objects didn’t, though. Things on the set, like the ducks, the money in their envelopes, and the spaghetti stuck to their podiums, reset to the state they were at at the beginning of what they’d begun to call “Loop 3.0”. Things brought across the threshold of the set, like Zac/Grant’s plate of spaghetti, or Josh’s balloons, reset as soon as they crossed over that boundary.

Josh hadn’t had a good time when he realised that one. While the contestant cast and the cameo cast were kept separate backstage, the contestants had to assume that Brian would have told them everything he’d worked out. The next loop after Brian had given his hint to Siobhan, the contestants had to watch a very good character actor try to keep control of the creepy clown role while going through a moderate existential crisis. It was uncomfortable to watch, stuck at their podiums and unable to help. At least they could mutter a few words of encouragement each time they went up to pop a balloon, and the same with Zac and Brian each time they came by to mess up or inspect their podiums.

It was good to have that connection, brief as it might have been. They might have been stuck, but at least they were in this fuckery together.

The crew, though, seemed to be immune from feeling the weirdness they were caught up in. Or—no. Not immune. Exempt. They weren’t trapped in the loop, they were part of it, moving along their set tracks like automata. It took the cast a while to work that one out, because Sam kept time perfectly, interacting with Ash when she brought out the contraption and the jar of beans as if they were having a normal, fluid conversation. But then Ify spotted that the camera operators were moving completely out of sync with the cast, and Trapp noticed that only Sam’s half of the interaction with Ash ever changed, and the illusion fell apart from there. The crew wouldn’t be a lifeline.

And speaking of Sam… Fuck, it was a hard one to swallow. He was their boss, their friend, and they’d all known him for years—hell, he’d come through for each of them multiple times. Until now, he had been pretty unequivocally a Good Guy. But it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the signs that Sam Reich was the puppeteer of this entire shitshow.

He was still pretending to not know what anyone meant when they expressed frustration with the loops, but the words were accompanied by a twinkle in his eye that said he knew exactly what was going on, and was staunchly refusing to help. He was delighting in their discomfort, even more so now the cast knew just how fucked they really were.

He looked like Sam, he sounded like Sam, every single mannerism was something that the cast knew intimately. But the personality driving his actions was wrong. Maybe this guy wasn’t Sam at all. Fuck, if they’d suddenly been catapulted into a reality where time loops were real, maybe so were evil clones, or brain-snatching parasites, or—no, the magician great-grandfather lore from Escape the Greenroom was still a stretch too far. But given the choice between believing that a weird sci-fi plotline was true, when another one was literally happening around them; or believing that their friend had secretly been some kind of torturer with access to sci-fi tech the entire time they’d known him—the decision wasn’t particularly hard.

“We have to stop him from kicking the camera,” Trapp said quietly, as soon as they had all huddled backstage. “That’s what he’s going with as the trigger.”

“It could be another bluff,” Siobhan interjected glumly. “More fucking misdirection.”

Trapp shot her a look. “You got anything better you want to try?”

“I can get between him and Kevin if I’m quick,” Ify volunteered, the tallest among them by a good half a head, with a build to match.

“See what happens,” Trapp said. “But be careful, yeah? Don’t get yourself hurt.”

“So what’s the way to get out?” Siobhan asked, as Ify nodded his agreement. “There has to be something, I might start killing people if I let myself think this is actually completely random.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Popping the right balloon? Or winning the video game?”

“Or unlocking that,” Ify suggested, nodding to the green chest that had been sitting on the table the entire time.

“Yeah,” Siobhan and Trapp agreed together.

“Cool, so we try and—”

“Sorry, y’all, but I’m supposed to take your phones?” Kaylin interrupted, holding out the box as she always did.

By virtue of podium order, Trapp, then Ify, then Siobhan noticed it as they walked on and gave their introductions. Something had changed.

The point totals on the podiums read 14, 9, 14. The points they’d ended with in Loop 3, not started with. They’d survived it. Time was moving.

“Sam, look over there!” Siobhan exclaimed as she entered, and dragged a couple of boxes onstage with her in no more subtle a way than she did the last time.

Trapp got it, he really did. These loops had been… wearing, was probably the best word for it. “Sadistic” was a bit too harsh, particularly when nothing actually bad had been happening (and to be honest, he didn’t even want to risk thinking too badly of the person who seemed to be pulling all the strings in this scenario, in case he somehow noticed, and decided to turn the heat up), but… yeah. Wearing. So he understood why Siobhan might be trying to keep things the same. Making the group less fun for their host to play with.

The trivia rounds were chaos, as always, and passed in a jumble of noise that Trapp was only half focused on. A quiz show was still a quiz show, even if it had descended into some kind of weird time loop purgatory, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to be first on the buzzer regardless. Maybe the points were the way to get out of this whole shitshow, who could say. But when Ify and Siobhan started to have their exact same argument over the equation question, complete with Ify’s triumphant twerking, Trapp felt his stomach rise into his throat, as if once again, the ground had been cut out from under him.

“Yeah, Solzhenitsyn,” Siobhan nodded in response to a question he hadn’t asked, and his blood went cold.

Sam, or possibly ‘Sam’, looked him dead in the eye and winked.

“Next up, there’s a little game I have just for Mike Trapp,” he said with a smirk.

Tinny music started up, and the bright colours of that infuriating video game popped up on the screen, but Trapp didn't care. There wasn't any point in pretending now.

“You fucker,” he said, walking close to eyeball the host. “You mother fucker.”

‘Sam’ just wheezed with laughter, exactly as the real Sam Reich would when a contestant insulted him out of annoyance at the game, and for the briefest of moments, Trapp had his doubts. Everything about this man said Sam Reich, every tiny detail. Had he really been hiding this all along?

“You were doing great playing as a team,” ‘Sam’ said once he'd regained his composure, looking at Trapp with wide-eyed sincerity. “But that's not really the point of the game, now, is it?”

No. Sam, actual Sam, wouldn't do this to his friends.

“What have you done to them?”

“To them? Nothing,” whoever the fuck this was said brightly. “To the studio, though… Well, it would take too long to explain, and you wouldn’t understand most of it anyway. Let’s just say I can run this whole place like a VCR, and the only two people who wouldn’t be caught up in it right now are you and me, bud.”

“That’s fucked up,” Trapp said, as Ash, deaf and blind to their conversation, came out with the giant jar of beans. “That’s just fucked. Let them go.”

“Aw, but they’re probably having a better time than you are right now,” ‘Sam’ said, mock-serious. “They think time’s finally moving ahead for them, remember? And anyway, do you really want to be arguing with little old me when you’re wasting your one chance to earn points without any competition? It is an individual game, after all.”

Trapp’s eyebrows shot high. “Are you saying only one of us gets out of this? You sick fuck.”

‘Sam’ just shrugged and smiled, looking meaningfully at the empty podium. “Do you want to risk it? The choice is yours, Trapp, but time's a-ticking.” His smile flashed. “Or maybe it isn't.”

“Next up, there’s a little game I have just for Ify Nwadiwe,” ‘Sam’ announced.

Yeah, no shit. Ify wasn’t an idiot, even if his point total was sitting below his fellow contestants’. He’d been checking his not-actually-dead watch at the start of every loop, so he knew right from the off that even though their host had been gracious and let them pass through one gauntlet, it sure didn’t mean that the time fuckery had finished.

This run, though, was looking extra screwed up. Siobhan arguing loudly with him about things he didn’t even say this time was the final confirmation. He was alone in this loop, just him and the guy who was running the show.

He knew that ‘Sam’ knew that he knew that he was the only person who wasn’t stuck. So he waited, staring flatly at the person who had taken over the host’s podium, watching to see what move he would make.

‘Sam’ just smiled. “Left or right?”

Alright, so that’s how he was going to play it. Yeah, no, absolutely not.

“Nah, nah, nah,” Ify said instead of engaging, because it didn’t really matter. In his peripheral vision, the game kept scrolling through. “Fuck that. What’s the win condition? What do we need to do to get out of here?”

“Play the game,” ‘Sam’ replied.

“Shut the fuck up, man.” Ify shook his head, and ‘Sam’ chuckled like he’d told a good joke. “We’ve already done that, and it’s got us exactly fuckin nowhere. You put us in this thing for a reason, so there’s gotta be something you want to see happen.”

‘Sam’ blinked at him innocently. “Who says this isn’t exactly it?”

Ify took a deep breath. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying we’re in here, doing the same shit over and over again, until you feel like you’ve had enough?”

“In a nutshell,” ‘Sam’ beamed, “yes.”

“Fuck you, man,” Ify said, shifting his weight to lean more heavily on the podium. “Fuck you.”

“Noted,” ‘Sam’ said brightly. “But I wouldn’t spend too long being mad at me, because—” he broke off, giving the front of Ify’s podium a significant look, “—you’ve got quite a lot of ground to make up, in… well. Who can say how much time?”

“Fuck you,” Ify repeated, and ‘Sam’ just laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Ify was taking too long to name a goddamn Keanu Reeves film, again, and Siobhan had had just about enough. So when he stalled, and stalled, and still came up with the same title he’d answered in the last round, grinning like he’d just got one over on her, she could have screamed.

And then she remembered where she was, and who was asking the questions, and her heart sank. They weren’t done yet, apparently, and this time she was completely on her own.

She playacted the rest of the argument, that and the equation question, and hated the fact that even to her own ears, she was sounding more and more shrill as she shouted, because yeah, it’s panic-inducing to continue a screaming match with someone who doesn’t even register that you’re there. Every word was another reminder that she was trapped.

And then the melodrama stopped, and ‘Sam’ smiled at her. “Next up, there’s a little game I have just—”

“—for Siobhan Thompson?” she finished with him, voice dripping with sarcastic surprise, just like she had in Loop 3.0.

“That’s right!” ‘Sam’ said happily. “Now. Left, or right?”

“No,” Siobhan said.

The man in front of her raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“You’re not Sam, which means I’m not fucking playing. So, who are you?”

“Sam Reich,” he answered quickly, easily, naturally.

Siobhan frowned. “No. Bullshit. Who are you?”

“Sam Reich,” he repeated, sounding somehow even more sincere, and genuinely confused that Siobhan would be asking. Fuck that. She wouldn’t take it. Couldn’t take it.

“No. Bullshit. Try again! Who the fuck are you?”

This time, instead of doubling down, he paused. “Do you want to know a secret?”

After a moment, she nodded warily. He beckoned her close, and slowly, cautiously, she left her podium, walking up to this devil in the shape of a game-show host. Close enough to see his eyes properly, and how truly, deeply old they were.

“Even if I told you,” he stage-whispered, those ancient eyes sparkling with terrible glee, “it wouldn’t make a single bit of difference.”

“Did you just—”

“Yeah. And—”

“Yeah.”

The three of them were once again huddled backstage, debriefing.

“So, are we allowed to do this?” Trapp asked quietly. “Because he seemed pretty against the idea of us working together.”

“Didn't say anything to me,” Ify shrugged. “And I don't see another way of getting out of this if we don't share stuff. And even then—sorry, but I think we're here til he wants to let us go.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Ify said. “Because we got the game, we got the key, we opened the chest, and here we all are again, so I dunno what we have to do. I asked him point blank about the win condition, and—”

“He made it sound like the points, to me,” Trapp interrupted.

Ify nodded. “Me too. But he also pretty much said we're here because he's having fun. I don't think the points are it.”

“So we can lose, but we can't win.” Siobhan's voice was dull.

“C'mon, Siobhan,” Trapp said encouragingly. “We'll get out of it. We've gotta have hope.”

Siobhan just looked flatly at him.

“Look, there are silver linings, okay?” Trapp insisted. “Not many, sure, but enough to look for. Like, because it means our actual friend isn't fucking with us—this guy isn't Sam, that's for sure.”

“I'm not…” Siobhan started, and winced. “This is going to sound bad. But I'm not even sure he's human.”

Ify exhaled deeply.

“Don't give me that,” Siobhan snapped reflexively, and Ify raised his hands placatingly.

“I'm not saying I don't agree,” he said. “It checks out. But it's heavy going, that's all.”

Siobhan nodded, looking calmer. “He still wouldn't say who he is, but… I saw him. The real him, up close. And yeah, he's the spitting image of Sam, but… fuck. People don't look like that behind the eyes.”

“Jesus,” Trapp breathed.

She just nodded wordlessly in reply, and despite knowing that it was costing them valuable discussing time, all three lapsed into silence. What could you say to that sort of revelation?

“The microphone,” Ify said abruptly, and Trapp and Siobhan’s eyes both swung to him. “I mean, I’ve still been thinking about win conditions. Or at least how he’s controlling the loop, and how we can use that.”

“He said he can run it like a VCR,” Trapp added. “But I’m not sure how, I assumed it was something in his podium—”

“But he keeps drawing attention to the microphone,” Ify continued. “Every single goddamn loop.”

“So we break it,” Siobhan said decisively.

Trapp made a face. “Or steal it?”

“Whatever. Either way, we get it out of his control.”

“Sorry, y’all,” came a familiar voice, and they all had to stifle a groan. Planning time was over.

The game started back up again, and—the point totals were as high as they remembered. The set was just as dirty. All promising signs.

And then their host’s eyes turned to Siobhan after Ify’s successful run at the video game, and her stomach clenched. Even though the time loop continuing was the worst possible scenario, departures from his routine were never a positive thing.

He gave her an indulgent look. “But, Siobhan.”

She was focused, she was prepared, she could handle whatever he threw at her. “Yes.”

“Because it is the last round of our game…”

Oh.

The buzzy little chiptune started up again, but to Siobhan, Trapp and Ify, it didn't mean a thing. The words “last round” rang in their ears sweeter than any music.

All of them knew it was probably false hope. Nonetheless, it was better than nothing. Something to cling to as they trod the motions of the remaining questions.

And then the cameo cast and all the crew came onstage when the wenis music played, and that certainly had a grand finale type feel to it; and Kevin didn’t get kicked in the face, no matter how much he was darting around in what had suddenly become a minefield of flailing limbs; and whatever it was that was wearing Sam Reich’s face led them all through more repetitions of the routine than usual, radiating manic joy the entire time.

“And stop!” he yelled as the music cut out, throwing his arms wide and looking around frantically as if the camera remaining intact had any fucking bearing on the time loop whatsoever. “Kevin, did we get that?”

The cameraman pulled open the now heavily duct-taped camera body, then looked up, scripted embarrassment mingling with scripted regret. “There’s no tape in the camera.”

And with that, their host turned away from him to look straight down the barrel of the main camera, favouring it with an open smile of pure, uncomplicated enjoyment; the sort of smile that invited you to share in it with him, no matter how strong the hatred that burned in your veins. “That brings us to the end of our show!” he announced happily. “Our winner tonight: Mike Trapp!”

“No-one’s a winner,” Trapp cut in, shaking his head. “No-one’s a winner here today.”

But even so, he was presented with a cool watch, and the confetti cannons went off, and they left the set for longer than two minutes and weren't called back at all, and finally, finally, they could let themselves believe it.

The loop was broken. They were free.

---

“What did I do?” Sam’s doppelganger repeated, pausing for a moment to think. “Oh, nothing awful.”

Normally, Sam would be content to let that slide. But just lately, he’d been getting a weird feeling from his doppelganger, and there was too much grey area between ‘something good’ and ‘nothing awful’ to be comfortable. “No, seriously.”

“We just ran the recording a few more times,” his double huffed, his smile fading—not quite impatient, but visibly put out, somehow, like he didn’t feel sufficiently appreciated. “Look at them, they’re fine.”

“I am looking at them,” Sam said. “And that’s why I’m asking. They’re my friends, I can tell when something isn’t right.”

His doppelganger hummed briefly, moving next to him to come and look at the monitor, and—just for a flash, less than a second—Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck rise when his double passed behind him.

“Maybe you're right,” he said slowly, after watching the feed for a few seconds. “Okay, I'll fix it. I'll have a chat to them.”

Sam exhaled, relief washing over him. Of course there wasn't anything to be worried about.

“Thanks,” he said.

His double just smiled faintly and nodded, then left the room.

Sam turned back to the monitor, waiting for the moment a minute or so later when his double would appear in the frame. And sure enough, he did. The sound setup was only piped in from the stage, and even then it wasn’t the best quality, so Sam didn’t have a chance of hearing what was actually being said. But he watched as, without exception, every single cast member flinched when his doppelganger touched them lightly on the shoulder to get their attention.

The conversations were quiet, with a gentle sort of intensity. His double seemed to be focused on making sure each person felt acknowledged—Sam couldn’t recall him breaking eye contact with anyone he was speaking to—and whatever he said, it seemed to work. One after another, he spoke to all the cast, contestants and cameos, leaving calm in his wake. And when he had talked to the last one, and everyone looked settled and genuinely at ease, he shot a look of pure satisfaction towards the backstage camera, and headed out of view.

“Thank you,” Sam said again when his doppelganger returned to their dressing room, and received a gracious nod in reply. “Just out of curiosity, though—what did you tell them? Because fuck, it worked like a charm!”

His double tilted his head, half-smiling. “Oh, you know. All the right things. That I was very sorry for anything that might have gone weird during the recording, that I wasn’t feeling like myself, that it’ll never happen again… Oh, yeah—and then I wiped their memories.”

Sam coughed. “You what?”

“Wiped their memories,” his double repeated matter-of-factly. “It was the simplest solution, really. Everyone stays in continuity, they’re blissfully free of any… more troubling memories, our cover isn’t blown—it’s perfect.”

“No, hang on, you can’t—”

“I can, and I did,” his doppelganger replied. “I fixed the problem—which you asked me to, I might add—and now everyone’s back to their regular happy selves. It’s a totally closed system. The only person who knows it happened at all is me. Oh, and you, of course.”

Sam frowned.

“Besides, this way, you don’t have to worry about having to work out the overtime for a time loop, because they’ve got no idea what the extra pay would even be for,” his double added breezily before he had a chance to say anything, then snapped serious. “And don’t look at me like that, Samuel Dalton Reich, because you were thinking about it. I know you.”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t deny it. The tiny part of his mind that was always in Dropout CEO mode had been grappling with the ethical and financial implications of a time loop and getting nowhere, and the relief of not having to deal with it was like a fist unclenching.

“See?” his doppelganger said, meeting his eyes with a pointed sort of kindness. “I know what I’m doing, Sam, I’ve been doing it for a very long time. And it’s better for everyone like this.”

“I don’t—” Sam started, faltering. On the one hand, there was something intuitively and viscerally horrifying about his friends having their memories wiped. But on the other…

“If you don’t want to know,” his double said softly, and god, it gave Sam the shivers to hear his own voice used that way, “there is a way around it. I thought you’d rather be a part of everything that’s going on, but…”

His eyes caught and held on Sam’s like magnets, and—something had shifted behind them, something small, but with a seismic effect. He was pinned by that gaze, trapped, electrified; wholly unable to look away.

“I can do the same for you as I did for them.”

On the other hand… his double was right. It was kinder, probably, if they didn’t remember whatever they went through, and in that moment, he realised he couldn’t even begin to guess what that was. And… it was definitely easier.

“No,” he said, and when the word came out as a whisper, he cleared his throat and tried again. “No. It’s okay.”

His doppelganger blinked, and the spell was broken.

“Great!” he said brightly, back to his usual cheerful self, with all traces of that scary side—that dangerous side—folded neatly away. “You know, I really didn’t want to have to do that to you—you’ve been so much fun to work with, it would have been a shame to have it all come to nothing.”

And Sam, feeling like a marionette with its strings cut, hated the fact that he agreed. Even with everything that had happened lately, he couldn’t deny that the electricity that came from working with his doppelganger, the sizzle of pushing ideas just that bit past the boundaries and laughing uproariously at the result, was liberating. Exhilarating. Addictive, almost, a heart-racing excitement that sang in his blood.

Maybe the danger was part of the game. And as long as nobody came to any harm, he could keep playing.

“Just… promise me one thing, okay?” he started, and his double turned wide, patient eyes on him. “Promise me I won’t have to see anything like that again. There’s nothing we can do to change this now, but I can’t let it happen again, yeah? They’re my friends, and there’s a line.”

“Sure,” his doppelganger agreed. “You’re right. And I do like them, so—hm. I’ll treat them like I would my own friend.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied, finally letting the tension drain out of him. “That means a lot.”

His doppelganger just nodded in acknowledgement, then clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “C’mon. We’ve got more work to do.”

----- missed an installment of the sam reich!master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): you are here!

#sam reich!master #doctor who #dw #the master #game changer #dropout #sam reich #clari speaks #clari writes #turns out you can take the girlie out of the horror genre but you can't take the horror genre out of the girlie #not my fault time loops and memory wipes are inherently horrific #once again i include the disclaimer: mr sam reich sir if you see this i am so sorry but i have no regrets #game master

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pakunod-a · 10 months ago

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Open my heart, read the signs. || Yandere!Vil Schoenheit x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Yandere kidnaps victim, finds out victim is over the moon for them. What to do in a situation wherein my love interest likes me back, without the use of my carefully thought-out plan?

Warnings: Realistically, this should be titled as Whiny!Fem!Reader (totally not a self insert of what I am like irl, no...) Yandere themes, if being dependent on others was a person, it would be the MC in this fic. Reader is 100% on board with Vil's plan. Who wouldn't want to be kidnapped by an insanely handsome guy, AND is in love with you? Honestly, he kinda mean tho. Potentially OOC Vil, this is somewhat fluffy to an extent.. I am not fluent in English, it is not my native language.

Note: am I writing this to satisfy my severe need to taken care of in a concerning way? Maybe. Is this unnerving to see, considering I am a minor? Definitely. But it's all fiction, right? Yeah, totally. Might be long af because I've been brain rotting since forever.

...Darkness.

It was horribly dark in here.

No source of light, not even a window or a lamp.

You try to move, but your movements have been restrained by chains.

You try to wiggle a bit farther, but it's no use. You're stuck here. You begin to sob softly, sniffling as you realize you are stuck in a secluded area, alone.

You hated being left alone, be it in class, projects, friend groups.. you didn't like being left somewhere to wander alone.

...That's right, you hated being alone.

..but you were never truly lonely, weren't you?

After all, Vil Schoenheit always vowed to make time for you.

He swore on the statue of The Fairest Queen, that he would not neglect your need of human affection.

..even if that meant you clinging to his side forever.

You remember walking alongside Vil on Main Street, looking up at the statues of the Seven.

You've always admired them, a lot, actually.

So when you unconsciously walk over to the Fairest Queen's statue, and blurt out your thoughts..

"...Hey Vil, do you think the Fairest Queen would be proud of you for being a spitting image of her?"

Vil paused for a moment, looking down at you to confirm. You were interlinked by the arms, as you stared up to the statue, focusing on the sculpted apple she held by the stem.

"I suppose she would. Why.. why a spitting image of her though? I look nothing like the Fairest Queen herself."

"I think.. because.. I find you very pretty. And you're like.. really reaaally smart at making potions. And you're like, perfect. Real perfect."

You beamed at him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. You felt.. dizzy. A little dizzy, as you lean onto Vil for support.

"Mmm.. feelin' a bit sleepy, Vil. Catch me."

You went limp in his arms, and the world around you fades to black. From fatigue, maybe? Or from something else..

There are a flurry of footsteps making their way towards you. The door creaks open, and you can make out a tall, beautiful shadow from the emitting light.

"You're up, dear? That was quick. I'd have expected you to sleep for a while longer."

You know that voice. You've heard that voice many times, in your dreams, in your nightmares, the voice that sets you to sleep and causes you to wake. The voice that makes your heart yearn for more, if not all of the praises it sings for you.

"...Vil?"

"That's right dear. Vil Schoenheit, if you've forgotten. Now, let's get something through that thick skull of yours, alright? I will not let you go. No matter how much you plea—"

"..'s cold Vil. Hug me please."

That caused Vil to pause for a moment. What do you mean, "hug me please", do you not understand what type of situation you're in? Or maybe, it's a trick! You're trying to deceive him!

"Enough. I'm not here to play your silly games, [Name]. If you try so much as to fool me, then I swear on the Great Seven, you are not leaving this room, nor will you see the light of day again."

Vil.. was raising his voice at you. That was weird. It always felt weird when he yelled at you, or got mad at you for whatever reason. He always dotes on you or compliments you, and on the off-chance that he DOES yell at you, he always apologizes profusely, stroking your hair in an attempt to console you.

"But.. you never yell at me.. Vil—"

"SILENCE! I will not fall for your made up stories and lies! Just for that, you will stay in this room for days on end without human interaction until I say otherwise!"

He storms out the door, slamming it shut. You begin to sob quietly, patiently awaiting the hands that once held you to hold you once more, the voice that used to comfort you until you peacefully slept in his arms..

But alas, he was gone. Gone was the kind, loving Schoenheit you knew, now just a cold and unnerving replacement. Why.. why would he do this to you? After you've trusted him to stay by your side.. to not leave you like the others do.

You thought he was special. You thought you were special to him, too. But you're starting to wonder if everything that he said was only lies for his convenience.

True to his word, you spent the next few days alone in his dark room. As those days pass by, you began sobbing yourself to sleep as the hours trickled through the hourglass of time.

You called out to Vil unconsciously, of course. In your sleep, you would yearn for the presence of another. It just so happens that you call out the name of your captor, Vil Schoenheit, whether you were aware or not.

This breaks Vil's heart, and it almost breaks his resolve too. He wants nothing more than to hold you close, coddle you like a mother, as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. You would sleep in his bed, as the both of you wrap your arms around each other for warmth.

He hears your calls in the dead of night, echoing through the empty Pomefiore halls. His sleep would be disturbed by a call of distress, his beloved calling out his name.

Alas, he believes this is all a trick, an illusion to simply lower his guard.

And so he spends the next few nights, tossing and turning, guilt eating at him constantly, without fail.

Until one night, your calls stop. You yearn for him no more. He cannot hear the gut-wrenching melody that once rang in his ears, the call of his beloved to come find her, to save her from the predicament he had put her in.

He gives in to his thoughts, and visits his captive at the peak of dawn.

You were there, sitting as if you had been weakened to an extreme extent. He wanted nothing more to hold you, to caress you again. But he has thought of every possibility, every problem, every solution.. but his conscience gets the better of him. He unbinds your hands from the chains restraining them, and carries you back to his bed. Thankfully, you were asleep at this moment, so he had little to no struggle in moving you to an accessible spot.

He sets you down gently, and for the first time since he's held you captive, as he drapes a blanket over your sleeping figure, you unconsciously grab hold of his hand, reaching, feeling the warmth you so dearly missed.

"..—il.. Vil.."

"[Name].. my dearest [Name], did I go too far? Did I break the promise I swore to honor in your name? Tell me [Name], I'll set it right, you don't deserve to suffer like this. You deserve to be—"

He notices that you've shifted, instead of being at a reasonable distance, your first instinct was to cuddle up to whatever warm living thing you find. As a result, you wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer to your sleeping form.

"Nnh.. Vil.."

"Yes dear.. Vil is right here, with you. There is no need to call out, this is where I will stay; beside you. You would appreciate that truly, wouldn't you?"

You did not respond, but something about the relaxed look on your face tells Vil that maybe you weren't planning anything meticulously drastic at all.

"I won't ever leave you again my dear, I promise. I mean it this time."

...You wake up to the feeling of an arm draped over you, your head elevated on someone's chest. You glance up to see Vil Schoenheit embracing you, burying his face into your hair. He mumbles in his sleep, holding you tight as humanly possible.

"Stay.. stay with me.."

"...mm?"

You poke his cheeks. It's adorable whenever he's vulnerable like this. You peck his forehead, and drift off to sleep.

You hear a soft melody that causes you to stir awake, the familiar comfort of two hands caressing your hair as a lullaby graces your ears. You felt all too familiar, until the melody was broken by a question—

"Good morning dear, did you sleep well?"

This time, Vil was the one looking down at you, your head in his lap, as he gazes at you with the most woeful of looks one could give.

"I am sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me. I shouldn't have done this to you. I understand if you want to leave, and I'll understand if you hate me so much to the extent that—"

He was cut off by a kiss to his nose, which both surprised him and caused a blush to his face.

"..ah. You.. um.. seem to react.. not in the way I was hoping you would."

He muses, as he hears you giggle softly.

"I'm fine with being like this with you any day. But please, promise to not lock me up in a dark room for days next time?"

He chuckles, kissing your forehead in adoration.

"Never. Not again. Say, once winter break is over, how about I spend the next spring break with you? Ah.. given that I'll have to clear my schedule, of course."

"You'd do that? Like.. seriously? I thought you had gotten an offer to star in another famous movie as the antagonist?"

He grumbles, pinching your cheeks suddenly.

"And why would I willingly accept the offer if all they would do to my poor image is to villainize me?"

"Ha ha. Funny. It's because of Neige playing the protagonist, isn't it?"

"Partially, yes. But also.. I promised I'd take you to see the first flowers bloom in spring. I can't jeopardize special moments like those for some silly movie."

That remark stuck with you. Your arms only opted to wrap around him tighter.

"..okay then. As long as you promise not to lock me up again."

"Silly little spudling, of course I wouldn't. You've taken quite well to being captured though. I can't help but wonder if maybe you love me or something."

"It's taken you this long to figure out?"

"..what?"

You look in mock horror, teasing him.

"Don't tell me you thought that all the things we do are platonic. Holding hands, interlinking arms, overly affectionate hugs and kisses—does that not seem romantic?"

"..I feel silly."

You giggle at that, kissing the tip of his nose as a response.

"For such a smart person and a great actor, you sure are a dummy."

"Very funny. I'm going to make you sing at the well on the campus in the midst of this cold weather if you don't stop teasing me."

"Like actually?"

"Actually."

Note (2): lol i wrote this at 11pm and finished at 1am cause i kept on dozing off now that ive proofread the entire thing it just seems like an original character rather than Vil himself 🏃

#yandere twisted wonderland #yandere vil schoenheit #yandere vil x reader #twisted wonderland #disney twst #vil schoenheit x reader

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hanahaki-disease · 1 month ago

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And You Wonder What I Believe

Hell or High Water - Percy Jackson/DC crossover

Summary:

“When Tim looked over to his best friend, now adoptive brother, whose made of lean muscle and gangly limbs of a growing fourteen year old boy much like him, he wonders if he would have done the same. Would he have kept it all a secret from everyone if he knew it would save them? Would he try and keep the two worlds separate because only disaster can come from them meeting?”

To further enhance your reading experience, go and read “You? You!” and “Sing Sweet, Nightingale”

A/N: this installment is like 8,000 words…I did not plan for it to be that long

*******************************************

When it comes to Percy, Tim tries not to pry. Not even after their argument when Percy returned the first time.

The first time Percy disappeared, Tim had no control and no way to help. He hadn’t even begun to train as Robin, hadn’t confronted Bruce about him being Batman, and had been in the middle of a gala when he heard the news.

Percy’s first disappearance was the one of the many reasons that made Tim push harder to become Robin, especially when he had called Dick to let him know about the news. Because Robin was able to help the justice league look for the missing Wayne child. Robin had access to information Tim Drake couldn’t see. He knew that the New York police department didn’t even follow proper protocols when it came to the search, he knew that a gang messed with the footage of the gas station explosion because one of their members had been spotted as part of the passengers.

The second time Percy disappeared, Tim was watching Percy escape the school with the weird tall kid and a girl he had never seen before from the other side of the gym doors. The entrance blocked by some kind of debris and the gym was absolutely wrecked when the first responders had been able to get in.

Tim wanted to follow him, he wanted to make sure Percy was going to be okay and not vanish off the face of the earth for months on end again. He wanted to drag him to one of the many emergency cave and interrogate him, keep him there till Bruce joined them, and continue to question him. Tim wanted to know what had happened to his best friend, and he hates that it felt like they weren’t anymore.

Percy had been his first friend, his first real friend since the younger of the two got adopted by the Batman. Their sarcastic personalities clicking together like link-n-logs, becoming brothers the moment Percy suck up on him on that rooftop. They used to be able to tell each other anything. Nonsense about their current shared brain rot, secret crushes about the girls and boys in the middle and high schools. They would laugh at the gaudily dressed women in the galas, banter with Jason and Alfred for hours on end—Percy knew Tim better than Tim knew himself, and he knew Percy better than anyone in the world.

So why did it seem like the Percy stuffing his duffle was someone Tim had never known before?

Why was he so okay to drop everything he was doing the moment that random girl showed up at the manor? How did she show up at the manor, how did she get past the security triggers and over the seven foot tall gate? None of this was making sense and Tim had been growing worried for Percy ever since he came back two years ago.

He had come back home a bit more reserved than before, a bit more angrier like how Dick had been when he found out Jason died. New scars littered his body, ones that were never reported in his files about how he had gotten them. There was an air of knowledge around him, one with matching chains of secrecy that dragged his limbs down and pulled him away from getting too close with Dick or Tim again.

Something happened to Percy on the first summer away, and it happened again this past summer and now—not even four months later—Tim was watching Percy change before his eyes.

“You—You can’t go! What about Dick? What about Bruce and Alfred?” Tim eyes followed Percy as he ran around his room, grabbing what seemed to be the most random things to put in his bag.

“Dick is said he’d be back in January, he’s on a mission with the Titans to find clone Roy,” Percy said. “And Bruce could give less of a shit if I disappeared and came back.” He zipped up one side of the bag. They must’ve fought recently for him to say that, about what? Tim doesn’t know, but it couldn’t have been good. “I will feel bad about Alfred though.”

“And I’m going whether you like it or not, Tim,” he slung duffle on his shoulder walking out the room. “Nothing you say or do will not make me go. I have to do this.”

“If you go, I’m following,” Tim said.

“No, you’re not coming with me.”

“Then you’re not leaving Percy!” Tim said. “I’m tired of you disappearing every summer. Do you know how worried we all get when you do that?! No, you don’t, cause you’re not here!” He ran his hand through his hair, pulling at the roots. “God, just tell me what’s going on! I can help you, B can help you!”

“I can’t tell you, I wish I could, but I can’t.” Percy pushed past Tim towards the main stairs.

“Why not? Why can’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, okay?” Percy dropped his duffle on the edge of the stairs. He made eye contact with the girl downstairs before Percy turned his attention back to Tim. “I’m doing this to protect you, to protect all of you. This is something Batman has no chance with and even if he did, it’s not his fight. I need to do this to make sure you guys are safe.”

“And what do you think the rest of us are doing every night, huh? Playing hopscotch with Penguin and having tea parties with Scarecrow?” Tim said. “We get hurt already, hell, you’re there to help Alfred patch us up! I just…” Tim sighed. So many words were bubbling up in his chest to the point where he was beginning to feel overwhelmed by all the emotions in him.

He wanted Percy to understand that he didn’t need to do whatever it is that he’s doing by himself. Percy had so many people that could help him with the ‘fight’ he has been doing the past two years. And if he didn’t want Bruce, then Dick would do anything for him. He didn’t want Dick? No worries there’s the entirety of the justice league and their associates. Percy could literally have his pick of the litter for help and yet he’s choosing to go solo?

God.

For someone who doesn’t like Bruce much nowadays, he’s acting an awful lot like him.

“I just want my best friend back, Perce,” Tim felt his shoulders drop. The heat of his worry and anger fading and leaving him exhausted. “I want to know how to help you.”

It was quiet between them for a bit, neither of them wanting to break the fragile silence that settled in the hall. Tim could feel his heart pounding in his chest and tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t often he cried. The emotion was too overpowering and draining, not cathartic like most people say it is. He cried at his mother’s funeral, he cried when he and Percy had their first real argument, and before that? He couldn’t remember, each time he wanted to curl up under the covers of his bed and follow Percy’s lead and disappear for a while.

He couldn’t stop them from falling when Percy carefully wrapped him up in his arms. “I want my best friend back too, but I have to go.” Tim nodded against Percy’s shoulder before the younger separated, the soft shuffling of feet made their way back down the hall to where the duffle sat at the edge of the stairs.

Tim didn’t stop Percy as he made his way down the stairs. Didn’t stop him when he zipped up his winter coat and slung the duffle over his shoulders. He didn’t move from his spot at the bottom of the stairs, one hand holding onto the rail as he grabbed one set of the keys to the front door, shoving them and his favorite gold Bic pen in his pocket.

“When I get back,” Percy held down the latch to the door handle. The cold Gotham air wafting into the foyer and chilling Tim to the bone. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Ten words and the sound of the door closing left Tim frozen in his place. He wanted to shove his boots on and his coat and trail after him down the drive way. He wanted to join him in whatever he had to do, whatever was so important that he had to miss the next few weeks or months or however long.

But Percy promised him that he would tell him, Tim had his word. Percy never broke his promises.

—

A week later, looking as if he had just went against Bane in nothing but the clothes on his back, Percy stumbled into Tim’s room. The duffle he had was gone and the clothes he wore were not the same, except for his Reebok, though they had seen better days. Dark circles lined his eyes and he looked paler than he did when he left. Even during the winter months, Percy retained this sun-kissed, beach side tan. It was a warm glow that, alongside the permanent sea salt waves, made it looked like he had been raised on the shores of the Caribbean his whole life. He did not look like that when he walked in.

A bright shock of white was the first thing Tim noticed about Percy when he collapsed at the side of his bed. It still had his signature wave to it, starting at his temple and curving around and through the curls already there. For as well has he knew Percy, he knows that he wasn’t really into dying his hair. Percy liked keeping it the same length and not really doing much to it, aside from styling it for the occasional gala or press release. So then why the white streak?

“Percy?” He watched as his friend ran his hands through his hair, interlocking his fingers behind him and tucked his head in between his knees. There was a tenseness to him, one that—even if he was in one of the most secure places in the world—wouldn’t relax.

When he turned his head toward him, there was a different kind of tiredness in his eyes. A kind of defeated but accepted kind of tiredness. His green eyes were duller than they had been before he left and he sported new scars once again. Faded white lines on his hands and one that down across his jaw from the end of his ear. Percy sucked in a deep breath when he placed his head back where it had been, unclasped his hand and leaned back against the bed.

Tucked under the new gray hoodie and rumbled orange shirt was the leather necklace Percy had started wearing after that initial summer. It had only one bead then, a solid black charm and a glowing blue trident in the center. It was cool at first. The little symbol and the faint light it emitted in the dark, Tim really wanted to inspect it. But then another was added onto the string the following summer. Just like the other, it was a simple sandy-beige colored bead with a pine tree and something gold hanging off the branch. The gold glowed like the tridents, if not brighter in the dark of Tim’s room and it let him see the most recent addition to the necklace.

It wasn’t a bead like the other two, a metal bow and arrow charm with accentuated star shaped corners rested on the neckline of the shirt. Silver and shiny and brand-new, unlike the worn and handmade beads he head. Did they mean something to him? Where had he gotten them? Percy never took it off, wanting the necklace to stay on his persona at all times. Which wasn’t that strange to be honest. Bruce had a particular watch he was fond of when he wasn’t Batman, Dick had his favorite blue studded earrings he never took off, and Tim had his mother’s wedding band hung around his neck too. But, just like his hair, Percy was never one to wear jewelry. He never like having anything around his wrists or around his neck because he would get overwhelmed by the constant rubbing against his skin and neck.

So then why the necklace all of a sudden?

“Where should I start?” Percy said, picking at the skin on his fingers in front of him.

“The beginning, I guess,” Tim closed his laptop, wanting to give Percy his full attention.

“Can you promise not to tell anyone unless I say so? What I’m going to tell you is gonna change how you see everything, even the Amazonians,” Percy turned his head.

“I promise,” Tim slid down to the floor beside him.

Percy nodded his head and sighed, the words heavy in his chest before he even began, “It started with mine and Jason’s dad. Our actual dad.” He locked his fingers together again. “He met our mom seventeen years ago on the beach in Montauk, New York. A summer fling that left my mom pregnant with Jason, and he said that they would go back to the beach for the summers before I was born.

“Jason said that he’s only seen our dad twice before I was born,” He held up two fingers. “The first he said was a fuzzy memory when he was three, and then during the summer the year I was born. After that, he never saw the guy again. We kept going to Montauk till I was three, our mom died in November that year when we were passing through Gotham and Jason and I never left. That’s when Catherine and Willis found us and picked us up.” Percy gave him a quick glance at that. “You already know what happened after that.”

Tim nodded his head quietly. Percy had told him about his years living with Catherine and on the streets. The days in a ratty old apartment, smelling like cigarette smoke, burning crack and moldy walls. Where water leaked from the ceiling and his and Jason’s shared mattress was the same one Catherine shot up heroine. It wasn’t all to different from their years on the streets, they still had to forage for their own meals and take care of themselves when Catherine was too high to even remember her name and Willis was in prison. But at least with them, they had a roof over their head and place to hide from the winter.

He hadn’t known about his birth mother though.

Percy and Jason never talked about her or how they ended up in Gotham. They didn’t even tell Bruce either. All the information they had about her was whatever Bruce dug up when he took them in. Her name was Sally Jackson, a single mother of two boys living in a somewhat bad part of New York, working at a candy shop a few bus stops away from her apartment. She didn’t have a college degree since she had to drop out after her uncle got cancer, and she didn’t have her parents since they did in a plane crash when she was still in middle school.

It was the bare bones information that Bruce could get and it was the only information he had about their biological family. After Percy disappeared, Bruce had tried to dig up his birth father, wondering if maybe he had taken Percy when he had gone to the Met. Maybe the man had seen his son, wanted him back, and took him while he was with his school. But no matter how much Bruce dug, there was nothing. No name, no description, no age. It was as if the guy never existed. He had to, though, otherwise his two sons wouldn’t exist.

“Two years ago, during the field trip to the Met, I had been isolated from the group by the substitute algebra teacher Mrs. Dodds,” Percy said and Tim looked at his with a confused stare.

“There was no Mrs. Dodds in middle school, though,” Tim countered. “I would know, I have an eidetic memory.”

“No you wouldn’t have and let me tell you why,” Percy turned to face him, his hands outstretched before him. “This is the mortal world—” He gestured with on hand. “This is where you and ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population reside. You see things how they are in your head pretty straight forwards. A dog is a dog, a person is a person—unless they’re an alien—and so on and so forth, right?” Tim nodded. “This is…this is my world.” He lifted the other hand. “In my world, I see things that you cant. Dogs aren’t always dogs, people aren’t always people, and natural phenomenon is not caused by science, but by magic. The barrier between these two is what we call the ‘mist.”

“Missed?”

“M-I-S-T. Mist. It’s a magical barrier that blind the mortals from the mythical and magical monsters and people. The Amazonians are a part of my world, they can see what I can see, they can fight what I can fight, but since they’ve been so isolated to the world of man, they’re unable to see past the mist now that it’s gotten stronger since ancient times,” Percy said. “The point is—The gods are real.”

“Like, like Jesus?”

“No, not Jesus,” Percy clarified. “The Greek gods. Zeus, Artemis, Hades—they’re all real.” Distant thunder made Tim’s head turn towards the window.

“But they’re just stories, myths!” Tim leaned back on his hands. “They can’t be real and you’re just making this up.”

“If they’re not real, how is Diana the daughter of Zeus? How are the Amazonians able to live on an isolated island in the middle of the Mediterranean sea, protected by magic? How is Shazam able to channel the ‘Speed of Hermes’ and the ‘Strength of Zeus?” Percy questioned.

Tim stayed quiet. “I don’t know!”

“They can do that because the gods are real. My dad, Jason’s dad, is Poseidon, god of the sea,” Percy said. “I didn’t know that until that summer two years ago.”

He turned around to lay back against the bed again, and eyes trained on the old skateboard mounted on Tim’s wall. The words were hesitant at first, tongue stumbling and stuttering as he recall that first summer. He told him of how the cab they paid had gotten stuck by lightning, flipped and burst into flames on an abandoned back-road. How the glass dug into his skin, the heat of the fire singing the hair on his forearms, and the cold rain digging into his bones and blinding him.

There was a smirk on his face as he spoke about the first monster he defeated. The Minotaur from the legends. He was big, apparently, seven feet tall, four feet wide at his shoulders, and just a mass of coarse bull hair and bright, white fruit of the loom underwear. Tim couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips at the mental image. The monster of the labyrinth? With tidy-whities?

His smile remained as Percy spoke about camp. The automatic camaraderie from the campers who just simply understood everything he had gone through and will experience. The children of the Hermes cabin, those claimed and unclaimed, welcomed him with open arms, teaching him all that he needed to know about life at camp. And while the nights were lonely and filled with nightmares, they’d fade away the moment the morning conch woke them up and started their day.

“The Friday of my first week was when I got claimed by my dad in the most show-offy way, I swear,” Percy chuckled as he threw his pen towards the cup on the other end of the room. They had been getting restless as they talked, Percy especially. He had taken to messing with anything he could get his hands on, a spare wheel for Tim’s current skateboard, the aglets of Percy’s laces, the gold Bic pen Percy always had.

“Claimed? What’s that?” Tim asked and launched his pink highlighter at the cup. “Is that like when a hospital does a paternity test for the baby or something?”

“Kinda,” Percy threw a pencil. “It’s when a god acknowledges their kids. It tells the camp and the other gods and monsters that you are their kid and, thus, have their powers or are a threat.” Percy fist bumped the air when his pencil landed in the cup, he was able to go again. “Sometimes the gods don’t claim their kids, they arrive at camp and they just stay in the Hermes cabin waiting for the day. Other kids get claimed shortly after arriving, but from what I heard that’s pretty rare.”

“Why the Hermes cabin, I though you said only kids of that god could stay in the cabin?”

“Hermes is the god of travelers, so he protects wanderers and stuff,” Percy dropped his arms against his lap. His eyebrows furrowed and he looked more annoyed than angry, if his tight voice was anything to go by. “The camp abuses that fact and shoves all the unclaimed kids in there and that’s not fair to the actual kids of Hermes and the unclaimed kids.” He throws another pencil towards the cup, watching it bounce way as it missed it’s target. “And you’d think the gods would be better with stuff like that, right? They’re gods, all mighty and all knowing, but they don’t even do the bare minimum of claiming their kids? It’s stupid.”

Tim stayed quiet as Percy continued his tale, offering comments and questions as it wore on. It felt unreal, what he had gone through at the age of twelve. (As if Tim was doing any better back then either, he was packing his bags to go a train in Paris to be Robin, so he really wasn’t one to judge.) It made the manhunt and new reports make sense too. The bus explosion was because a fury, the St Louis arch was a Chimera, and Percy was the reason zoo animals had been released in Las Vegas.

It all seemed like an impossible story, a modern Greek myth. Right down to the stages of “the hero’s journey” literature lesson. Tim had been told that there was magic that keep him blind to Percy’s world, the awesomeness of it all too much for him to comprehend. But he can imagine it pretty well. He can picture a younger Percy in his head surrounded by kids in the same bright orange shirts he was wearing, going ham on straw dummies in a Colosseum like the one in Rome. He can imagine the stone statues of the innocent lives Medusa captures, the souls in the fields of asphodel and the gems that sparkled on the food of the underworld.

He might not have been blessed with sight, but he does have a pretty good imagination.

Percy’s trip out the Bermuda triangle last years was even more impossible than the year before. First, the big kids in the gym class were Laistrygonians and Tyson was a baby cyclops and Percy’s half-brother. Which, what? How does that make sense?

“Cyclops are mainly children of Poseidon and some kind of nymph or naiad,” Percy had switched from throwing writing utensils at Tim’s empty tea mug, to trying to perfecting his batarang throw with the spares Tim had in his room. And, yes, Tim knows he shouldn’t have them outside the cave. Though people didn’t come over unless it was a gala, Bruce and Alfred did not want it to become a habit to have anything cape related in the manor. But Tim was always careful when it came to stuff like that, Percy can vouch for him.

“Why? I don’t know, but I have a feeling it has to do with his title of ‘father of monsters,” Percy shrugged before landing one bullseye. For claiming he was a terrible shot with a bow at camp, Percy had good aim. He hit whatever targets they set up with pretty good accuracy and speed, only missing the dart board on Tim’s door once. Alfred will not be happy about that when he sees the edge sticking out in the hall. “Oh, and Polyphemus, the cyclops guarding the golden fleece, is my half-brother too. I stabbed him in the eye.”

“That’s gonna make thanksgiving dinners awkward,” Tim joked.

“They’re already awkward now,” Percy pointed out. “I really don’t want to know how that’d go. Jeez. I think they’d trade me for the turkey.”

Percy continued to talk about what he did besides stab his brother. And despite being told that he was the son of Poseidon, Tim didn’t really believe him. Like, yeah, sure, Percy told him that he had perfect nautical bearings while at sea and that he could control any sea vessel while it was on water. And in theory, Percy can control water. (which, what was the limit to that? Was it just water or was it anything that contained water? Could he move poisons and toxins? Can…Can Percy bend blood?) But there is no proof of Percy doing that anywhere near Tim and the manor, therefore: Pics or it didn’t happen.

But back to Percy’s story—the fleece had done what to the magic tree? It brought the dead girl back? A part of Tim wanted to call bullshit on that, because how did that work? It went against all laws of nature to bring people back from the dead after so many years of them being in the ground. Even if the reason was magical in nature, one does not simply bring the dead back to life. Surely there was consequences for doing that right? Would it attract the wrath of Hades or Thanatos or something?

“So if you only go on quests in the summer, why’d you leave last week?” Tim pried the batarang out of the targets, small pieces of his bookshelf being pried out with each one. Alfred was going to given them so many chores for destroying the furniture.

Tim watched as the light heartedness Percy had vanished as he sat on the ground once more, the widow in front of him, the bed at his back. His knees came up and his arms were laid over them like it had been when they had first started the conversation. One hand reached to fidget with the bow and arrow charm and the streak of white in his hair seemed to glow in the dark, catching Tim’s eye.

“Last Friday, Thalia came to get me because she heard from Grover that there were two demigods that needed to be taken to camp. He said their scents were strong, like mine and hers, and it was an all hands on deck situation,” Percy said, dropping the charm before he began to spin his pen as an alternative fidget. “Me, Thalia, and our friend Annabeth went to upstate New York where we met Nico and Bianca, later we find out that they’re children of Hades.”

“We tried to save them, but there was a problem.” Tim placed the weapons in their case, his focus mainly on Percy. “There was a manticore and so many monsters that the three of us were getting out numbered. Thankfully the hunters of Artemis were able to come in, but, we lost Annabeth.”

“What do you mean?”

“She tackled a monster down into a trench and went missing for the week, eventually we found her, but I had to go on the quest given to the leader of the hunters, Zoe.” He had that dull look in his eyes again. No doubt the memory replaying in his head. “Her quest was to save Artemis, who had also been missing the for the past month, and it lead her to Mt Tamalpais where Artemis and Annabeth had been held hostage by Atlas.”

Incredulously, Tim cocked his head as he made his way to sit next to Percy. “Atlas? The guy who hold up the sky?”

Percy nodded. “He was set free by Luke because Kronos told him to. He really wants his general to lead his army or something. Anyway, Luke took over the weight of the sky and Annabeth was placed under it to save Luke.”

“Why though? The guy sounds like a total asshole, no offense ,” Tim commented.

“Oh, no, he is an asshole,” Percy agreed. “Luke is like her big brother, them and Thalia had come to camp together and she looks up to him the way we do to Dick. But, Luke is angry at the gods. He hates that they don’t care about us and wants them to fall so Kronos can take over, he doesn’t realize though that once Kronos gets his way, Luke’ll be thrown away like yesterday’s trash, ya’know?”

Tim nodded. He understood where Luke was coming from, after all, his own parents didn’t really care for him that much anyway. He knew they loved him, he knew they cared…in their own…special way. But he can’t imagine wanting his parents’ downfall because they weren’t there for Christmas every year. It was as if he summoned Trigon to smite them because they didn’t go to his third grade recital.

“Back to the story,” Percy said. “Once they got Annabeth to mt Tamalpais, He used the affection that she still had for him to have her take the weight instead. I think she was there for almost a whole day before they brought in Artemis. Eventually Artemis switched with Annabeth because she could last longer than a demigod, and also because she’s a maiden goddess of women. She’s gonna want to protect her as best as she can.

“Luke also knew that I would go where ever Annabeth was because, besides you, she’s my other best friend.” Percy rubbed the back of his neck and Tim smirked. Even in the dark of the night, with only the light of his singular lamp to light the room, Tim could see the tips of his ears turn a bit pink

He liked her, he just doesn’t want to admit it yet. Tim will file that information away for black mail for later.

“So by having her and Artemis there, Luke was using them as bait?” Percy nodded.

“Kronos wants me to be his meat suit,” he admitted. “Since I’m a child of his strongest children, I’ll be able to withstand the sheer amount of power that comes with hosting a titan. Especially since with my powers I basically control seventy percent of the earth, I can cause hurricanes that devastate the ground, and earthquakes to strong I could sink the Philippines.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.” Tim nodded his head. Okay, maybe he didn’t want Percy to prove it. Like, it’d be cool for him to make the ground move a little, or raise the entirety of the pool water in the back gardens. But if he uses too much power? If he looses control? Tim doesn’t want to be the reason the docks get over flooded and the bridges collapse, even if it wasn’t him who did it. “How’d you guys get to there anyway? It took you a while to get across country on your first…quest, so wouldn’t it have taken you the same amount of time this time around?”

“You’d think but, we had more help this time,” Percy began explain how he made it across the county in a week. First he flew on Pegasus horseback, then boarded a magic train that took him to Colorado. While there he rode a magic boar that took him to Death Valley.

Percy paused once he got there though, the flow of words coming to an abrupt halt and an apprehensive bob of his Adam’s apple. It was clear that something shifted in Percy after that night. A realization of some kind, an acceptance to a truth and a guilt chaining him where he sat. Still, Percy continued on. His hands holding tight to his arms as they crossed atop his knees, the pen long forgotten somewhere on the floor.

First he described the sky, how the stars were so bright and every constellation made their appearance. He was able to trace Gemini and Corvus, point to where the little dipper ended at Polaris. Tim had never known a clear night sky like that, be he can imagine it. All the stars glittering without the smog and lights of the city to dim them.

“We got stuck in the desert for a bit though, in one of Hephaestus’s junkyards,” He held tighter to himself. “It would have taken longer to go around and we didn’t have the time for that, so we went through it. It was cool at first. All the machines and weapons and trinkets, you would’ve had a blast. But we didn’t know there was a giant mech made to protect the stuff.

“One of us had grabbed something and it woke. We tried everything, no one took anything, or at least we didn’t think anyone took anything” Percy rested his cheek against his arms and Tim could see his eyes grow glossy. Tears springing up and threatening to spill as he spoke.

“We lost Bianca, Nico’s sister,” Percy whispered as a tear made its way down his cheek into the sleeves of his jacket. Just like Tim, Percy wasn’t one to cry much. Preferring to express himself in solitude of his room or one of the various hideouts he had in the manor. Last Time he saw Percy really let his emotions go was when Jason died. Tim heard his voice grow hoarse with his cries, his face red and eyes puffy from crying.

Now that he’s thinking about it, Tim remembers the weather being all weird during Jason’s funeral. Small earthquakes rippled through Gotham for a while, rattling the glass of every window and nearly collapsing a few old buildings. The water in the harbor rose higher, the boats in the bay nearly capsizing. Not to mention the hurricanes that devastated a few cities in the south, the record high waves in the ocean.

Was that Percy doing that? Was it him and his father grieving the loss of a brother and son?

“And I…I promised Nico that I’d keep her safe—” He dropped his head, arms reach over his head to pull at his hair. Tim could hear his sniffles, the stuttering breaths that kept him from pulling in a full breath. “I told him that I would bring her back to camp, but she—she sacrificed herself to make sure the rest of us didn’t die there.”

Percy lifted his head and wiped at his tears, trying to could himself together. “Gods, he was so angry with me.” Percy said. “He hates me now, ran off and we can’t find him now. But I promised him that I’d keep her safe. I promised that she would come back!”

“You did what you could, Perce,” Tim sat closer to Percy, placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. He’ll be honest, he wasn’t the best when it came to comforting someone under emotional distress. The most he can do is a stiff pat on the shoulder and a robotic “there, there.” But he has to do something to help the guy, he can’t just leave him to wallow in guilt and anger like Bruce tends to do six days out of the week. “You protected her until she had to protect you, that’s how it goes sometimes. Especially in our lives.”

“I know, but I just wished Nico hadn’t run away,” he sniffled, wiping the tears off his cheeks. “He’s a son of Hades, monsters are going to be after him and he’s only ten. He can’t fight. He wasn’t in camp long enough to know how to defend himself. I just—“ he cleared his throat. “I just don’t want to be the reason something bad happens to him. He left the one place that safe for kids like us because I got his sister killed.”

There was a lull of silence between them and Tim could feel the guilt weight down heavy on Percy. He didn’t like that all of this has happened to him, hates that they’re only fourteen and already they have lost so much. Tim understands what Percy’s going through, he knows how the chains of guilt and regret feel around his limbs. Because how many lives could have been saved if Tim was just that much faster? If he was that much smarter? How many parents could have lived to see their children get married, graduate college, or even celebrate the next Christmas with them? How many kids will never go to school again, never see their friends or family, never age? All because Tim couldn’t save them in time.

Dick explained the guilt that come attached to this life, of knowing that they had the power to save them, but they couldn’t. He told him that every person they couldn’t save was another link on the chain. Dick also told him that, while they should be upset they couldn’t help them, their death shouldn’t hold them back. Yes, it was tragic. Yes, it’s good to feel guilty and sad and angry that they couldn’t do more. But he couldn’t let it consume him, Tim can’t let their deaths keep him from saving every one else.

A few more moments passed, and Percy’s breaths were even again. His voice still had that post-cry warble to them, no doubt the lump in his throat the cause for that, and his eyes were red and puffy from the cry. “When we got to the mountain, we found out that Zoe is one of Atlas’s daughters. She lost her place as one of the Pleiades because she helped Heracles in the ancient times and got banished, joined the hunters to avoid men and protect women since she couldn’t go back.

“There was a big fight between us and Atlas and Luke,” Percy said. “Zoe needed Artemis’s help to stop Atlas, Annabeth and Thalia were preoccupied with Luke and his minions, but she was still holding up the sky. If she dropped it, it would crash against the earth and kill us all.”

“Did you hold it for her?” Percy nodded. “Is that how you got the…?”

“Demigods who hold up the sky are given the streak of white as a trophy, that they were strong enough to not be crushed by its weight and understand the prison in which Atlas is chained to,” Percy said turning his head so that Tim could see it. Like some kind of magic anime girl, the streak of white seemed to glow in the moonlight. A silvery tint highlighted the black curls around it, as if Artemis was helping him show off this feat of strength. “Luke and Annabeth have more in their hair than I do since they held it for longer, but eventually we got Atlas back under the sky, not without consequence though.”

“What happened?” Tim furrowed his eyebrows.

“We lost Zoe. Atlas stabbed her in the fight when she was protecting Artemis. We tried to save her on our flight back to camp in Artemis’s chariot, but she didn’t want to be saved.” Percy got up from his spot and motioned for Tim to follow him to the window.

It was a clear night for once. The gray clouds didn’t cover the ark blue of the night sky and, most importantly for this demonstration, the stars. Bright twinkling lights of various sizes and brightness, some strung together by the human mind over the centuries. He tilted his head around, scanning the skies for a second before he stood back and pointed in the direction he was looking. There in the sky, near to Orion, was a new constellation. A set of stars Tim had never seen before. “Artemis turned Zoe into a constellation, she loved the stars and told me she didn’t like how in modern times we couldn’t see it anymore. It’s called ‘The Huntress.”

“Wow.” Tim gaped at it and he could see her figure in the sky. Her arm outstretched, and arrow notched in the bow ready to fire. It was beautiful.

“Yeah.” Percy sat on the bed, shoulders slumped and his body language timid. “That’s all that happened but it’s not what I’m most worried about.”

Tim took one last look at the constellation before joining him on the bed. “There is this prophecy that says a child of the oldest gods is going to fight Kronos when they reach sixteen,” Percy says. “It’s said that they’re either the catalyst for the fall or the survival of Olympus.”

“At first we didn’t know who is was going to be about, the prophecy was spat out a few decades ago. But then I showed up and everyone thought it was me,” He said. “We thought it would have been Thalia since she got revived by the fleece and she’s fifteen, but she joined the hunters and is now immortal. Bianca and Nico could be chosen, but Nico’s ten, and Bianca’s…”

“So that leaves you again.”

“Yeah.” He nods and takes a breath. “I don’t want this to fall on Nico, he’s already lost his sister and he’s so young.”

“But if you’re going against Kronos, the Kronos, you’re gonna need all the help you can get Percy.” Tim says.

“I know, and no I don’t want Bruce to know.”

“But—”

“No! This isn’t league business, it’s not Batman business. This is demigod stuff,” Percy stood up. “You guys can’t even see the monsters I fight, how are you going to protect yourself if you don’t know what you’re fighting? Mortals can’t see through the mist, they can’t get blessed with sight, unless they’re born able to see it.”

“And how do you know I can’t?” Tim crossed his arms.

Percy dug into his pocket and pulled out his pen and uncapped it. “What do you see me holding?”

“A baseball bat.”

“Wrong. It’s a sword.”

“No, you’re lying.”

“No I’m not, you just can’t see it. You can’t even feel it when I hit you with it, it goes right through you because you’re mortal. Bruce is mortal. Alfred and Dick and Barbara are mortal.” The bat changed back into a pen. “You guys could die trying to fight in my war and I won’t let you.”

“If you don’t want us to fight, then why are you telling me?” Tim said.

“Because you’re my best friend and my brother and I miss you!” Percy yelled. Whatever anger that was growing dissipated with the confession and he just looked defeated and tired again. “I missed just hanging out with you like we used to. And I can’t do that if you’re wondering where I disappear off to in the middle of the day cause I’m fighting a hell hound during fifth period.”

“You’re the one who didn’t want anything to do with me anyway when you said I wasn’t mean to be Robin! You’re the one who instigated it.”

“Because if I didn’t then you wouldn’t stop questioning me about what happened! You would try and tell Bruce, and then Bruce would try and take over and be a general to a child army of the gods. I don’t want that! You guys save the world all the time,” Percy said. “Can’t I save it just once without him?”

“You could’ve been Robin thought, I don’t see why you have to fight the titan of freakin’ time!”

“I don’t have a choice Tim!” Percy yelled. “Do you think I want to fight him? That I want to be the deciding factor of if Olympus falls and the world gets overruled by the titans and sent back to the stone age?!” Tim stayed quiet, watching Percy’s arms flail to accentuate his words. “No! I don’t, but I don’t have a choice. The sisters of fate have already said that I have to do it, and bad things happen to those who go against fate. And it’s bad enough that kids of the big three are essential cursed from birth now, I don’t want to tempt fate any more than I should.”

“What do you mean ‘already cursed?’ did something happen?”

“Yeah. World War Two. One side had the children of Zeus and Poseidon, the other the children of Hades, and they decided that—for the safety of the world—to not have kids since. They swore of the river Styx, which is the strongest bind of all kinds, and if you break it, bad things happen.” Percy answered. “Zeus broke his oath and Thalia died, Poseidon broke his oath and Jason died and I get stuck with eternal bad luck.”

“But what about those other kids you mention, Bianca and Nico, aren’t they cursed too?”

“Technically no, they were born back in the forties before the oath—” Tim opened his mouth to question. “Time magic and a casino in Vegas, I told you about it earlier.” Tim closed his mouth. “The point is Tim, I don’t want to be the center of the biggest prophecy of the century, but I have no choice. And it puts my mind at ease knowing you all can’t get hurt because you don’t know anything. Yeah, you guys can handle your own, obviously, but you can’t handle this.”

“You guys protect Gotham and the world and me from everything else,” Percy sat down next to Tim again. “Let me protect you guys from this.”

Tim let the words circle his head for a moment. The moon was way over head now, the stars outside the window shifted to the other half of the manor and he was kinda upset that he wouldn’t get to see Zoe’s constellation from his window. Logically he know that new stars didn’t just appear out of nowhere, they were already there in the sky, but to think that they had been just assembled into the constellation all of sudden was mind boggling.

Maybe Percy was right. Maybe the gods were real and that’s why strange things happen, it surely would explain Diana’s immortality and the other Amazonian’s abilities. It does explain where Percy’s been and the scars he has, why he’s good at sword fighting in the cave and why he acts like he knows more than anyone else.

Well, it’s because he does, Tim thinks. His brain had to process both normal mortal customs and that of the demigod world. He has to remember all the mythological monsters and gods, the heroes of old and how their stories help or hurt him now. He has to train all year around because the monsters won’t stop going after him because it’s a school day. No wonder some nights Percy’s wide awake, tired and sleepy, but adamant about not going back to sleep. He probably has nightmares that keep him up the same way it does for him and Bruce and Dick.

When Tim looked over to his best friend, now adoptive brother, whose made of lean muscle and gangly limbs of a growing fourteen year old boy much like him, he wonders if he would have done the same. Would he have kept it all a secret from everyone if he knew it would save them? Would he try and keep the two worlds separate because only disaster can come from them meeting?

“Okay.” Tim breathes. He would. Tim would be doing exactly what Percy is doing now because, ultimately, Tim can’t do anything to help. He can study the old myths all he wants, he can read the Odyssey and every variant of every myth ever, but he’ll never be able to cross the line that separates Percy’s world from his.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” He confirms. “You do what you have to Percy. I’ll try and help as much as I can with my puny mortal mind and body—” Percy breaks into a smile and snorts, pulling a smile of Tim’s own on his lips. God, how long has it been since he’s seen Percy smile like that, like when they were kids. When the duty of didn’t Gotham bind him to a mask and place the weight of the sky in his hands. “And I’ll try my best to keep B off your back. But can you promise me something?”

“What is it?”

“Promise me when you’re out on quests, saving the world, doing your thing as the son of Poseidon,” Tim says, holding out his pinkie. “That if you need help, of any kind, you won’t hesitate to call?”

Percy stared at his finger for a second, no doubt running through the possibilities in his head, but instead he wrapped his own little finger around Tim’s. “I promise.”

*******************************************

I love the relationship I’ve built for Tim and Percy, their characters (both canon and in this au) are just *chef’s kiss*

Also, I hope the rants they have are in character. They’re both those type of characters that it’s easy to accidentally write as their fanon-self and not their canon.

Thank you for reading!!!!

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#percy jackon and the olympians #dc comics #pjo x dc #batman fanfiction #percy jackson fanfiction #percy jackson #tim drake #batman #jason todd #dick grayson #annabeth chase #thalia grace #bianca di angelo #zoe nightshade #luke castellan #artemis

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