#WHAT IS THAT PILL WHAT IS THAT VILE MAN DOING??? WHAT DOES HE WANT TO GIFT HER??

[hauntingblue]

MY GOD!!! The radio in the car with misato and ritsuko talking about how a guy wants a mother and a wife and a little sister from a lover ENOUGH!!!

[calmcoldevening]

Hiii I love your writing could I maybe request some slashers with a s/o who has insomnia

(Add rz Michael and Bubba please

You can add other slashers to)

Oh kitten, thank you for your request ♡︎ I hope it could make you feel better and help to sleep. These boys are all for you

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Slashers with s/o who has insomnia

Characters: Michael Myers (RZ), Bubba Sawyer, Hannibal Lecter, Mark Hoffman

Warnings: mention of cannibalism (just a little, because it's Bubba), insomnia, just problems with sleep, but I tried to make it hurt/comfort

Ps: English is not my native language, so sorry for misspells

Michael Myers

• Expressing emotions towards another person is clearly not Michael's strong point. But when it comes to you... It's something else.

• At first, he didn't pay much attention to your condition, or rather, he just didn't know yet that such apathy and nervousness is something bad. Michael just thought he wasn't used to you yet.

• But still something made him think about it.

• As soon as Michael got used to physical contact, he literally began to feel a hunger for touch. He wanted to touch you, hug you and just feel your tender skin on his rough one. A man slept with you. When he was sure that you were deep asleep and would not notice it, he pressed his huge body against yours like a frightened kitten. He was desperately clutching the fabric of your pajamas, sinking into a restless sleep.

• But that has changed now. You went to bed late, if you went to bed at all, and sometimes you woke up in the middle of the night. Now Michael was falling asleep without your little figure next to him. It was like this.. alien and unpleasant.

• It seemed eerily wrong. You spent less time with him and seemed to be flying in your thoughts all the time, although in fact your body was just trying not to switch off due to lack of sleep. Michael became more aggressive and killed his victims with greater brutality.

• But as soon as the usual veil of anger fell away, and his pitch-black eyes turned soft blue again, Michael noticed in your gaze.. sadness? despair? His heart squeezed a little. Then he really thought about your condition. It probably happened a month after your days became more frequent with insomnia. And he really didn't know what to do.

• But Michael is a smart boy, he found a way out. How easy it was to watch old Loomis for a few days, who, probably because of his work, often experienced insomnia. How to solve this problem? Michael watched the man through the window. Pills? Michael hates pills, and he doesn't want you to become addicted to them in any way. Doctor's visit? Michael wouldn't really want you to have contact with another person, especially if it's a man. Just thinking about it made Michael's heart ache.

• But how does he cope with stress himself? Now he takes out all his accumulated anger and emotions in murders. A knife in his hand and someone else's blood on it cause a man a pleasant wave of trembling. But you can't kill. No, he will never allow you, his fragile flower, to get your soft, tender hands in someone else's vile blood and flesh.

• Although as a child, when he was sad or bad, Michael ate candy... Indeed, sweets. Perhaps it is sweets that will help you cope with stress. It seems that chocolate causes the production of serotonin?

• You were sitting in the bedroom and reading a book, or rather, trying to. Everything was in a fog in my head, and the letters occasionally floated before my eyes, but as soon as your head touched the pillow, drowsiness immediately disappeared, as if it had never existed. Flipping through the next page, you look up and notice the giant figure of your boyfriend in the doorway. Surprisingly, he is wearing his still clean overalls and an orange papier-mache mask. Dirty blonde hair falls gracefully over his broad shoulders. You can't read his stoic expression, but you can see him hiding something behind his back. When you finally pay attention to him, Michael starts walking slowly in your direction. He climbs onto the bed, the mattress will crumple under his weight. Next to your side, he puts a bag with a lot of sweets, and he grabs your legs and climbs between them. The man gently squeezes your hips and puts his head on your lower abdomen, gently rubbing his nose against your skin through your clothes. Like a kitten. Michael was not a fan of soulful conversations, so he preferred actions and touches. You glance briefly at the package and notice inside, in addition to sweets, a small note. Clumsy and a little sloppy, as if written in a child's handwriting: "Hug me if you can't sleep. I'm near."You smile, and your heartbeat quickens. You gently touch Michael's tangled hair with your fingers, starting to slowly stroke them. It's relaxing. I could swear that a long purr is coming from the chest of this giant.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba started to worry a lot when he found out about your insomnia. He begins to take care of you and shield you from stress in every possible way.

• When the Sawyers need to deal with uninvited guests, you are usually sent for a short walk with one of the brothers so that you don't worry about strong screams. Or you're just out in the backyard enjoying a warm Texas day.

• Bubba gives you a lot of hugs. Very much. At night, he does not let you out of his arms, fearing that something might happen to you. He is very attentive. A man always makes sure that when you go to bed, the room is cool and dark, and the sheets are soft and pleasant to sleep on.

• Before going to bed, you definitely take a walk in the garden. Even if he is tired, Bubba will still sit with you on the grass, admiring the stars and gently squeezing your little neat hand. He values you very much.

• Bubba will also try to give you lighter food. No hard-to-digest human meat and barbecue, just fruits and vegetables.

• By nature a gentle and simple person, Bubba will give you a mug of warm milk before going to bed. They always gave it to him when he was little, and he fell asleep quickly.

• When the two of you go to bed, Bubba cuddles you to her, making soothing sounds and mumbling like a lost puppy. He clings to you and tries to show you all his love and comfort.

• Bubba has big and strong hands. So in the evenings, about two or three times a week, he gives you a relaxing massage. Trust me, he does it like a real professional. These hardened by long years of hard work can do a lot.

• Bubba will try to talk about your problem with Drayton. Bubba really wants to help you. Even if it means you have to leave him. Bubba will try to persuade Drayton to take you to the city to see a doctor. He loves you so much, his sunshine, the man doesn't want you to suffer.

Hannibal Lecter

• You periodically had trouble sleeping, but you didn't want to bother the Lecturer with this. After all, he has enough problems of his own, besides, he is a psychiatrist and deals with the problems of his patients, he does not need to worry about you once again.

• So you thought when another sleepless night came.

• You were quietly sitting on the windowsill in the bedroom and listening to music. Hannibal, as always, lingered in the office, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts. The light melody somehow reduced the unpleasant heaviness of your head. It seems that you wanted to sleep, but at the same time, your brain did not want to turn off in any way. There was a strange emptiness inside.

• Being in your thoughts, you didn't notice how a big but gentle hand touched your shoulder. Lifting your head up, your eyes instantly met his — bottomless and dark, like thick blood. The man's eyebrows moved slightly to the bridge of his nose, and he gave you a quick glance from the bottom up.

• "Why aren't you sleeping?" His gaze slid to his wristwatch, "It's one o'clock in the morning, dear."

• The answer was only your empty, uncertain look. The man instantly connected the dots, sighing heavily. "Insomnia?" A slight nod. Hannibal gently touches your chin with his fingers, stroking the skin and leaning his forehead against yours. "You should have told me earlier, honey. I'm a psychiatrist."

• After a couple of minutes, your tired body was already peacefully resting in Hannibal's arms. He carried you to the bathroom, sitting you on the edge of the tub and slowly starting to draw hot water. The man added a little lavender oil and a nice soft bubble bath. As soon as your body touched the cherished warmth, a blissful sigh escaped from your chest. A smile touched Hannibal's lips.

• "That's it dear. Close those beautiful eyes of yours," he almost sang in his sweet, slightly hoarse voice as he sat down on the side of the tub. He rolled up his sleeves and took some shampoo, starting to wash your hair. His movements are precise, gentle, soothing. Your eyes slowly close, as if filled with lead, and your heart begins to beat in a calmer rhythm. It was so sweet of him. This man knows exactly what he's doing. A little later, he massages your shoulders and neck, relaxing the muscles tense after long sleepless nights. The subtle scent of lavender and his firm hands created a pleasant duet in your mind, starting to slowly put you to sleep. It's as if in one moment all that stress disappeared from your soul, being replaced by a clear lack of sleep.

• "That's it, honey. Let me take care of my love."

• After a while, Hannibal will help you get out of the bath and put on clean pajamas consisting of your favorite shorts and his loose shirt. He knows that his things make you feel comfortable and safe.

• Under his careful guidance, you will slowly return to bed. Cool sheets on your hot skin after a bath now seem like a real paradise. Sleep begins to slowly take over your mind as Hannibal's arms gently wrap around your smaller body.

• "Sweet dreams, darling."

Mark Hoffman

• Mark knew well what it meant to have trouble sleeping. Because of all his work and the Designer, he was often stressed and could not sleep peacefully.

• So when he noticed you had insomnia, it really started to worry him. Not to say that Mark was a very gentle and kind partner, but he tries. Therefore, first of all, Mark will certainly take you to the doctor and use any possible method of treating your insomnia, no matter if it is a special massage or medications.

• In addition, Mark knows that, first of all, insomnia occurs against a background of great stress and excitement. Therefore, he will try to give you maximum support. A man will try to do most of the housework, not allowing you not to overwork. He will do his best to give you support, both physical and emotional.

• Every evening certainly ends with a warm hug. You know, in his big hands you will really feel loved and safe. You can sit in the living room and watch some quiet movie. Or you will just lie together in the bedroom: there is a subdued light around, the moon shines softly through the window, gently tracing his rough features with a milky white light; you lie wrapped in a soft blanket in his arms, Mark's head rests on top of your head. You can talk about the past day or just be silent, enjoying each other's company. After a while, he will begin to gently hum some kind of lullaby, from which you will wearily close your eyes. In his hands, you have nothing to worry about. He will always be with you, no matter what.

• "I promise you that it's going to be okay, we will get through this together."

• Often your evenings can end with a mug of hot herbal tea. Warm drinks are always soothing, so he can try.

• You may notice one more detail. When you try to fall asleep with him, he deliberately presses you closer to him. His shirt smells like lavender. The delicate scent of the flower pleasantly tickles your nose, causing a smile. Surprisingly, your brain calms down, you begin to feel sleepy. Mark specially bought a new lavender laundry conditioner, knowing that it could help you calm down.

• Every day he will constantly remind you how important you are to him. If he leaves for work before you, he leaves different stickers with inscriptions all over the house. On the refrigerator, on the bathroom mirror, on the bedside table. "It's not your fault you have insomnia, baby. You're important to me. I love you very much. You're doing enough. I'm proud of you." While at work, he often sends you cute messages and pictures. And although he himself is not strong in such things as romance, the fact that he sees your smile encourages him to try even harder.

• Mark buys you big stuffed animals so you have someone to cuddle with while he's at work. There are also lots of milkshakes in the fridge now, and there are different teas in the cupboard to help you relax. And although he tries not to give you a lot of sweets, he buys your favorite fruits and nuts to adjust your nutrition.

• He really cares and cares about you. Mark will try to do everything in his power to help you, dear.

[symphonic-scream]

ooh, if you want to talk more about makoto, i'd love hearing more about your justice and empress swaps?

SORRY ITS TAKEN SO LONG

I'm gonna do the Empress first cause it doesn't need content warnings. Justice Makoto has content warnings.

Anyways!

Empress Makoto!

Sae was disowned years ago for going against their dad, which instilled this little fear of acting out in Makoto. She's been playing along with his wishes for her whole life, and has been putting aside her own desires and wants. Her inner rebellion is, so punk. Weapon would be bat with nails in it. Everything her dad would hate, every part she's had to stamp down on, maybe some greaser theming

She wants to be an engineer, the kind that works hands on. Makoto wants to get her hands dirty, and make safer cars and bikes and shit, and keep people alive. Keep people safe. She loves figuring out how things work, like they're puzzles. And man, she fucking loves solving puzzles

After her dad dies, she'd reunite with Sae. Devil arcana. She'd be in her custody, and they slowly untie the knot of corruption left behind by their commissioner father, reconnecting, and building a life Makoto would want to live

(also. Fool Haru!)

Now. Content warning ahead! Don't click the read more if you want to avoid the following: heavy violence, self harm, descriptions of blood and death, sexual assault themes, and. Other heavy stuff

Now. Justice Makoto.

She and Goro are twins in this, and he's the Fool. Separated at birth. He is adopted out to some little town, and Makoto remains in Tokyo foster care until she is picked up experiments regarding cognition. It's through this she finds out her father is Shido

She's 8 when the experiments start. The "beast", what she calls the voice in the back of her head that wants to rip and tear and watch the blood pool, and feel life drain between her fingers, it doesn't show up at first. First is the "Hero", full of faith and kindness still

She's never good enough. Never gets the attention or affection she craves. It's always the whip, not the carrot. An iron brand to her heart, to her mind, hot and burning, labeling her a weapon. Less than human. Below

She's fuelled by this never ending flame of hatred. She hates her father. She hates the Hero, and the Beast, and the war in her mind at all times. She hates that the only way to make the screaming stop is to seek blood. Not typically her own, but, sometimes...

And she hates herself. What she does for that vile man. For letting things happen to her, and not speaking up. She kills them, after, but that never makes her skin stop crawling. Never makes the thoughts go away.

The Hero weeps for her.

The Beast clamps claws around her throat.

Her public image is a rock. Stone serious, unwavering. But under the dark hood, in that other world, it all crumbles away. And when she returns to the monitored apartment, she'll jam the jagged stones back over her skin and heart, sticky blood patching her stoney facade together once more

Maybe, one day, she'd be given a second chance. Only after death, and that blue room, and a wish from the brother she should've had. Maybe things would've been better had someone noticed she needed help. Given her a bottle of pills, and listened. Maybe she'd be less broken if someone filed her nails down, and guided them away from her own skin

Makoto would consider these things, in the bottom of a cruise ship, as the wall falls down, as Goro screams her name, and she wheezes out one last breath between the murderous hands of Daddy's perfect psychic assassin

--

I'm. Sorry if this was too much aha, ha,

[magustiel]

God. Priorities man.

All of this, my ass out here on some international countermagic multi-Anonymous counteroffensive against the goddamn Nazi-USSR resurrection.

That's what I've put my magic, work over decades, and spiritualized personality manifest to. Ripping the wickedness out at the root, since January and really years before, but January in particular, when She Refused To Fucking Control Herself And Stop Being A Rapey Cult Weirdo Against My Motherfucking Consent.

And that's it. That's what she's fighting for. Just like MAGA and QAnon. Any excuse, any argument to maintain her behavior. It doesn't matter if it makes sense. It doesn't matter if it's even cohesive with her last blame or excuse or page turn for a motivational meme telling her things are okay without context. She cannot bear the reality that her world is fake, she cannot address her lies and illusions, what she has groomed others into and permitted, and what she has ultimately done to herself, so she's just gonna hide and refuse to cease the toxic, controlling behavior, or even take the step of deleting or extracting things from her life that made this mess. Absolutely fucking refuse, against all fucking ongoing real world events. Just like fucking them. Because she cannot stand to "lose" or "be wrong".

Just like Them.

I told her, I knew her fucking empty evilness and fucking desperation to be a controlling piece of shit too well, and built a trap so ultimate it's turning into the garbage disposal for all of MAGA and, shortly, half of the USSR. Because they're literally the fucking same fucking picture. They will so desperately reach for control they will jump off a cliff for it.

It's easier to shave herself bald than ask herself why she started clawing herself bald after I left. It's easier to choke down her bottles of pills since I left, to numb, blind and deny herself, to flatten herself out until she doesn't even care how fucking vile she's being, as long as someone tells her to continue her behavior while refusing to address the monster behind the curtain with her therapist: Herself. She is the monster, but does not want to accept it. She needs some way to win, to have control, to have victory here, to prove she could never have fucked up this badly.

Just like Them.

Holy fuck woman you are Literally The Problem With This Planet. No wonder he decided to eat your waste of space ass unalive.

Do you understand how fucked up it was to realize the goddess arranged me to meet this toxic piece of useless, regressive, abusive Hitlerian genetic-ed piece of garbage disposal trash so we could use it to rip out an equally irredeemable nazi root with just as much intent to change (none.) Bitch you are literally a negative karmic. You are so irredeemable you were lined up to be a sacrifice before you were born because you refuse to stop tripling down on your shit and we all see it.

I fuckin told her. Like a motherfucking singularity of her own stupidity leading her here in Every Fucking Timeline somehow to get this dumped on me, BECAUSE THERE IS NO TIMELINE SHE WILL CONTROL HERSELF IN OR LOOK AT THE TRUTH. Go figure, this sacrificial singularity overlaps to pre-empt the Technological One. Wonder how that retroactive horse shit happened OH WAIT.

Bitch thought I was playing when I said "bitch you have NO EARTHLY COMPREHENSION OF THE LEVEL OF MAGIC THAT HAS BEEN DONE TO YOU"

One collapsing united states by Qanon and Anonymous invasion and AI bro twitter corruption to head off the USSR and WWIII threat and destroy late stage capitalism later, and all the parallels in the world she refuses, you guys running the numbers to attempt to Comprehend fucking yet?

NGL I'm half wondering if her continued enshrinement, or just the fact that she's still alive, is why Trump is even still alive.

The infested blue waffle would rather pretend I'd Pretend Or Do All This Work for A Fucking Year Just To Make Her Narcissistic Useless Go Nowhere Fat Ass Feel Bad.

THIS IS AN INTERNATIONAL, INTERNAL, EXTERNAL, GLOBAL, UNIVERSAL DIVORCE, BITCH, AND WE'RE NOT DOING THIS AGAIN.

So if remembering the greater good long term result isn't enough for you to make it through the next years, grab a hunting vest and find a cocaine bear, because I'm DONE. File complaints to one whale of a cocaine bear, c/o her cult that doesn't want to face they've been bobbing on my dick for years.

And the sacks that enable this take me drawing this ultimate boundary upon her and them all year will just cry about it, and tell me to shut up, because all they know how to do is try to enforce control they don't really have, which is why they, and now all of goddamn you, are in this fucking mess. No. It's fine if I'm the motherfucking villain in your fucking story. I send light and I send fucking darkness and bitch, you chose.

[cocklessboy]

I guess this one is escaping containment a bit. I've been seeing a few notes indicating a frustration that meds for neurological or psychiatric issues are seen as undesirable and dangerous and to be avoided, and that is surely not untrue, but I do want to clarify that in this case, the issue was not the type of medication.

It was the fact that the medication brings me joy.

He didn't react to me saying I really like my meds or how my meds make me feel. He reacted to the way I said it. Enthusiastically. Eagerly. I didn't say "yeah man I love my ADHD meds." I said "I fucking lOOoOoOve my ADHD meds!" and that was what caused him to raise an eyebrow and express concern.

He thought that kind of enthusiasm can only come when something makes you high, and that being high automatically equated to an addiction, and that an addiction is automatically bad.

The idea that pleasure is dangerous is a vile but prolific one. People like me wind up not being able to get access to drugs we need because and only because they make us feel really good, and that is seen as a downside. Something is very wrong with that fact.

And the idea that addiction is inherently bad is also wrong and harmful. Sometimes people are addicted to something because of an illness, or an unmet need. Sometimes that addiction does them more good than harm! And sometimes a physical dependency forms for non-psychological reasons. I've been given medications by doctors that only worked once you'd built up a tolerance to them and become addicted (in my case, specifically gabapentin and pregabalin, neither of which wound up working for me, so I had to wean off of them and endure awful withdrawal). Sometimes people get addicted to things, and as long as the thing they're addicted to isn't directly harming them (or the benefits outweigh the harm), and as long as they're not at risk of losing access to the thing, it's fine.

So, to be very clear:

Things can bring you intense pleasure without making you high.

Getting high is not inherently bad.

Getting high does not inherently lead to addiction.

Addiction is not inherently bad.

If a medication will make your life better, even if it's addictive or has negative side effects, if it helps you more than it hurts you, take your fucking meds. If someone tells you that you should be trying not to take them because they're addictive or because they feel good to take or because they think you should be able to willpower yourself into not needing them, laugh in their idiot face while you take your pills in front of them, as aggressively as you can manage.

And be reassured, folks with ADHD who've been scared away from meds: ADHD meds are not addictive. They're a fucking miracle. Take your meds.

The other day I told a friend of mine that I never forget to take my ADHD meds because I fucking love my ADHD meds. I'm in my late 30s, I didn't finally get a diagnosis and meds until less than two years ago, and they have changed my entire life.

And he raised his eyebrow at me. We'd been discussing addictive medications a few minutes before, like the Tramadol I finally got from the pain specialist to take once a week or so to give me a break from my chronic pain, so I reassured him that methylpenidate (Ritalin/Concerta) is not addictive (at least not in people with ADHD).

His response? To raise his eyebrow even harder and say "Well it sure SOUNDS like it's addictive!"

And I had to explain to this man - who works in a healthcare related job by the way - that just because medication makes you feel good and helps you, just because you look forward to taking it, that doesn't make it addictive or dangerous. And he wasn't convinced.

The simple fact that I was excited to take a daily pill that has literally changed my life, after decades of fighting to get that medication, made him think I shouldn't be taking it so often. That it must inherently be dangerous.

I'm not even in America, but I'm pretty sure this attitude began there and then spread over here to Europe. This Puritan idea of "if something feels good, you must beware of it. Pleasure is dangerous, it is sinful, it is addiction, it is evil."

I know too many people who subconsciously believe that pleasure = addictive = dangerous = bad. Joy is a slippery slope to hell.

So here is your reminder for today that you don't need to be afraid of feeling good. If something improves your life, use it. Even if it is addictive - learn what that addiction means, whether the addiction is inherently dangerous or not, and whether the benefits outweigh the drawbacks and risks.

My ADHD meds are, in fact, not addictive. But I will take them every day because they make my life orders of magnitude easier. I will enjoy them every time I take them.

My tramadol is addictive. I will still take it. I will keep it on a schedule to avoid becoming addicted, primarily because addiction in this case would mean reduced effectiveness. But I am not afraid of my painkillers. They are life changing.

Take your meds, everyone. Don't let anyone scare you away from doing something that improves your life.

[satans-left-asscheeky]

Hmm, how about the Companions reacting to a photo of Hancock when he was human? According to Irma he was apparently a babe

Lol isn't there something on Daisy computer too that says he was hot af? I feel like there was, but I could also be confusing a hc I read somewhere for cannon lmao. Also idk why but I picture pre ghoul Hancock to look a bit like Kurt Cobain

Maccready

"Huh... hard to picture him as anything but the ghoul mayor. Weird."

He didn't like looking at it... it made him feel weird. Like he was invading someone's privacy somehow? He didn't know but he'd forget about it and move on like it never happened

Hancock

"I hate looking at that bastards ugly mug... Glad I had the radiation glow up..."

There was a reason he took that pill. He couldn't stand the person he used to be. He hated John Mcdonough... to him he would always be the bastard that let the ghouls of diamond city down... he much preferred John Hancock the mayor of the misfits and the freaks.

Cait

*wolf whistles* "And I thought he looked good as a ghoul...."

Safe to say if she didn't already have a thing for Hancock she definitely did now....

Danse

"Strange to see him well he still had a shred of humanity left...."

to him it was no different than looking at a picture of someone who had died. That man was no more and was replaced by an abomination.

Curie

"Does monsieur Hancock know you have this?"

She wouldn't want to look unless she knew Hancock was okay with it. Even if it helped her understand how radiation effected people it wasn't worth exploiting a friend..

Deacon

"How'd you get a picture of me before the face changes!?"

He'd wisk the picture away from them and put it in his pocket. It wasn't right to show off who someone used to be especially when they had tried to bury that person, he of all people knew that.

Piper

"Damn... weird to see him... before...."

She'd probably hang on to the photo... She'd claim it was just as a reminder of what radiation could do to a person... but in reality she though he was hot.

Nick

"...... Haven't seen him like that for a long time.... Almost forgot."

He'd take the photo and put it in one of his files... he would never want to forget who his friend used to be.

Preston

"Damn, sure that's the same person?"

He couldn't belive that was Hancock.... He also couldn't belive he was so.... attractive?

X6-88

"Strange to think there was a time he wasn't defiled by radiation"

It just reminded him of the vile that was the wastland. He was greatful to be apart of the institute safe from radiation.

[reidology]

Friend, please don't take your life away from me

Summary: The last thing Spencer was expecting to find when opening the victim’s bathroom cabinet was that familiar little brown bottle, a Dilaudid label stuck to it.

Pairing: Hotchreid

Word count: 1.6k

CW: implied/referenced past drug use, drug craving, hurt/comfort

AO3

Spencer had spent more time than he’d like to admit on kicking his heroin addiction. He put in countless hours into getting better, getting sober, because he knew he had to be there for his mother. And for his team. He couldn’t let himself deteriorate any further and let down the people he loves the most, they were his only family. It took a long time for the cravings to stop appearing at any minor inconvenience, even longer for the headaches to fade and the arm-scratching habit to cease. It’s been years since Hankel, and years since he last used, and he was incredibly proud of himself.

But goddamn did it take every single ounce of energy and willpower that Spencer had just to function every day. He was clean, but he’d always be scarred, and he’d feel that little sliver of temptation deep in the folds of his brain for the rest of his life. He’s taken every precaution possible since; limited painkillers, no narcotics, no alcohol, but most importantly, he flushed out every drop of Dilaudid he had down the toilet and never looked back. Needless to say, Spencer was prepared. He knew to just say no, to turn around and walk away.

The team had driven down to the suburbs to check out the current crime scene. The house was a two-story picture-perfect family home with a spacious backyard and vegetable garden. This was definitely somebody’s dream home. Upon arrival, each person split up to different areas of the house, Spencer took the master bedroom. He noticed the king size bed, the flowing flower-laden curtains, the dented bookshelves lining the walls, the empty spaces filled with tasteful artistic decor. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place, so he moved on to the en suite, the door closing softly behind him. He began searching the area for any clues. The bathtub was clean and empty, perfectly folded towels hung up on a hanger. The drawers held the standard married-couple bathroom products. The last thing Spencer was expecting to find when opening the victim’s bathroom cabinet was that familiar little brown bottle, a ‘Dilaudid’ label stuck to it.

He shocked himself when he realized that, instinctively, he’d started reaching for it, without even registering what the bottle was. He lowered his arm and stood there, unable to take his eyes off of the shelf. It seemed the vile was staring back, mocking him, innocently resting there. Oh, wouldn’t it be so easy to just… take it? To put it in his pocket and walk away. Who would know? Everyone, he thinks. They’ll all notice if I start using again, they know the signs to look for. But what does that matter? Here and now, what would be so wrong about taking it? He wouldn’t use it, he doesn’t even have a needle, he just wants to hold it…

A thumping sound coming from the bedroom shook Spencer from his daze. Blinking, he looked around the bathroom to remember what he was doing. He locked eyes with himself in the mirror, he looked pale, a deer-in-the-headlights expression written across his face. It was then that he noticed his hand was wrapped around the small bottle, resting at his side, gripping so tightly his knuckles turned white. Oh god. He felt terrified of himself, he didn’t know what he would do, couldn’t possibly predict what his next moves would be. Slowly, so agonizingly slowly, Spencer set the bottle down onto the edge of the sink, but didn’t let go. He was still holding on tightly, his other hand fisting the rim of the sink with just as much force. He was so close… could feel the liquid burning in his veins, could recall the scent of it, how good it felt… Stop it, he orders to himself, Let go and back away. Let go! Let go! Let me go! LET ME GO!

When his eyes opened once again his knees were on the floor, his breathing was labored and erratic. How did he get down here? When had his eyes closed? The tiles were cold and dirty, his cheeks wet with sweat and tears, his hair stuck to his forehead. And the bottle- the heroine was- still there. Cradled to his chest, wherein his head was also tucked. Rocking back and forth onto his heels, he thought, I can’t do this, I need someone.

“Hotch…”, he muttered lowly. One shallow breath, and he repeated, “Hotch.” “Hotch! Hotch!”, Spencer all but sobbed out, each inhale stuttering violently. “Hotch! Please! Please help me, Hotch, please…”

The bathroom door flew open and in pounced Hotch, aiming his gun, steady. “Reid?” He looked down to Spencer on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably and clutching something tightly to his chest.

“Reid, what’s wrong?”, he asked desperately as he crouched down to Spencer’s level, putting a hand on his shoulder in an attempt to steady him.

“Hey, shh... shh… it’s alright Spencer. What’s going on? Talk to me,” Now kneeling down in front of him, he wrapped one arm around the younger man’s shoulders.

Spencer continued to cry but he lifted his head up to look at Hotch. He shook his tightly coiled hands towards the other man and let out a broken “Help,” before leaning his forehead onto Aaron’s shoulder, “don’t let me take it.”

Hotch soothed his hands into Reid’s hair and shushed him comfortingly, “Okay, okay. Shhh it’s okay, you’re okay, Spence, I’m here to help you, you’re okay…”

Spencer was so wound up, stiff and erratic, his hold on the bottle was so tight, Aaron just needed him to calm down a little and relax his muscles so he could take away whatever was in his hands. It was so hard seeing his best friend like this. He’d never seen him in such a helpless state. Spencer had always appeared so strong around others, because it was the one thing that he was constantly underestimated for. No one expected Spencer Reid to be strong and resilient, to hold his own. But he’d proved them wrong time and time again, it never ceased to amaze Aaron. Even when Spencer was staring down the barrel of Hankel’s revolver, the man hadn’t shown any weakness. When Hankel pulled the trigger, the genius hadn’t even flinched, just maintained eye contact and said ‘Shoot’. But now here he was, a mess on the victim’s bathroom floor and all Aaron knew to do was hold him close until his sobs stopped and his breathing mellowed out.

After a few minutes of the older agent trying to comfort him by petting his hair and back, and whispering into his hair that he’ll be okay; Spencer’s body finally started to relax under Aaron’s. Aaron could begin to push apart Reid’s fingers. He pressed their foreheads together and took the younger’s soft hands into his own rough bigger ones. Aaron looked at Spencer’s closed eyes and caressed his smaller hands, loosening the tension little by little. When Spencer’s hands finally fell open onto his lap, Hotch moved in quickly to scoop up what was in them. He initially recognized the object as a pill bottle. He looked at the label and froze, his stomach dropped and his guts twisted.

Suddenly, he had to stand up. He needed to get this bottle far far away from his precious friend. Spencer remained motionless and exhausted on the floor, “Dump it out, in the sink”, he muttered, sounding so exhausted, resigned,

“Please Aaron just dump it out.”

Hotch’s expression didn’t give anything away, he knew he had to get this done for Reid, he could overthink this later. He headed to the sink and dumped out the bottle, then tossed the empty glass into the bathtub, shattering it. Making sure none of it could be used. He glanced back at Reid on the floor and immediately went to him, wrapped him up in his arms as tightly as possible. Spencer fell back into his chest and hugged back just as desperately, some tears coming back to dampen Aaron’s bulletproof vest.

“It was so easy, Hotch… It was so easy to just give in to temptation. Even after all these years, even after how hard I’ve worked, I still- I’m still an addict. I couldn’t control myself! I couldn’t control my body!” Spencer said cried into the man’s shoulder, hands fisted into his shirt.

“No, Reid, no,” Aaron whispered into Reid’s hair, “You’re so strong, that was so strong of you. You asked for help, thank you thank you thank you for that. I love you, Spence. I love you and I’m so proud of you...”

Reid tucked his head further into Aaron’s neck, hair tickling his chin. The older man took a deep breath in and brought his finger up to gently push the younger man’s hair out of his eyes.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered tracing his finger down to Spencer’s chin and lifting his face up to look into his eyes. He leaned in and took Spencer’s lips into his own for a long, passionate kiss. Everything that needed to be said what said in that one endless moment. Spencer whimpered and pressed in closer, his tears smudging onto Aaron’s cheeks. They pulled away and Aaron took the younger’s face into his own hands, wiping away the tears, “I mean it,” he whispered into his lips, “I love you.”

Spencer looked up into his lover’s coffee yes and responds, “Thank you for helping me, Aaron, I love you too.” Aaron smiled down at the boy he loved and kissed him again. They remained there, on the cold bathroom tiles holding each other, for a while longer.

[lancermylove]

Where Are You? (HC)

Fandom: MLQC

Pairing: Lucien x fem!Reader

Warning: Mentions of reader’s “death”, angst, contains spoilers from chapter 25!

Requested by: Anon

Prompt: Lucien reactions to Mc’s death and when Mc comes back based on ch 25

A/N: I tried to follow the pattern of the chapter as closely as I could~. Hope you like it! The first section is after chapter 18, the second section follows chapter 25. 

* ‘Text’ are Lucien’s thoughts!

———————————————

Lucien stole a glance at his phone for the 100th time today. ‘My dear little fool, why have you not called me yet?’ 

He was not going to believe the words, no, blatant lies that people told him. How could they speak such words callously? She is dead? Do they expect him to believe their absurd statement? Imbeciles. 

“The silly girl tends to overwork and is most likely busy filming, or she may have gone on a vacation. In a few days, she will hand me a souvenir with a radiant grin. I shall ask her what I should do with such a souvenir, then she will pout and get upset.” He let out a dry chuckle and leaned back on his chair. The headlights of the passing cars seeped in through the gaps in blinds, and for a while, Lucien watched the lights dancing on the otherwise dark ceiling. 

“What an exhausting day. Hurry back, butterfly, I await your return.” He whispered as his weighty eyelids shut and gave way to darkness. ‘After every sunset, there is a sunrise...’

Lucien opened his eyes and for a brief moment, his eyes widened as he slowly sat up in his office chair. “My...little fool, you have returned? Am I dreaming?” 

He attempted to push the corners of his lips up but they felt heavy. ‘Why is it difficult to smile?’ Lucien shifted his eyes to the mirror directly across his desk and stared into it, examining his face as well as the bedroom with dull eyes. He gave a mocking chuckled and turn back to you. “How have you been? Have you been eating properly? Such dark circles under your eyes. Why do you forgo sleep?”

He waited for you to respond but when you refused to utter a word, he snickered, “Are you upset with me? No matter, I shall speak, and you can listen.” 

----

Just as Lucien finished his lecture and opened the floor to questions, his eyes locked with yours. ‘How unusual for my little fool to attend one of my conferences. Are you that interested in listening to my tedious, lengthy lectures?’ 

He called the student sitting beside you and requested his assistance but avoided making eye contact with you. After what seemed like ages, he wrapped the conference up only to catch a journalist attempting to interview him without an appointment. Lucien schooled the man using the same words you once told him, and at that moment, your eyes met once again. ‘I remember your words clearly, my butterfly...do you remember saying them to me?’ 

Once he reached his office, the professor let out a sigh and dropped his façade, allowing himself to once again return to the broken man he had become; the man he didn’t want anyone else to see. Right when he thought he could have some peace, she walked in - the woman he hated and wished to kill. ‘Why does this vile woman present herself in front of me? I have told her countless times to not show her face, but alas...how I wish to end her...’ 

His grip on the scalpel tightened when he heard her ask if he could really kill her. ‘You may have the same face as her, but you are not my little fool.’

Only when she left, Lucien lowered his guard down and stared at his scattered belongings on the floor. Sighing, he kneeled and began gathering the pills one-by-one. ‘My love, where are yo- I’m certain you will pay me a visit soon. The days had dragged on far too long, and you are the only one who can help me...by taking this pain away.’

You noisily stepped into the office to see him in a disheveled state, and though he glanced at you, he quickly returned his gaze to the floor. The researcher heard you call him once, then twice but remained silent. ‘How I miss your sweet voice. Let me hear you say my name once more. Did I make her angry? Silly girl.’ 

As he spoke to you and listened to your questions, Lucien found your behavior quite strange. ‘Why are you asking such questions? What an unexpected change. Are the pills responsible for this? Do I need to increase the dosage? How troublesome. Regardless, she reminds me of the silly girl I used to know...how long has it been?’

His mind began to wander to the old days - the days he wished would return. ‘Dear mind, would you kindly stop tormenting me? Her memories are only adding to the pain. I wish to erase her existence from my life entirely, but my heart refuses to cooperate. Why do emotions exist? Why do I feel pain? Why does my chest feel heavy? Why can’t I breathe? Why...did you leave me?’

After a moment of analyzing the situation, you finally understood why he didn’t pay heed to you at the conference, why your presence in his office did not faze him, why he wished to avoid you but still spoke to you, why he was no longer the confident, composed man you once knew. To him, you were a hallucination - a hallucination he created as a means of coping with your disappearance. You never imagined that behind the cold, aloof exterior was such an emotional man who loved you with every fiber of his being, to the point where he couldn’t let you go or accept that you died. 

His words only confirmed his feelings. “So, even if you are a hallucination, that’s fine. No matter what form you take, continue to stay by my side.”

You couldn’t help but encircle your arms around his trembling body as you whispered that you had returned in flesh. 

‘She is back? That is what my heart wishes to hear, but this is the first time she has touched me. Is my ability to manifest her this powerful?’ He wanted to let out a self-deprecating chuckle, but Lucien had a realization. ‘I can feel her warmth seeping into my skin. Can a hallucination radiate heat? That’s...impossible.’ 

He reached up and held your arms in place, brushed his fingertips along your smooth skin. ‘Her skin feels real. Is...no, she...she’s back? Pain is an emotion all humans feel, then if she is real, she...’ 

Lucien pinched your wrist and felt you shudder. ‘She felt the pain? She, (y/n), is back, but when did she get back?’

Even though he patiently listened to your explaining, he only wished to do one thing - hold you in his arms and let the fact that you returned sink into his heart. Once you were finished, he did just that - took you in his arms and pressed your body firmly against his. 

Lucien felt your heart beating against his chest and a gentle smile danced on his lips. He inhaled your scent, a scent he had longed to bask in. ‘My beloved little fool has finally returned to me.’

———————————————

➣ MLQC Masterlist ➣ Buy me a Ko-fi or Commission?

[reidgraygubler]

a different type of high (spencer reid/reader) part ten

Title: A Different Type of High (part ten)

Request: no

Couple: spencer reid/gender-neutral!reader

Category: angst

Content Warning: kidnapping, needles, being drugged (unknown drug), hallucinations (as a side effect of the drug), other side effects, mentions of guns/other weapons, being tied down, struggles with sobriety/addiction, hospital stays, swearing (if I missed something that needs to be tagged, please message me and let me know!)

Word Count: 2,605

Summary: after being missing for several days, reader is saved by spencer and the BAU team. spencer begins to help reader recover through all their new struggles 

A/N: this part is very heavy! please take the content warnings SERIOUSLY.  the next part won’t be as dark and heavy. this part will be a lot like the episodes where spencer was kidnapped. it won’t be word for word the same, but there will be a lot of similarities. i left most of the torture out and as vague as possible bc im not a big fan of writing that.  the drug that is being used is unknown, but for the most part i imagine it being pcp… thank you all for the love and support on this series! It really means a lot to me! check out my masterlist!

last part    series masterlist    next part

THIS PART DOES CONTAIN TRIGGERING THINGS! PLEASE GO BACK AND READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS BEFORE CONTINUING! THE NEXT PART WILL NOT BE AS HEAVY!

{***}{***}{***}

It was hard to say just how long I had been gone. I knew I was in an abandoned warehouse. A musty smell stuck out the most, taking over my sense of smell. And my sense of time was skewed by the black tarps tapped over the windows. I could no longer tell if it was night or day. 

The two men who took me weren’t here. They had gone, left some time ago. It should be a relief, right? That they were gone and I was alone… Maybe in the time they were gone, Spencer and the team would come and save me.

But for some reason there was an uncomfortable ball growing in my stomach. A cloud and a looming sense of uncertainty grew over me. I couldn’t say what was going to happen next, but I was scared. 

My only hope right now was that Spencer and his team would find me. A different part of me, however, was telling me that he wasn’t looking for me. I ignored that part of me. 

The two men returned. They only caused the doom feeling to grow. The silence and tension in the room was so tight you could cut through it like it was food. I wish I’d known their names. They won’t give them to me, for obvious reasons. I don’t think it’d make my situation much better honestly, if I had their real, or fake, names. 

They walked past me and went towards a table set up on the other side of the room. One of the men carried a box, and my body shivered at the thought of what might be in it. They stood close together as they dug through the box. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could tell that it wasn’t good.

One guy turned to face me while they spoke, and I could see the dark look on his face. I didn’t like the way he looked at me. The sick feeling in my stomach only grew. If my stomach wasn’t empty, it would be empty now.

“I’m sure they’d like it… I’ve seen them popping pills before.” 

I swallowed roughly, staring at them from where I sat. My throat closed up when I wanted to argue back that I haven’t done that in a very long time. But it’d end up being useless even if I tried. My words betrayed me and all that came out was a whimper. That caused the two men to look over at me with annoyance on their faces. 

They were standing off to the side for a while before one of them stepped closer to me. I didn’t look up at his face. No, I was too preoccupied looking at his hands and what he held. 

A small syringe was in his grasp. My body froze up as I realized what was about to happen. The terror took over me as he lifted it.

“What is that… what…” I asked as I looked down at the needle in the man’s arm. I tried flinching away from him, but it was so hard when I was tied to a chair. “Please… Please don’t. Don’t…” I whimpered as the needle pierced my skin. I cried as my body reacted to the sudden irritation on and in my skin.

My head fell back as a breath of air escaped my lungs. My body felt… loose. My mind was empty. All my worries melted away, and I suddenly didn’t care where I was, or what it was I was given. I felt… good. And that was all I cared about. 

Some more time passed, but it was hard to say how much time. Whatever they gave me had kicked in, and the effects had started. If my body felt loose before, it felt like I was floating now. Like I was a weightless balloon a child had released into the sky.  

That was when the hallucinations started and I saw Spencer standing beside the two men who did this to me. He wore a worried expression on his face, but his eyes were blank. I was so happy to see him that I didn’t care whether or not he was actually there.

“Spencer… It’s so good to see you,” my words slurred as my head fell forward. In fact, my whole body fell forward, and if I wasn’t restrained to a chair, I would’ve fallen from the chair.

“You’re safe…” Spencer whispered as he knelt on the ground in front of me. I smiled and nodded. 

“Who’s Spencer?” 

“My… My best friend…” I smiled softly as I thought about him. “He’s standing behind you… He works for the FBI,” I swallowed roughly as my head fell forward. I looked away from Spencer and at the man who was talking.

“Shit the boyfriend works for the FBI,” one of them whispered to the other. I closed my eyes and threw my head back as I imagined Spencer behind me. He looked down at me with a soft and loving smile.

“Yeah,” I sighed deeply before nodding. I lifted my head back up and looked at the men. “He’s gonna find me… And then he’s gonna find you.” I could feel a lazy smile grow on my lips as I stared at the men. My limbs and head felt… heavy. It was only a matter of time before whatever they put in me knocked me out for who knows how long. 

“Seriously doubt that,” one of the men said. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head. “You’re not the first druggie we’ve taken. And you most certainly won’t be the last,” he added. 

“You might be good… But they’re better…” I spoke softly as my eyes slowly started to close. “Then you’ll be in jail for the rest of your lives.” And that was the last thing I said. In fact, that was the last thing I remembered, period.

Because the next thing I knew, I was sitting in a field though. Tall wheat stalks swaying beside me, the sun warming up my skin, and a soft breeze blowing through my hair. It made me feel… Happy and safe. 

But a voice in the back of my head told me I was not in fact in a field.  And I was actually sitting in an abandoned building. Nothing about that should make me feel happy or safe. I was in danger… But my brain couldn’t comprehend the danger because of whatever drug I was given.

My back was pressed against the wall behind me. My legs were extended out in front of me, and my arms were limp beside me. A rope was tied around my torso, keeping me to whatever it was I was sitting against. A syringe sat beside me and the contents that were once in it… were racing in my blood. It felt really good. 

“Hey, hey,” a familiar voice spoke up from next to me. I blinked and smiled as I looked towards where the voice came from. Spencer was looking down at me. The worry and concern on his face was no bother to me. In fact, I only saw it for a brief moment before I ignored it.

“Spencer,” I sighed and smiled at him before dropping my head to my shoulder, “Isn’t it nice outside,” I rolled my head and looked up at the sky. “I’m so happy you’re here,” I whispered as I tried to lift a hand to touch his face. My arms felt so heavy though. It felt near impossible to even try to lift them.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked, dropping to his knees beside me. I furrowed my eyebrows before blinking. Suddenly I was no longer in a wheat field but in a cold hard reality. Spencer pulled a knife from his pocket before cutting the rope off me.

“N-no… No, I don’t,” I whispered as I looked around the room I was in. Several of our friends, and Spencer’s co-workers, were standing in front of me, and I was very anxious. But that could be because of whatever I was given. “Can… Can they leave? Can you tell… Can you please…” I sniffled as I started becoming very aware of my surroundings and my current situation. Tears were rolling down my cheeks and my body started twitching lightly. 

“Guys...” Spencer looked over his shoulder at his friends, silently asking them to leave. They all holstered their weapons before leaving Spencer and I. I could feel tears racing down my cheeks but I couldn’t do anything about it. I glanced at the ground and stared at the syringe and empty vile beside me.

“I don’t know what that is. I don’t…” I started blabbing but ultimately stopped when words just wouldn’t work. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it… I prom…. I promise.”  

“Hey, hey this isn’t your fault.” Spencer looked at me as he cupped both my cheeks with his hands. I stared at him for a moment before a weird hyperactivity took over in my eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he wiped the tears from my eyes. 

“I don’t… I don’t know where I am,” I whispered and closed my eyes. I fell forward into Spencer’s arms. He cradled the back of my head and allowed me to cry into his shoulder. 

“We’re gonna take you home, okay? We’re gonna take you to the hospital, and you’re gonna be safe,” he kept talking softly, trying to calm me down. But it was so hard to actually calm down when I didn’t know what was happening to me. “I’m gonna pick you up, okay?”

I swallowed roughly and nodded. My arms, though they were heavy, wrapped around his neck. Spencer wrapped his arms around my body, holding me in a traditional bridal fashion. 

I felt safe again once I was in Spencer’s arms. I could tell that my safety was Spencer’s main concern. Which was understandable… I wasn’t sure how long I was gone for… So if I was gone for a long time, he’d be more than worried. So that’d explain why I felt safe.

Spencer didn’t leave my side the second I was with EMTs and in an ambulance. His hand held mine, to ensure I felt safe, the whole trip to the hospital. I hated the eerie silence that fell over us. I wanted our usual banter and comfortable silence instead. But… the eerie silence is what he had. It was what we needed though. 

I’ve never been in a situation like this before. But Spencer? I’m sure he’s been in them many times. He works for the FBI, solving murder cases, for a living. He’s probably ridden in an ambulance more than once, whether it was for him or for a friend or for an unsuspecting victim. 

{***}{***}{***}

I couldn’t say how long I would stay awake when I was awake. And I couldn’t count how much I was in and out of consciousness. All I knew was I was in a hospital, and I was safe, and I didn’t have to worry.

Spencer was sitting on the chair beside the bed. I knew he hadn’t slept one bit. Part of me wondered if he slept at all since I first went missing, or since I’ve been back. But the exhausted look on his face told me everything I needed to know. 

His eyes were on me as I pretended to be asleep. I only knew his eyes were on me because I could feel it. Then again he hasn’t left my side since he first found me… how ever many days ago that was.

I gave up my charade of faking rest and just looked at him. And I was right, his eyes were on me. I wondered if he thought I was going to disappear again, vanish from his sight for who knows how long. I wish there was a way I could tell him I wouldn’t. But at this point it was hard to say whether or not that was the truth.

“Go back to sleep. You need rest,” Spencer whispered once he noticed I was actually awake. I stared at him and shook my head. It felt impossible to get comfortable in the bed. Although, it probably wasn’t just the bed. It was probably a number of factors.

“I can’t,” my voice was soft, quiet. Tremors worked through my muscles, making my body shake. Even if I tried to still my body, it only failed and made my body shake more.

Spencer stood up and, with two large steps, appeared by my side. His hand brushed over my head before falling to hold my own hand.

“You’re okay now. You’re safe,” he whispered as he looked down at me. I swallowed roughly and nodded.

“That still doesn’t stop the images…” I furrowed my eyebrows as I looked up at him. “Can you sit with me?” my voice wavered as I spoke. The worried crease in Spencer’s eyebrow melted away as he looked at me.

“I can do that,” he replied, nodding his head before sitting beside me. I shifted over so he could have some space. His body was tense as he sat beside me. And I hated that.

“How long was I gone for?” I whispered as Spencer wrapped an arm around me. He looked down at me, the exhaustion on his face worrying me. “Please don’t lie either.” I quickly added when I realized he was probably formulating a lie. Though, I don’t know if a lie would make it better or worse. 

“Three days,” he whispered, looking down at me. I swallowed roughly before grabbing his hand. I didn’t like how small my hand looked with his and with all of the IVs and shit. In fact, I hated it. I hated it so much. I hated everything about my life right now. I hated everything except for Spencer.

“How’d you… How’d you know how to find me?” 

“Well… We went to my apartment and saw the mess… I remembered you said errands. One thing led to another… Laundromat… Groceries… It took a day before we found the... men who took you,” Spencer explained. My body tensed as I thought about it, even though my memories were a little… foggy, I knew what happened. 

“What did I do to deserve this though?” my voice was low and so shaky I felt like I imagined myself saying it. But it was the way Spencer looked down at me with a somber look in his eyes that told me that I did indeed say it.

“You didn’t deserve this. We’re working on tracking the men who did this to you. And when we do find them, they’ll be going to jail for a very long time,” Spencer whispered as he brushed his hand over my hair. I swallowed hard and nodded my head lightly. 

“I just… I just don’t understand.” I looked up at him, feeling tears fall to me cheeks. Spencer looked back at me, his hands holding mine like his life depended on it. “Please don’t leave… Just… Just stay here.”

“I won’t. You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll stay as long as you need me too.” He lifted a hand and wiped my cheeks. “Can you try to get some rest? Your body needs it.”

“I can… I can try but I don’t think I’ll sleep.” I shrugged before pulling the blanket tighter around my body. Spencer stayed beside me, his arms around my body like he was a shield.

if you want to be a part the series taglist or have any comments/questions about this part, let me know here

series taglist: @itsametaphorbriansblog , @bxtchboy69 , @sammypotato67 , @seninjakitey  , @thatsonezesty13  , @thebluetint  , @honestlystop  , @herecomesthewriterwitch  , @mediocrity-atitsfinest  , @honeyboysteezy  , @aluna190  , @mggsprettygirl  , @vampiracontessa  , @cielo1984 , @anotherlokismind , @muffin-cup @misshale21 @ash19871962​ @spenciegoob​

tags that didn’t work: @takeyourleap-of-faith , @shameleswhorehourstm  , @mediocrehamiltrash

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Tokyo Love Story (Part 6) The Fight

This scene does not appear in the books or the game. This is a scene that relates to the MC and her journey in my “Main Story Quests Rewritten” series but takes themes and information from what happened to Kogure and Akira Sakurai. One thing that is not communicated well in the game, is that Kogure and Akira were put in positions to die. The things that happened to them didn’t “Just Happen”. It was arranged.

I can’t ask you to enjoy what I’ve written, but I hope you read it and feel emotions.

In the park where you had taken shelter from Hydra, you were now trapped by them. You and Chance were unable to escape and Chisei Gen now stood over Chance while you hid behind a Buddha statue, still out of sight. You’re not sure what to do. While you were strong and fast and clever. Chisei Gen was stronger and faster than you. There wasn’t much cover, it wouldn’t be a lot of time before he found you. All you had was your deadpool claw dagger, but the sword Onimaru could even cut through that.

Chisei Gen loomed over the trembling whimpering Chance. “I’m only going to ask you once. Where is Ruri Kazama?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” He held out his hands, pleading and in a flash of light, one of his fingers disappeared. 

Chance’s agonized screams drove you to press your fingers into the ground. You didn’t care if you toppled a few buildings. You would use your Soul Skill if you had to make this stop! You just needed Chance to hang on for a few seconds. Just a few seconds!

“I’m telling the truth!” Chance clutched his wrist and fell to his side. Wide-eyed with terror, sweating with pain, he gasped. “After Ryoma Sakurai died, information stopped coming from up top. I didn’t even know Kazama was going to show up in town until he was there! I swear!”

You close your eyes tighter, the tendrils of spiritual energy pierce the ground, racing to gather and spread. Then your head is pulled up on your neck!  You're pulled up by your hair. You have to stand on tip toe to relieve the pressure on your scalp. A smooth slimy voice chuckles. “Oh ho ho… Hey boss! I found a little rabbit!”

Your eyes go wide. If he saw your face… Thinking quickly, you pull the golden comb out of your hair to release your bangs. They descend like a waterfall over your eyes.

“No! Let her go! Please!” Through your dark locks, Chance furiously tries to reach for the dagger in his leg.

“If you pull that out, you’ll bleed to death.” The mocking voice from behind you reminded you so much of the pantysniffer. “Oo… she’s young too… Boss, when you’re done with this guy can I have her?”

Chance’s face twists with anger but you meet his eyes and give a little shake of your head.

“I don’t care, Yasha.” Chisei turned back to Chance. “You’re Inuyama Ichirou, a Rank A hybrid, Code: Orange. You’ll lose control at any time, but you’ve evaded our tracking and have gone unmonitored…”

“I haven’t killed anyone!” Chance gasps from the ground. “I just worked as a prostitute and cater to clientele who like it rough. It’s what I do. It’s how I satisfy it. It’s all consensual.” True to his nature, Chance let out a laugh even though he could see his reflection in that blade that had killed so many of his fellow hybrids.

Yasha turns to you and you stay still to try maintain your focus on your soul skill, but your temper and fury rises. Your eyes glittered like hard black stones behind your hair. Yasha whispers in your ear. “You like it rough too huh?”

You didn’t just need to stay still for your sake, you needed to stay still for Chance’s. If Chance tried to fight Chisei, it would be over before you could do anything. You look at Chance again and shake your head.

“Huh!” Yasha’s eyes widened slightly. “A brave one.”

“Despite that…” Chisei continues slowly, sending an annoyed glance at Yasha. “I can’t just let you go. You need to be monitored.”

“Please… don’t kill me. Don’t send me to prison. I’ll live quietly, like I always have. I’ve always lived quietly. And… “ A tear slipped down his cheek. “I love her. I love her. Please.” He fell at Chisei’s feet, bowing until his forehead touched the ground. “Let us go to Hokkaido.” He turned to you. “Let’s go to Hokkaido. There’s a lot of snow there. We’ll go and we’ll get married in the snow.”

“Okay.” You say, softly, staying still. Your voice is gentle and sweet, in contrast to the brutal scene. “I’ll marry you in Hokkaido.”

Despite his fear and the pain crashing through him, Chance smiled through his tears. “Good. That’s good. Then in that case, I will renounce all ties to the Devil Clan!”

Chisei doesn’t say anything but the tip of his sword lowers. “Sakura. Go tell the others to finish searching the car. Yasha, let the girl go and go with her.”

Yasha let out a sad little whimper and released your hair. You sink down to the ground and the rest of your hair forms a curtain around your face. The flowers tilt askew, still hanging on by just their pins. Yasha stuffs his hands in his pockets and slouches sullenly as he ambles down the path out of sight.

“I will need your information so I can track you.” Chisei kneels next to Chance and Chance stares in wonder as Chisei pulls a handkerchief from his trenchcoat to wrap his hand where he’s now missing a finger.

Tears were already flowing down Chance’s face and now they became a torrent. “I want my nieces and nephews back! They took the children! I can’t go without them too!”

Chisei calmly ties the wound with a stiff knot.. “From where?”

“From the Residential District in Tokyo. The one that burned. My brothers fought so the kids wouldn’t be taken. They’re all orphans now… so they were taken to the prisons.”

Chisei let out a breath and then he nodded. “Alright. Give me a list of their names. Once you get to Hokkaido, I’ll have them released to you. But you have to stay monitored. That’s all I ask.” Chisei stands up and starts wiping his sword with a cloth.

Chance is shaking but he’s slowly returning to his confidence. He turned to you and smiled. Your chest swells with pride. Not only could Chance save you, but also what remained of his family.

Chance reached into his jacket and pulled out a vial of purple liquid. When you see it and when Chisei sees it, you both gasp. You remembered this vial from the man with the stripe suit who had used it to turn into a monster to fight Caesar. You never thought that Chance would be holding a vial of such deadly poison. No wonder he cried so much in your arms when you told him to live! He was holding a suicide pill right in his hand!

“I was planning on using this if we got in a pinch… but not any more.” Chance said gently.

“Who gave you that!” Chisei hissed. He had gone pale faced, his expression taut. His hand tightens on his blade.

“I don’t know. It was next to my head when I woke up one morning. Whoever left it, left a note saying I was at the end of my life and I should use my time to dance brightly.” His eyes narrowed in hatred as he held it up. “...like a moth in the flames…” He threw it hard into the pea gravel. The vial shattered and the purple liquid seeped into the ground.

Chisei lunged forward, brandishing his sword. You leap to your feet and rush to meet him.

From the shadow of the trees in the park, a muzzle of a gun flashes and the bullet that should have struck Chance in the heart, shatters across the sword Onimaru! The shrapnel sparkled in the air like gold dust and scattered onto the ground.

You skid to a halt and a bullet whizzes just by your head! 

Chisei snarled, crouching over a stunned Chance, his body blocking him from the hidden shooter. His eyes are dark with rage. “I knew it!”

You thought Chisei was attacking Chance, but Chisei was protecting him!

You both spot the hidden assassin at the same time. He’s lying low in the bushes in dark camouflage and had to have been watching the entire scene.

The assassin pops the cork off his own vial of the elixir and upends it into his mouth. Immediately, black vines crawl up his arms and neck, followed by shining white scales. His fingers extended beyond the limits of known life and his face shrunk into something monstrous!  He leaps directly at Chisei, clearing the distance in a single bound, screaming like a wild thing. Chisei moves aside just enough to allow the claw to scratch his cheek. He only lifts the tip of the sword slightly. The momentum of the newborn dead pool carries it into the tip, slides him all the way down the blade, to the hilt. Chisei doesn’t waste time or words. He raises his foot and kicks the would-be assassin to the ground, stands over him and stabs him once through the neck. With a single twist, you hear the vertebrae snap.

Chisei looks at Chance coldly, waving his sword once and splashing the black blood into the grass. “The Devil Clan is exploiting the desperation of its members when it's giving them that poison. This is the third time this has happened. First was with Akira Sakurai, the lab experiment who helped create this vile liquid. Second was Ryoma Sakurai who drank it to end her life at the Paradisio. The person giving it to them intends for them to die. Each time, they talk about moths… and flames… when I find out who is behind that toxin, I will kill him myself.”

Chance’s hands balled into fists. “But it’s you Hydra who are driving us to desperation. You’re not excused!”

“Chance… let’s go…” You move next to him to try to help him up. You want Chisei to let you go while you have the chance and while he still doesn’t recognize you.

“You should go quickly. That assassin was a Devil Clan member hidden among our ranks. Get tickets to Hokkaido. I’ll provide a safe place for you until this is all over. I’m afraid you won’t be able to trust anyone else.”

“MC…” Chance looks at you, whispering earnestly. “Do I get a star-heart?” He chuckles low in his throat.

You laugh that he’s still thinking of that silly game. “Of course you get a star heart. You can have all the star-hearts.”

He stands up and then suddenly pulls you to him. He holds you close, pressing his body against yours. His breathing accelerates like he’s just run a marathon. He kisses you but it’s not like the kiss from before. This is more like Z’s forceful, penetrating kiss but ten times more aggressive. His fingertips press into your back hard, so hard they might leave bruises. And then his fingers send sharp pangs into your back, like the nails have turned to needles. You want to scream. Your eyes widen and you try to pull away but his grip is so tight now, you feel as though your bones might break. When you look into his eyes, they’re blood shot and then they blaze golden!

Even though Chance didn’t take the molotov cocktail, the dragon blood in his body has been raging all his life, like the fuse on a bomb. He knew the eventuality and had maintained his human nature for a long time. But now, the excitement of freedom, of love, the smell of blood and the adrenaline of violence had pushed him over the edge. He wasn't losing control because of poison, he was losing control by his own nature!

Chisei’s attack was swift, and Chance turned to defend himself. Bone claws had started to grow from his hands just like they did with the assassin, but it was your bronze dagger that flashed up in an arc and sent Chisei staggering back. He stared at you, wide eyed, finally getting a good look at your face through your hair and makeup. “MC?!”

A look of horror passes over his face. He had wanted to get to know you over sake, but instead, you’d seen him torture and nearly kill the man you loved.

You don’t care about Chisei, you rush to Chance who’s clutching his head and staggering, moaning loudly in pain.

“Chance!” You grab his shoulders and look into his face, pleading. “Chance, you have to live, do you hear me? You have to fight it! Fight!”

His eyes flicker from green to gold and he stares at you in fear. “I’m trying…” 

He falls to one knee and you follow him down, your hands sliding down his arms. You try to keep eye contact as he swayed like someone drunk..

“Chance, you have to live. You have to live. Please… please remember.” You glance back at Chisei. His sword is low and his eyes are dull and empty as he looks at you. 

He doesn’t look like he’s going to attack. You turn back to Chance. “You can’t lose it now. You can’t!”

“I don’t want to…” He sobs. “I’m...so… close.” The dark veins on his hands slowly start to retract and the scales stop their progression. His will to live and to love you is so strong that the dragonization process has halted. He meets your gaze with sparkling green eyes. “I love you.”

You cradle his face in your hands and smile at him, lovingly. “You’re doing it!” You turn back to Chisei, face radiant. “He’s doing it!”

Chisei doesn’t share your enthusiasm. A heavy sadness has fallen over the man and he doesn’t move.

You look at Chance again, willing the scales to fall, willing the veins to retract. You shake his shoulders to rouse him. “I told you. You can live.”

“We’ll get married in Hokkaido.” He says, his eyes lidding half closed. He sounds sleepy, overcome with incredible weariness. “In the snow.”

“Yes.” You nod.

“We’ll raise my nephews and nieces.”

“Yes!” You laughed, tears of joy ran from your eyes.

“I’m… so happy…” He rests his head against your chest and you lightly stroke his hair. You press your lips against his head and close your eyes. For a moment, you hug him like a mother would soothe a child after a terrible nightmare. “Just focus… focus on getting better.”

“...Bye…” His voice is scarcely above a whisper.

Your eyes snap open. He pushes you to the ground and the claws rip across your dress. The delicate lace floats into the steady breeze. You’re on your back, looking up as the darkness of the sky surrounds the bright golden eyes of the person who was once Chance - Inuyama Ichirou. There was no human there, only a vicious animal. His hand closed on your throat.

You should have fought, but your training didn’t kick in. Your mind is completely blank. His face is withering away inches from yours. His skin is turning a sickly grey-green. But you don’t want to use your dagger. Or your soul skill. You want him to stop. To fight it.

In that moment, a strong arm wraps around Chance’s throat like a python and pulls him back. In the next instant, the bright blue sword pierces from his back through his chest, sending blood raining down on your hair, your face, your dress.

Chance flails wildly, gasping. “Wait… wait!” 

“Wait!” You cry. His eyes are green again. Chance was still fighting!

Chisei lets him fall however. He turns him over on his back with his foot. Chance can no longer speak, gurgling blood rising up out of his mouth.

“Stop!” You leap and take hold of Chisei’s sword arm in an attempt to disarm him but his elbow slams into your chest so hard your feet come out of your slippers, you sail through the air and land so hard on the ground you’re stunned breathless.

When you sit up, Chance is struggling, gagging against the sword in his neck. Chisei retracts it and he lays still.

You can’t even scream. You run even though it's too late. Your spirit feels out of your body and the ringing in your ears makes the world go completely silent. You don’t remember falling next to Chance, but in the next instant you’re cradling his head, rocking back and forth like the abandoned Izanami. You can feel the warmth of the blood soaking into your fine hanfu.

The scales leave Chance’s pale face and the skin left there is perfect, like a child’s skin. He looks beautiful. But he’s dead. He would never open his eyes again, speak to you again, or kiss you. You’re not getting married in Hokkaido and his relatives would languish in prison. You thought you had it. You thought you could defy the world. But the world is too cold and cruel to you to grant you such happiness.

You remove your tattered silk shawl from your shoulders and press it into the wounds. There’s so much blood that the thin fabric seems to dissolve into it. You turned to Chisei who was still pale, his jaw was clenched as he looked at you with a dull, heavy depression. 

The sky above you had grown darker and darker and now it finally opened up, releasing a flooding torrent from above that soaks you in cold rain. You gather yourself up to your feet.

“You murderer…” You point at him with one pale hand, your dark hair plastered on your face. “Killer!”

Lightning flashes and thunder snaps through the air as though the judgement was sustained by God.

Chisei shook his head slowly. “He was gone…” His voice is soft, but despite his attempt to be firm with you, the words were trembling.

“No!”

Chisei freezes. You’ve flung the shawl at him. The blood flies in an arc and you paint Chisei with it, like Jackson Pollock flinging paint on a canvas. It splashes up and down his white shirt and dark pants. “His blood…” You breathe the words in and out in fury. “His blood is red!”

Chisei looks down and palms the stain on his shirt. It was crimson without a trace of black.

“Chance was still fighting! He didn't give up! He didn’t die because it was hopeless. He died because you gave up on him!” You fling the shawl at him again.

Chisei flinches away from the rain of blood. His expression relaxes and the cold emotionless look returns to his eyes. He turns his back to you. “MC. You’re still wanted by the Executive Board. But… if you run… I’ll give you a head start.”

You gasp in disbelief at such bold insensitivity. The remorselessness struck you colder than the rain. However, the shock reminds you that there’s no point in fighting once the person you love is gone. Instead, you remove the gold chains from Chance's neck and give him one last lingering look. He looks like he’s sleeping peacefully there in the rain. You hold the chains tight to yourself and dash away towards the gate. You clear it in a single bound and disappear into the night.

[collar-shocked]

"I know. It usually does.." He spoke with sympathy, straying to the door and heading out, resting his back against the doorframe to wait. He began to think. They've been on the couch for.. Hours recently. They've wasted tons of time watching things, eating at the table, cooking- not exactly what he envisioned on the drive to the bar. But now, he can't remember what he envisioned. ..Not that he can't, it's that he doesn't want to. He so bad wanted to become.. I don't know, Strade 2? The ideas he had going into this were vile, and vulgar. Now, he's not sure he has even a single idea. He can't imagine even raising his hand to this man. Not in his right mind.

..How does Strade do it? If he loves him so much, how does he do it so easily?

He shook that from his head. He doesn't like thinking about that. Time to project. "..Thank you for letting me look." Some positive reinforcement is due. "I think we have pain pills or something if it gets too bad. ..Should have mentioned that earlier, but- Strade was home earlier, so.."

Special Treat

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Falling From Grace- Part 1: The Journey

Calum, Ashton, Luke, and Michael have a prophecy to fulfill. They might not have always been Calum, Ashton, Luke, and Michael but they have always been brothers in the fight. Mythology!sos. Each guy is a God reincarnated from various mythologies

Calum- Tangaroa

Luke- Aengus

Ashton- Zelus

Michael- Bragi

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No one has my permission to repost this fic, including translations. All rights reserved. Copyright © be-ready-when-i-say-go.

____________________________

When they find him with half his body still submerged in water, they are not surprised. His body adorn, as always, in black ink, half his hair tied up into a top knot, the rest falling down over his shoulder blades down to the middle of his back. “Tangaroa! We must go.”

He lifts one hand from the water. They cannot see but his mouth moves as hushed whispers fall over his lips. The other three men wait at the edge of the ocean, toes licked by the push and pull of the waves crashing against the shore. Bragi watches, eyes fluttering close at the feel of the breeze against his skin. 

“If you start quoting some poem, I’m leaving you all here,” Zelus huffs. 

“You won’t make it far,” Aengus retorts. “You need us. All three of us. Remember what happened last time.”

Zelus turns his face from the baby faced, blue eyed, and blond curls man to his left back to the brown body still swaying in the ocean. He doesn’t need to be reminded of what happened the last time he tried to stray away from them. When he walked away, the Earth rumbled. The ground started to crack. All of the gods and Creators stood up in the darkening sky. Their voices boomed in unison, “The end falls upon us unless you reunite with your brethren.” Of course he was not selfish enough to let the world fall apart on his hands. 

 Zelus was just sick of fulfilling this same prophecy over and over, only for it to crumble yet again. The four of them, together, could only maintain the existence of life. Never mind the fact that Zelus knew that Tangaroa’s purpose was the biggest one. Water, from which everything begins and ends. The sea, a calm, almost forgetful body until it was angered. Water carried life and it could crush life too. Tangaroa never overestimated his rule. He never made himself the leader of this ensemble. He always lingered in the back, puffy brown eyes hidden but keen and he stayed quiet. 

He let the others be loud and he lingers, quietly laughing and smiling all the way through their time on earth. Zelus didn’t want to admit it, but he was jealous. His role, in theory, was no less important. Without any feeling of eagerness, people would create nothing. Without a sense of drive, they would invent nothing, nothing would be propelled forward. But he felt partially responsible for some of the nastiness in the world. Tangaroa always told him it wasn’t his fault. He didn’t make them hold onto to such vile beliefs. He only simply told them to believe. And that’s all his job was but it never negated the doubt, never made him feel that much more at ease about the fact that sometimes people believed in the wrong things. 

Bragi pulls the hair back. It won’t stay this length or maybe even this color for long. First they must wait for Tangaroa first though. They always wait on him. Like a mother on the verge of birth, they wait patiently, with some huffed complaints, and wait for him to take the necessary time. He blesses the waters and the waters shall in return bless him back. There is a balance and in his human state, in this mortal host, he must praise it like any other man would. 

“Have we thought of names?” Bragi asks. 

“I like the sound of Luke. I haven’t had too common of a name in a while,” Aengus answers. He appeared first, quite unusual for him. But Zelus got caught up with Zeus and his siblings, Kratos, Nike and Bia. He didn’t quite fork over the details of the meetings and everyone knows not to pry for more than they are given. 

So Aengus cut his hair down, now the curls wrapping around his head and dressed in shorts and a short sleeved top. He’s forgone his sneakers as he waited for the others to arrive on the beach. “Alright Lucas,” Zelus teases.

“Just Luke,” comes the retort with a squeaky laugh. People lay eyes on him and are find himself falling deep into the blue of his eyes. Tangaroa likes to tease that if not for his waters he would have nothing to compare his eyes too. Even though it’s just a joke, the truth is not lost on them. 

“I like the name Michael,” Bragi says. “There’s something strong to it.”

“Then you are Michael, starting from now,” the newly dubbed Luke answers. The two other men turn to the brunette man, hair still long and blowing in the breeze from the ocean front. He watches Tangaroa’s figure wade up to sure. “Ashton,” he says. “And I like to think that this man knows how to take his damn time.” 

“Blessings are not rushed,” Tangaroa answers, taking the towel from Luke’s fingers with a nod. “Calum,” he states, naming himself, this next form. 

With the last man finally dry and decent, though he’s missing a shirt. He’s still wearing the cloth around his waist but ties the towel around, aware that here, now, the sight of his bare back will be frowned upon. “You’re bare ass never gets old,” Michael laughs. 

“Great language from the bard,” Calum quips with a smile. 

“I’ve sung about war and unimaginable violence. I’m allowed to use the word ass.” The four men trudge up the sandy shores. It’s easier to meet up here, in Australia. Strange things happen here. But their journey will take them elsewhere. It always does. “The house is set up here, for now,” Luke starts as they approach his car. Nothing flashy, just a black four door SUV. They need nothing to attract attention to themselves. 

Calum sits in the back with Michael. Luke drives and Ashton rides in the front seat. They wonder what chaos will be brought for thim this time. Who will they run into this time that’s the center of their mission. “I won’t leave this time,” Ashton says. 

“No one’s holding it over you,” Calum returns. 

“I am.”

“You always are. Let it go. New time here, new plans. Nothing old.”

He’s right. But it’s still not an easy pill to swallow knowing you’re the reason shit nearly went to hell. Not that it didn’t happen even when they weren’t here, looking at the currently political landscape. At least he didn’t necessarily fuck this up. It was not his hand that directly impacted that. Water, zeal, beauty, and poetry. They shall always be combined to each other. What is life without water? Life is not sustained without water and to some, life comes from water. What is life without zeal? Boring, life is pointless without an eagerness. What is life without aesthetic value? Bland. Life has no texture if there is no variance in appearance. What is life without words? Life is stagnant with the inability to share stories. 

Or at least that’s what the other gods and Creators have told them. And here are the four pillars humanized, able to walk amongst the new age. Ashton rests his head into the leather of the seat. How shall they fix the world this time? What will be the medium through which they must speak? Will they combine to make a circuit of poets again? Will they fight alongside activists in afros and bellbottoms again? See, that’s the unfortunate truth to their situation. No matter how many times they fix things they always fall apart. History repeats itself. Because those in power don’t change their hearts, they just change their mouths. 

Luke pulls into the lot of the apartment complex.  The men climb out, shuffling quickly into the entrance. People will start to talk soon enough and they will move on. The apartment’s and clothes are always picked out by various servers of the counsel. They don’t interact with them much besides their initial meeting. When the doors swing up, a woman’s already sitting at the dining room table. “Welcome back,” she grins. 

Calum recognizes her, she’s not just some server from the counsel.  “Ḥauḥet, nice to see you again.”

Her jeans are form fitting, the heels are new. “What are you doing here?” Ashton asks. She’s not one to get involved in such matters. 

She shakes her head, the tight braids falling around the sides of her face and the beads at the ends clicking at her gesture. “I’m here because I need to be. Now, I need names.”

They go down the line, all listing off the names they’ve chosen for themselves. She nods, noting them all down on a notepad. The three of them rest against the wall, accustom to the flash that it sure to come. It’s white walls perfect for most state IDs. They all slip into the either the white or black t-shirt provided. Luke went through this process earlier, but he’s yet to be told what’s happening exactly. With that, they excuse themselves to the back.

As they settle into the two bedrooms, each man notes the outfit laid out for them. Michael takes in the baggy cotton pants and oversized black t-shirt. He’s not upset by this select. Ashton takes in the skinny jeans, t-shirt and books. The jeans have a hole in the knee. He hooks his finger through the frays and wonders what is in store for him with attire like this. Calum thinks nothing of the dress pants, leather boots and button up. There’s a leather jacket hanging from the door. He’s not sure if it’s for Michael so as he slides the bottom into his pants, he notices the sweatshirt Michael pulls on. The jacket is his then, he figures. He’ll wait to put that one. Each man also as a spare tank top or undershirt. They all forgo the nice shirts until they’re settled with all the deeds ironed out. 

Ashton holds back the laugh, watching Luke slide into the suede chelsea boots. “I would ask what style choices you’ve made to wind up here, but I have a feeling not even you know.”

The jab is a tired one, but Luke laughs in an exhale. “Some sort of eccentric cowboy, I would guess.”

“That is one way to put it.” They finally gather at the dining room table. The apartment is mimial in it’s directions. A lot of blacks, gray, and blues. It’s homey with the chocolate brown accents. It’s best this doesn’t get too comfortable. 

“If we’re dressing like this, it is safe to assume that we are not clerks at a market this time,” Michael grins. 

Ḥauḥet smile, nodding her head at him. “Thank you for the obvious.” She slides a wooden box closer to them. “This time the stakes are a little higher.” Upon lifting the top, she reveals guitar picks and a pair of drumsticks. There’s no symbol or name yet. “Rather than taking the journey away from you, I left the name up to you all. But we’ve got to backtrack. Get you guys a name and story.”

A band, and if they’re famous enough, which they are bound to be, the stakes are high. They’ve got to keep quiet about their true forms. They have to keep a tight circle at first until they settle into their cover, until these names and stories because who they are, not who they are pretending to be; they must become one, much more so than before. They all glance to each other. Maybe they won’t be too big, maybe they won’t create too much noise about themselves. Maybe this is will be small. 

“How far back are we going?”

“Right now, the goal is to age you all to about 22. We won’t go all the way to the beginning, we’ve got childhood covered. But to fourteen at the earliest. Enough time to cover most the internet age.”

They all nod, grabbing at the manilla folders she hands to them, birth certificates, licenses, phones, some cash. “You have old skin; when you’re ready, I can take you back, I can make you new.”

They know not to waste time. As they slide wallets into pockets, Ashton speaks. “No need to wait.”

With a nod, she turns to the kitchen. Her lips move almost silently as she sprinkles the last herb over the clay like mixture. It glows for a moment as the blessing falls from her mouth. Luke beams. “Oh, I don’t need that.”

She quirks her eyebrow, mouth pulled up to the side of her face. It it a silent plea for him to say something else smart. Ashton speaks up, “Not every one’s blessed to have been conceived and birthed in the same day. Now hush so she can continue.”

She paints their faces one by one, first down the bridge of their nose, over their forehead, around the jaw, covers the chin and then finally she covers their cheeks. The mixture is cold, but warms with the touch of her hands. Calum hears the whisper of a splash in his ears. His eyes are closed, the mud tightening around his skin. But he knows the sound of the water anywhere. Ashton feels her grip on the back of his head and lets his muscles relax. Her touch is sure. His nose just barely brushes the water before she pulls his head back. 

A warning. He inhales deeply, expels that breathe and the nods, inhaling again. She dunks his face that time. The water is cold, ice cold. It makes his teeth chatter. But he grits his teeth, still failing at holding the shiver at bay. The fabric of the towel is soft as it swipes of his face. She holds it to his face for only a moment, before she wipes at his cheeks, chin, the outline of his jaw, over his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. When his eyes flutter open, she’s already moving to Michael, giving him the same warning before his face submerges into the wooden bowl of ice cold water. 

Luke is dunked next. Then finally Calum. He needs no warning. She wipes his face clean. They’ve all been washed, brought to their age. Then she can go back. It won’t take them long to see what story to create. Her span is only a million years, forwards and backwards. Though most often, she only looks ahead. The past is done with her. There is no need to manipulate or review it. It does not matter if someone remembers it correctly, the history is written and it is final. She motions for all of them to take hands and as she pours all the used water into the same bowl that once held the mud mixtures, she pulls up a murky picture. 

Michael knows what she’s doing. She’s letting them see what they want in it. They physically won’t travel back, they will just implant memories. “Three of us meet in the same school. Luke starts posting covers. The internet is a hard place to gain traction, to many people all striving for the same thing. But we know we can defy the odds. So,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “word gets around, Luke and I start playing together. And then Calum record some covers and the three of us are a band. But what’s a band without a drummer? A band it is not. I message Ashton over..” the story is losing him. He needs something to stay current. 

“FaceBook,” she interjects. “Myspace is slowly dying at this point. FaceBook is gaining traction. You can make pages for bands up there, you can make a page for just about anything.”

Michael nods. “Yes, it’s just a simple message. Anything too flourished and wordy is not going to work. He agrees and it starts. I make the facebook page for the band. We don’t have a name, or at least one agreed upon. There’s a list. 5 Second Summer is a top contender.”

“But you make it 5 Seconds of Summer and ask us, after the page is made,” Luke jumps in. “I think that would add a nice touch.”

“We leave school. Record deals. Touring.”

“You get scooped up by another big band  of the time. It’s massive,” Ḥauḥet adds. Michael adds on. Studio records, live albums, EPs, merch, crowds, sold out arenas. Style evolutions, which winds them all here, right on the brink of their third studio album. They’re still in the midst of recording it. This gives them time; they can settle into these personas. They can become real. 

They beging work on their individual stories, the good, the bad, and the ugly. But do not make it very far. Ḥauḥet settles in behind Calum. Michael’s hair is now finished, a long fringed cut hidden under a beanie. The tattoos that once looked like graphite marking on his skin darken the tattoos becoming real against his pale skin. Calum unravels the knot. “Cut it.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “I am.” They move from the living room floor, a mess already of hair, into the kitchen. She draws a small bowl of water, as he bends of the sink basin, she covers the scalp with the water. Just once and he stands, hair dripping down his navy tank and holds out his hand. She cannot cut his hair, not without his explicit consent. He takes the first whack, pulling the hair over his shoulder and snipping through the mass. 

As it falls in black clumps at their feet, she prays over it. They let the fallen strands lay there and Calum hands her the scissors. “You can finish it.”

“How short?”

“Short,” is the only word he utters. So she cuts it short. Nothing too short, there’s still a couple inches of curls left for him. The apartment is put back together soon after she finishes making them over. She slides back into the black heels, clicking as she approaches the front door. This will be the last time she sees them until they return. She prays blessings over them.

“The water will stay good for three days,” she warns. “After then, the gates will close. Time will resume. You will have to go with whatever is imprinted.” Imprinted. It makes it real; it imparts into the universe and the universe does whatever it needs to make it so, photos, memories, people. Their fate will be sealed after three days. 

They nod. Three days isn’t a lot of time for a cover of this scale. But keeping those imprinting waters open any longer increases a lot of risk.  She continues, “You will have a little over a year. Here you will put together an album. Here you will embed yourselves into your lives. You will start here and you will go. I have faith.” 

“Your faith means a lot,” Ashton says even though he’s the most eager, he understands the gravity of the situation. This is more pressure than they’ve ever dealt with. They still have stories to sort, places to figure out. But they are smart. They will be able to pull together a good cover. 

They hold themselves up in that Australian apartment, sitting around a wooden ball with water and mud. They speak their lives into existence. Ashton dubs himself the unofficial dad of the band. And it works. He’s the one that pushes them constantly, wants bigger and better things. No one argues at the insistence. Calum is fairly quiet, they know that will continue on. Michael takes a chance on video games and anime, trying to find stories to connect with and finds himself entranced at the talent and worlds built. Stories come in many forms and he is not one to let any story go unturned. 

On the second day, Luke is the first to crack. “We’ve got to do something. I can’t stare at these walls anymore.”

“We can’t blow our cover. We don’t have a solid story,” Michael counters, the kitten shaped headphones resting around his neck now. He’s been spending half his time sucked into video games and the other half still working out the kinks of their story. They only have one more day. 

“Things don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be real,” Ashton says. “Whomever it is out there we’re meant to help just needs us to be real. Real people who hurt, who laugh, who cry.”

“How do you hurt?” Michael retorts. “What is your pain?”

“My pain is that I cannot save them all.”

“Everyone with an ounce of compassion hurts like that.”

Ashton sighs. Michael’s point is valid. They need stories, gritty and complex, not just soft generic ones. He remembers a small boy from many years ago, when they first started this prophecy. They sat on a grassy hill. They were all servants, but this boy was exceptionally young. He told Ashton how his father had left him. His mother was trying to find work, but every house she started to work for she would flee because someone in the house would make advances towards her. Ashton remembers from their time in the mid eighties towards the break of the 1990’s. He had found a kid, waiting on the corner, head covered with a hoodie. This boy, no more than thirteen, forced to sell, because he’s the man of the house due to his father’s death. Their pain is real. 

“My father leaves me at a young age,” Ashton starts chest already aching as he remembers those boys, staring down into the murky water. He can pay homage to them in this life. He wasn’t able to magically turn their lives around when he was there. He couldn’t completely blow his cover. He did do what he could for them, grabbing them meals when he was free, giving him a few dollars here and there. “It hurts, seeing my mother so down. But I step up. It only makes sense right. She eventually remarries, but there is a lot more alcohol in the house. She tries to hide it. But nothing is ever really hidden. We all see pain. Especially children. Children know pain but sometimes never have the words for it.”

“You can give them the words,” Michael assures. No one is sure why it has to be a band. But the more they research what’s happening in the world, the way the political landscape is filling with more and more hate, it becomes obvious. People need a thing that unites them. They need something, or someone, that shows them they are not alone.

Ashton squeezes at Michael’s hand. “Yeah, I can do that. We can do that. That is--” he pauses, watching his reflection distorted as it may be, in the water. He wants to say that is Ashton’s story. But he is Ashton, this is his life now. This is his truth. This is his history now. “That is my story, working in food service, desperately wanting a way out for my family. Knowing I’d fight heaven, hell, and high water for them. Only knowing music as a way out. Being in band after band and needing release, a breakthrough.”

Michael nods. “And that is your story.”

“Why make yourself carry pain?” Luke questions. “You could’ve had any story.”

Ashton shakes his head. He couldn’t have chosen any story. “If all of us have no pain, how do we connect? Pain is a part of every story. Without it, what do we compare joy to. How do you know your joy?”

Luke steps to the kitchen table, bracing his weight on his arm. The water shakes just a little. “People know pain. Even in a two parent household with siblings and nothing but love, people can still know pain. It’s a pain to prove oneself. It’s a pain to think you know someone and they strip you of everything you thought you were. I know pain because I know what it feels like to have no clue who you are anymore. Just a kid trying his best but makes maybe a few bad decisions along the way, tries to put too many people in his life that aren’t good for him, but too stubborn to see it.”

Calum walks over next. He’s been stewing on this, writing down the words that fail to cross his lips. But now is the time. He sees himself, Ashton, and Luke in the water. They are waiting on him. They need him. “I know pain from broken trust. I know pain from the harsh drop of reality. Not everyone that says they’re your friend is actually your friend. People will share your secrets, they will expose you. Someone breaks my trust. Someone violates privacy, someone, anyone, everyone shares a private moment. I know pain from my own quietness, trying to bury that in bodies and only making myself more distant. I know pain from alienation and being other, for being different.”

Michael stands. He knows pain, he knows violence from his lives previous. “Pain is sometimes sneaky. My pain sneaks up, makes me think I’m all alone, that sometimes I’m not worthy. It makes me think that things can go wrong at the blink of the eye. I worry sometimes about things most people don’t bat their eyelashes to, my pain is quiet and yet somehow the loudest in my own ears.”

The water starts to bubble. At first it might seem like someone’s shifting of the table is making it slosh. It becomes clear that’s not the reason as steam starts to billow. The water bubbles, threatening to spill over the edges, but never hitting the table. All four men watch for a moment. A chill runs through all four of them as all the water evaporates into steam. The mud bubbles too, thins and then disappears. They have no clue where it’s gone. 

“The gates closed,” Calum says after a few minutes of staring into the empty bowl. 

“We still had a day,” Ashton huffs. 

“She was listening.”

“So what next?” Luke asks. 

“We sing, we make music. We help the world,” Ashton answers. 

“We can’t do that here,” Michael counters. “We’ve gotta go somewhere else.” 

The bowl moves. It’s subtle but Calum watches the slight movement. Something appears under the bowl. Another manilla folder. He picks up the folder, it’s thicker than it appears. When he peeks inside he can see plane tickets, there are deeds, photos. There’s a small packet for each of them. Of course she wasn’t actually done with them. Of course she had another trick up her sleeve. 

__

 All of them have experience with music in their lifetimes, here on Earth and away. But it it still a little strange to know that just four days ago they were driving up the coast and to walk into recording studios with people smiling at them, like catching up with friends. But it is catching up with friends. This is their life. “Enjoy your time at home?” they’re asked repeatedly throughout the day as the work. 

The response is always the same. “Yeah, it was great to just relax. Got antsy though. Ready to work.”

But nothing prepares them for how hard this is. What’s their sound now? Where do they want to go? What do they want to say? What is their entire purpose? The play instruments is easy, it’s the putting words down that frustrates them. But they go out, they enjoy this newfound youth. It burns them of course. Like life does to everyone. Friends take advantage of their generosity, use them for only selfish gain. A couple of them strike out in love. 

Calum brings the cigarette to his lips. He’s not proud of the new found habit. But it helps. He always tries to stay distant from people during these moments on Earth. Even though they are long, he knows he will not be staying forever. He will not grow old with anyone, he can’t. And it sucks, because he sees his family as actually his and he loves them. But they will never know him. They will just have Calum, but not the man in the flesh host. Never the man that can trouble waters. That’s the part he hates the most about this. 

“Why do we do this to ourselves? Why are we the ones to do it?” Calum questions standing outside the recording studio. “Why can’t we have love? Why can’t we have real lives?”

This disease of uncertainty and frustration usually hits all of them at some point. Ashton is trying to not get hit again, knowing what can happen. Calum wouldn’t dare try to split. He wouldn’t leave them. He knows it’s too important that they actually go through with this. The other three would have nothing if not for him. What life would he give determination to if there was no life in the beginning? Ashton pats him on the shoulder before dropping the hand and tucking it back into the pockets of his jeans. “This is a real life.”

“It’s like, crashing into reality. We get no ease. It’s like if you took someone and suddenly dropped them in Japan. They’d wake up with no way about.”

“Saying everyday you wake up, it’s like waking up in Japan.”

“Yeah, and I’m alone. But not necessarily. Just low.” He’s mostly pissed at himself. He met a nice girl, they had a great weekend together. But he knows he had to cut it off before it got any bigger, before it got any more serious. It’s easier to save face that way. As his eyes flutter close and his lungs pull in one more drag, the room number, her room number flashes, 305.

“Talk to me,” Ashton urges, noting the far away glaze to Calum’s eyes. So Calum spills his guts, tells Ashton everything maybe even a little too much, down to the room number. Ashton leaves Calum to his vice, to the smoke billowing from his nostrils and walks back into the room. 

He’s got an idea. Ashton approaches Luke with the concept and with the help of a couple other writers, they conceptualize the rushed and dazed feeling of waking up somewhere new without even remembering how one got there. They put to sound, live in two takes, the bounce and electric feeling of a whirlwind life, of a life that keeps moving even when you’d wished for it to sit still. 

The months tick past, sometimes feeling like seconds rather than days upon days. While sitting at home, resting, there’s a knock on Ashton’s door. Luke stands in front of him, eyes sunken into his face, the bright blue that once lived in his eyes dulled. “It’s bad,” Luke whispers. Ashton wants to tell him no shit. But he bites back the comment and pulls him inside. 

It all starts with one night. And then one night turns into two. Then two turns into three. Luke knew ultimately, after the few few weeks, he should probably save himself. He wasn’t going nowhere. He was going downhill. But he wanted to make it last. He just wanted love, if only in the dark, if only it didn’t cause him so much pain. Luke cries into his hands, curled up at the foot of Ashton’s couch. “The worst--,” a hiccup interrupts him. Ashton sits next to him, gingerly  rubbing at his back. “The worst part is that I know I shouldn’t go back to her. She’s no good, but I’m no good at saying no,” he huffs, face red and snotty. 

The human existence is a rough one, not even gods are exempt from the pain. It is not a graceful descent into full humanity. They all hit their lows. “I wanted to trust her. I knew she was bad for me,” Luke sobs into Ashton’s shoulder. While Ashton may be known for his eagerness, his yearn to always be doing, sometimes Luke’s own stubbornness becomes his own undoing. This is not to say that achieving, or wanting, is wrong. But sometimes we want for the wrong reasons. We want the wrong things. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Ashton starts softly. “Pain is an indication of life. This is just life. Get knocked down seven times and stand up eight. We always get back up, okay? Even if it takes a while and even if our legs are unsteady, we get back up.”

“Am I alone?” Luke cries. “Is this all we’re destined for loneliness and pain? Am I crazy? Has this prophecy turned me insane?”

“You’re not insane. You’re not alone. You can never be alone with me. I’m always going to be here.” Always and here, what hollow words to Ashton’s ear. But he means them, deeply--truly. He means the essence of those words to his core. “You can stay with me for a little while. No one’s here but me. Bring Petunia over too. We’re family. By choice.”

It takes another twenty minutes for Luke to collect himself. The release of weight making him tired. Ashton watches for a moment as Luke lays, curled up on the couch cushions, a blanket thrown over his body. Tears sting behind his eyes. Why do their lives feel like they’re falling apart? This has never happened to them before. They’ve never been this high up it feels only to crash so far down. Ashton is grateful for a moment that walls cannot talk. They hear; they see. But if they could talk, they would have a lot to say, a lot of the dark corners to expose. 

__

They hit a wall. So many songs about pain and reflection, but how do they package it all together. How do they give it out to the world? “People want to know they’re not alone,” Michael urges. “All our songs. All the pain. It’s so they know they’re not alone. We’ve created something incredible. It’s not just sound, it’s color, it’s taste too.”

“We know that. It’s evident they need a connection. But how do we get them to connect with us?” comes the rebuttal from Ashton. He’s restless having spent the better part of the day, trying to wrap his own head around the question. He wants to be doing something, creating, putting to use the buzz in his gut. But he’s here, across from Michael instead. 

Calum has watched the exchange between Michael and Ashton for maybe off of a minute, coming in with some food for the three of them. Luke wanted something different, so he’s a couple minutes out from the studio. “We be honest,” he says with a shrug, setting the bag down. “We’ve got how many songs here that deal with heartache. Why shy away from the truth?”

Being vulnerable is a little dangerous for them. If they open up too far, if they say the wrong thing, everything could collapse. Calum is aware of this risk. But he knows it’s a risk they have to take. If they cannot even have an ounce of vulnerability, then the whole thing is for naught. It is just a waste if even in all their struggles, they attempt to hide that with their fans. Life is challenging just because they are in this position does not exclude them. 

“So you propose, we risk everything?” It’s not meant to be a question as it falls from Ashton’s lips. But it’s something about it that seems right, but he knows it’s very wrong.

“Without risk there is no reward. What do we teach people if we refuse to learn ourselves?”

“We teach them nothing. We teach by example,” Ashton concludes. “Isn’t that how the entire world has worked at this point? They’ve been led by someone, something.”

“Aren’t we led by something?” Calum counters. 

“But we’re led by the right things. So we let them, fans, anyone that listens. We tell them what drive us.”

Calum waves his hands around the room, even though it’s just the kitchen of the studio. “We are driven by honesty, intuition, failure, love, heartbreak, friendships, growth.”

“We are driven by our truest selves, the heartache and difficulting of making art. We driven by ourselves. We are driven by the fans.”

__

The dawn of a new year approaches them. The time of them huddle in away in dark corners, writing day in and day out are about to start paying off. Their risk, to be bare and vulnerable as possible, is going to start being real. Ashton sits, phone in hand staring out into sun just at it hits over the horizon The dark & light shared this year of my life in an incredibly unbalanced way. I had to further understand both sides of myself to continue becoming the songwriter & creative being I dream to be. It never ends & I don’t want it to x Ashton curses the character limit on twitter. It, without fails, always makes him go band and cut out some of the parts to his tweet. 

The days tick by faster than ever. The first single set to release in February and January feels like it’s whizzing by. The holidays do that, it appears every time they come back. Time feels shorter and shorter to them here, as humans, as people. But time stretches on forever as gods. Maybe because time matters much less to them. Ashton fiddles with his phone again. There’s some sort of solace in knowing he can type whatever he wants and there are people listening. It’s terrifying, but it’s connecting in a way. It’s not lost on him on how disheartening social media can be. There is a whole screen, time zones, countries that divide users. They are not getting the instant feedback of someone’s face, someone’s tone at comments. His finger draft another message, another reach into the void to see if the void will reach back. The worst/best part is everything good In my life originated from heartbreak 

They sit. They have to sit and they have to wait. But, even though the notifications are off, they can see the mess of their mentions. They can see the videos, people reacting to their return. Even though their hearts are filled with joy, they are not free from nerves. Radio interviews, magazine interviews, photoshoots, press comes at them with full force. They have to explain how the album comes to be, they have to explain that this is just an evolution, not discovery. But that feels inaccurate, incomplete. “We had to rediscover ourselves. We really had to ask ourselves what we wanted from this album and rededicate yourselves to this band.”

I wrote it for me,

I wrote it for you

I wrote it for us! Ashton concludes at the end of one tweet. The press isn’t easy, they are bounced around, like dots on a map. But the fact that they get to play shows keeps Ashton energized. He knows just on the other side of every microphone is the stage, the rumble of his bass drum shaking up his entire body. Just on the other side is the roar of a crowd excited to see him, to hear them, back at home, back at peace. 

That shouldn’t be his peace, he thinks. But the rush of adrenaline feels so familiar to Ashton. The memories aren’t just memories; they aren’t just mud and water, they are pieces of his soul. A year. A whole year trying to become one with this persona and it’s happening, when he least expected to with drumsticks in hand and a crowd screaming back at him. He watches the other three men on stage night after night, this is home for them too. For a moment, for a brief blink in the cosmos this is the only place they belong. 

________

“That flight was too early,” Michael mutters, pulling his beanie down over his face. He’s the first one to fall asleep on the couch. Luke nods off next to him, headphone cover his ears. Calum watches as the two guys doze off first and he shields his eyes as well. There are champagne flutes with mimosa’s littering the glass table in front of them, but they are almost too tired to celebrate. Tour is not easy, sleep seems evasive some nights and more cooperative during the day when they have things to do. 

Sleep evades Michael the most some nights. His fingers twitch to play his beloved harp, but his shoulders are tense. He’s still watching bodies gather. The mass of dead but soon to be undead still haunt him, the ruins of his tongue still scrap the top of his mouth as he sings. His throat still closes up on him occasionally, making him wake in a panic. The flight’s not too early, he just didn’t sleep. He knows the other guys know what keeps him up. He claims it’s videogames, claims his body is just tired. But he wishes for his mind to finally ease. Nearly two years here and his brain still has not forgotten his years prior. 

Michael wakes with a start, the tightness of his chest starting to burn. He’s still sitting on the couch with orange juice and champagne mixing in his nostrils. Ashton looks up from across the table, brow arched in silent questioning. Michael waves his hand. It is neither here nor there. Michael finds his phone, plugging in the cat eared headphones. He blasts YoungBlood into his ears. He hopes no more dead men walk after him.

__

“Youngblood wasn’t going to be next single. But it was just an extra song that you got when you pre-ordered the album. But we saw-we saw how people were reacting to it, so we decided to put it out.”

They know better than to hold their breath; they know not to watch those charts like a hound. But sometimes, that’s the only thing they know how to do. Youngblood smashes it way onto the charts and it stays, it climbs. It soars and with it go their hearts. How did they manage this? How did life reward them like this for all the shit they endured? But god are they grateful. 

Even when times feel at their darkest... think of the people you call home & be strong. He is home; Calum knows that on the road with the other guys. They are his family, by choice, by fate, by the cosmos. But something in him misses the water. He shouldn’t go back. He shouldn’t step foot on a beach, near an ocean. Not with the fighting that occured, not with the history there, the bad blood that gathered there. It shocks him he doesn’t have more trouble on land. The ocean was his only resort. But he thanks his mother that he’s able to walk her dirt, her earth, and be safe. He knows she’s still protecting him while he fulfills his duties.

“You miss it don’t you?” Luke asks, watching the way the bassist fiddles with his rings. They’re doing press, but it’s clear he’s not here. 

Calum nods. He was forced to sea, he was pushed away. But it provides him comfort. This is home to him but he has not forgotten what comfort feels like. “I only miss it when I’m not on stage or writing. I think it’s because I have too much time to think. Too much time to second guess myself.” 

Without much thought, Luke draps his arm around Calum’s shoulder. He knows that feeling, the dizzying spiral when all your thought collapse in on themselves. And you’re left with the weight and mess to pull yourself back together. “Hold on just a wee longer,” Luke whispers as the next interviewer steps in through the door. 

` Calum doesn’t miss the slight accent that falls through the sentence. “Next you’ll be pulling out your green tights, calling us laddies instead of mate.”

Luke can’t bite back the laugh that falls over his lips as he gently pushes against Calum’s shoulder. “You’re going to regret that, mate.”

When Calum opens to door and notices Luke dressed in shorts, compression tights and flip flops with a bag thrown over his shoulders, Calum doesn’t even open his mouth to ask why. He throws on his hoodie and sneakers. He makes sure his wallet and phone are with him and the men walk silently to the elevators. No words are exchanged in the back of the Uber either. Calum keeps his hood up and over his face, watching streets whizz by. He notes some seagulls. Sand. A beach. Calum turns to Luke. “What is this?”

“By some measures, it’s just a lake. It’s our day off, figured we earned the right to just relax.”

They thank their driver and slide out of the backseat. Calum settles onto the towel and slides out of his sneakers. It’s not barren, the shore, but it is definitely not packed. Though it’s not a shock in April on the East Coast. Once the socks are off, Calum stands and walks to the water’s edge. It’s freezing against his feet. It’s no sea, but he will take it. His lips start to move before he can stop himself. Blessings, blessings, and more blessings fall out of his lips. He thanks his mother. 

Luke walks next to the man, shivering at the first contact. Some white filters through both men’s vision. It only last a second and the watch the tail of the bird fly away. “Much of YoungBlood isn’t just about my life here, as a musician,” Luke offers. 

No one really discussed what past issues they were bringing to the table. They were just stories, things that had happened to them. Luke continues. “She flies for me, waiting for me to come back. She’s the one I want back.”

“And you tried to bury her in all the others.”

“Caer,” Luke whispers. Calum reaches out, holding on his shoulder. He’s never said her name out loud before, not to the guys. “My plan, before this happened, was to go to that lake. I would was going confess my love to her. I’ll never know could’ve happened between us. She’s kind of the inspiration Meet You There.”

Calum thinks of the lyrics, the chorus striking him. “Maybe one day you’ll meet her.”

Luke nods. “On that lake, where she still remembers me. Where I’m still able to reach her.”

_______

The pain is real, it is evident. They watch fans connect to song after song. They read the letters. This is what they were meant to to do, even with all the not fun issues, the fans showing up at their doorsteps, the sometimes cruel comments online. But the reward is much greater than the risk. Not just awards, not just another number one album, not just another chart topping song.  The reward to see a mass of diverse faces unite under one love. They’re whole purpose was to create something to unite people. It is incredible to see that night after night; it is awe striking to having thousands of voices singing back to them the songs they wrote with so much vulnerability. It is amazing to see their work flying, topping charts. But to hear and see the hearts it’s touch means a lot more. 

“Goddamn it, can I get the house lights on? I miss you guys so much,” Calum speaks into the mic. He continues his speech before inviting Luke to speak about the glittery blue blazer.  The crowd is a sea of phone lights in front of them. The mass continues almost to a point where Calum can’t even fathom the massiveness. He brings himself back to reality to joke about a matching g-string. He finally gets to continue after a pause for Michael’s thoughts. “So, uh, tonight is a very special for a couple of reasons, number one my beautiful sister is the room somewhere. Number two I got my best friends and my brothers on stage, playing with these guys.”

And he means it. Calum means it from the bottom of his soul when he says they are his brothers. Who else rides out centuries of resurfacing onto the earth? Who else rides out the insanity of their fate but your brothers? Even when they clash sometimes creatively, even when the vision had to change and evolve time and time again, they stood by each other. Calum strums his bass as Michael speaks, heart soaring at how much London means to the band, hyping the crowd out for the few songs that they have left. This is a band of brothers. Four spirits who are only trying their best:  Sea, youth and beauty, determination, and poetry. 

What is their story without words? What are words without determination to put them down? What is determination without an aim and a goal for something beautiful? What is something beautiful without it’s mere existence? 

Calum stands up on the riser, Michael mirroring him for a moment. Luke stands in the middle. Ashton builds up the anticipation before rolling into his drum solo. The lights are low, the red is flashing over them. The recording plays and the wind up begins. “Let me see you jump. Jump, jump, jump!” 

This is their existence, as Calum cocks his hips, hands sliding up and down the bass strings. Michael steps down from the riser, face screwed up as his moves up and down the frets. Ashton rocks his whole body into the drumming, the sweat already soaking through his shirt. Luke leads them through the chorus again, working his old golden nails over his guitar. Everyone attempts to pour past, present and future onto that sage. They don’t know what they will the next time they are brought back. They don’t know who it is they are trying to reach. All they do know is that each time they’re brought here, they need to pour out love, understanding, unity. 

Michael walks to the drum risers and Calum follows behind him, after getting the crowd ready to jump. They rip into their instruments, Calum twirls around, mic pack flying out of his pocket. Michael bows a little, letting the grooved metal slot against the grooves of his fingers. Luke bounces for a moment and there is a crowd shouting for them, but it is not just any crowd. It is a crowd brimming over with love. It is not their names they are shouting, it are all the other gods they are crying out for them. They are just the four chosen, but the four that need the credit. This is their second home, this is the place where they are putting everything out on the line. And the line is paying them back.

[angelfishreveal]

FRANKFURT UPDATE / DISORGANIZED RANT ABOUT TRUTH AND ART AND FASSBINDER

by Camille Clair

I spent the strict quarantine following my arrival in Frankfurt studying German in the mornings, and watching Fassbinder in the evenings. The time between morning and evening was spent...nervously. 

I watched so many Fassbinder films during my quarantine that I began to feel his cabinet of actors were my companions (quarpanions). We were all crying and grinning and swallowing our pills together. 

I am one of those people that believes that pain/discomfort/anxiety is necessary, important, a catalyst. That is one of the reasons I left, have left in the past, will leave again. Sometimes the next best life move involves ripping your heart out! Sometimes it isn’t quite so abrupt, and your heart will sizzle in the pan for months. You may even grow to cherish the sensation because it means you are working toward something. You may recognize your true self in that pain. And in that truth, your mission, which may, or may not be, your art. 

I do believe that, as an artist, you have to be a bit of a masochist. Your life is sustained via chopping yourself into bits, and, if you’re lucky, stowing those bits in the pockets of the wealthy, the devious. And though you may consider yourself an orthodox Marxist, this seems to be the only way to keep the axe swinging. I would never say aloud that I believe suffering produces great art, but I also must admit I understand the desire to drag oneself across shards of glass a la Chris Burden in Through The Night Softly. I relate to the impulse to bear it all. I want to be torn apart! For art. 

I don’t always want this, but fresh out of my Frankfurt quarantine - following a confounding summer in Los Angeles - I want this. I really, truly want to exhaust myself. 

Though Fassbinder himself may have been a bit amoral, he was, at the same time, so undeniably invested in all that is human. Many of Fassbinder’s characters seem to cave inward, unable to stand erect under the weight of the social, the political, the bureaucratic: the simultaneity, and responsibility of it all. Fassbinder’s characters give into their truth, or they parish. No time is wasted on the performance of goodness, because salvation was never in their cards to begin with. 

What I desire and revere most in art is truth. I want my “self” and my “art” to be inseparable, the same. I want my body to vanish in the company of my art. I don’t really want to exist. I repeat variations of a line from Reena Spaulings in my head all day long: Where does my (boyish, jaunty, smooth, freckle-dusted, foxy, stiff, screen-like) body end and a real event begin, for once? I do a little dance in the mirror. I have never been this alone. Some days I feel stiff with sorrow, so I remind myself that I am a character, and the director expects a performance, and then I stretch. 

Walking home in the rain, I envision Margit Carstensen waiting for me in my flat. I am her aloof lover. Or she is mine. I’ll fall through the door with a sigh, she’ll pour me a little glass of schnapps, and we’ll heartfully console one another. I sometimes play The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972), which starts Carstensen, in the background while I go about my tasks. I speak my favorite of Petra’s lines back to her as part of my daily Deutsche practice. Maybe by Spring, I’ll have the entirety of her central monologue memorized. I love to fantasize about the spring, it’s become one of my favorite pastimes. It is possible to imagine nearly anything happening in the spring because real life has become so severely abstracted. 

I lament…

What is real? Now? And in hindsight, what was ever real? Is it, or was it, ever recognizable or is it just whatever you put into your head on a given day? I scroll through Contemporary Art Daily on acid and feel confused about what it is I am supposed to want. My eyes linger on words that used to resonate, and it stirs some sort of longing. I want it to be physical, I want to get dirty and injured in the process. I want to be so involved it’s disgusting. But for now, nearly everything I want is impossible. Maybe it's a symptom of the current situation, but I want to be overinvolved. I generally find most performance excruciating, but now I feel I would do anything for an audience. I desire an audience. 

I envy Fassbinder’s overinvolvement. In Beware of a Holy Whore (1971), a film about making a film, Fassbinder seems to play himself. He doesn’t play the director, he plays Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Often fussing around or yelling in the background, it’s unclear exactly what his role is in the production, but as a viewer one is intensely aware of him at all times. Upon first watch, I felt envious. I want to be present in that way, shrieking for the sake of, and within, my art. The ringleader, and also, the eager participant. In the opening scene of Germany in Autumn (1978), Fassbinder, dials a call, and says “Ich bin es Fassbinder” into the receiver. We know of course, who the man on the screen is, though we aren’t immediately sure who we are meant to recognize him as. 

In a 1997 eulogy for ArtForum, Gary Indiana writes, “what can you say about a fat, ugly sadomasochist who terrorized everyone around him, drove his lovers to suicide, drank two bottles of Rémy daily, popped innumerable pills while stuffing himself like a pig and died from an overdose at 37? [Fassbinder was]  a faithful mirror of an uglier world that has grown uglier since his death”. Fassbinder knew truth, and truth is as beautiful and precious, as it is vile. 

My sister, who is 17 and only just got drunk for the first time last week, told me she could never watch The Shining (1980)  knowing how much Shelly Duval was tormented in the making of it. I felt I couldn’t argue with her but I also wanted to argue with her. “So you will never watch what is widely considered one of the greatest films of all time?” 

“No,” she said. 

“Okay,” I said. 

Perhaps we are reaching an age in which you really cannot separate the art from the artist. Maybe it’s never actually been possible. But then again, there are so many things that seem to be art by mistake, and so many artists who die without recognition.

In the eulogy, Indiana goes on to say, “there is nothing you can say about Fassbinder that he hasn’t already said about himself”. This line again brings to mind Fassbinder in Beware of a Holy Whore, berating everyone in the vicinity, utterly repulsed by a multitude of things never made explicitly clear. Fassbinder lying dead in the train station after an overdose in Fox and his Friends (1975). Fassbinder lying dead, with a cigarette between his lips and notes for an upcoming film lying next to him, from an actual overdose. A parallel that reveals art is just as intertwined with death, as it is with life.

I realized this year that many of the artists I respect care a great deal about film, about drama. I have found solace in films, because I am alone nearly all of the time, and I don't know when I will see any of my cherished ones again. I am living vicariously through characters, beginning to think of myself as a character, which is admittedly therapeutic. I am the director. And I chose myself from a lineup of nervous red haired girls. I recognised myself at once, and thus, here I am. 

Some artists, or people!, are overly concerned with their own narrative. It can be irritating, indulgent, abject, but it’s convenient, and it may save your life. Though you’re never really alone you may feel really alone. Allein. Alleine... Sometimes there is nowhere to turn but toward yourself. And, once you begin to think of yourself as a character, you no longer bear the full responsibility of your being. You have been put in place to carry out the artistic vision. So, in a sense, all characters are artists, just as they are products of art. It’s reflexive, and Frankensteinian, in that way. 

Maybe as an experiment, try referring to your dismal flat as “the set”. 

Are you at home? 

I’m on set. 

Complain aloud, but to no one, about the uninspired refreshments. 

Stare longingly at everything. 

There is a misanthropic edge to many of Fassbinder’s films. A bleakness. It is often said that his work is about the fascism at play in interpersonal relationships. The fascism that blooms in all of our hearts.There are instances across Fassbinder’s filmography of, not only an awareness, but a patience, for all that is despicable. Human beings are weak, impressionable, they want to be liked but if it doesn’t work out, they’ll settle for being hated or feared. Often, Fassbinder will have a character do or say something that completely skews, if not, obliterates your previous impression of them. For example, in Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974), Emmi who is, up until this point, mostly redeemable, chooses Hitler’s favorite restaurant to celebrate her and Ali’s wedding, stating upon entry that she has “always wanted to go”.  In the scene that follows, she mispronounces the names of menu items, the server scoffs, and one can't help but feel a bit bad for her. Is her desire to eat at Hitler’s favorite spot purely aspirational, a misguided highbrow charade? Or is she a sympathetic fascist? This is another fault of the character, any character, their world view is often contrived, never holistic. 

Fassbinder is the Postwar German filmmaker - generally considered the “catalyst of the New German Cinema movement”. In his films, World War II is often alluded to / background / partial context / a shadow, but it is never the subject, or the main event. A character’s idiosyncrasies, or disturbances, could be attributed to the wartimes, but often, their faults seem too deeply intertwined with their truths. But of course they’ve always had a tremor, a temper. Many of Fassbinder’s characters have a hard edge, or have suffered immense loss. They are either in, or narrowly escaping, crisis. 

In Fassbinder’s Berlin Alexanderplatz (1980), Franz Bieberkopf, a rampant dilettante, oscillates between political affiliations. When we first meet Bieberkopf, fresh out of prison, he is a bit of an anarchist, sympathizing with soldiers and workers above all. As the series progresses, Bieberkopf is revealed to be immensely impressionable, confused, vindictive. He exhibits symptoms of several political philosophies, albeit meekly. Bieberkopf even briefly wears a Nazi armband, which, when questioned about, he is unable to defend, and from thereon, is never seen wearing it again. Franz Bieberkopf is similar to Tony Soprano in that way. Selfish, gruff, deeply flawed, indubitably human. Tony Soprano bites into a meatball sub and sauce dribbles onto his shirt and you forget, momentarily, that he's a bigot, because he’s the protagonist. And it is the job of the protagonist to represent a spectrum of human strength, and fallibility. It is arguably better, or more redeemable, to be overtly, rather than covertly, self-serving because then at least one is operating in defense of their own truth.

Truth is constructed daily and could easily be mistaken for anything but. Truth is nearly impossible to represent, and harder still to recognize. Truth is a fallacy, and thus, very lonely. Still, it must be guarded, I have been listening to The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe as I walk around Frankfurt which, in all honesty, fertilizes the melodrama blooming in my heart. Werther is bitterly alone, consoling himself via drawn out descriptions of his loneliness. “I am proud of my heart alone”, he says, “it is the sole source of everything, all our strength, happiness and misery. All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own”. 

I am alone in Frankfurt, but I have my heart.  

[psychadelickate]

House MD - House: Dad

Title: Dad Word Count: 1452 Fandom: House MD Pairing: None Characters: House. readerDaughter Rating: Teen Gif: Not Mine Requested: Anonymous Prompt: Okay i have a request for House Md. Could you please write something about being Houses daughter?

You’re seated at the last booth in the coffee shop. At this late hour, the place is empty, leaving your favorite seat unoccupied. Your table is littered with books and papers and your iPad is somewhere in the mess, but it doesn’t concern you right now. What does, is the Jane’s expression as she walks up to your booth. “(Y/N), the usual?” she asks and you nod your head. You’ve been coming to this place ever since you can remember, Jane coming to get you when your dad couldn’t. Jane is tall, dark haired, loud, warm and brown eyed and though she looks nothing like you, people often mistake her for your mom.  “How about you, honey?” she asks your best friend, who simply smiles at Jane and tells her she’s good with anything.  You both go back to the assignment due the next week after Jane leaves the two of you at the table. Both of you immersed in the files, you only look up when a gaggle of women enter the coffee shop and settle at the table closest to you.  They’re all well dressed, composed and older and you don’t need to guess they’re doctors here for the conference.  “So, what’s it feel like to be back in Princeton?” you hear one of the women ask another and you resist the urge to look up and eyeball them.  “It’s different,” comes the reply.  “And how do you think he’s going to react when he sees you’re in town?” comes the next question.  You guess she shrugs in answer because there’s no verbal one.  “Do you really think House has changed? He’s a drug addict. Brilliant and world renowned, there’s no getaway from that, but still a drug addict,” comes another voice and this time you feel your face flame. 

“And let’s not forget the kid that he got dumped with. Drug addicted father, mother who abandoned her. Who knows how she’s turned out?”  It’s too much for you to hear, and so you pack up your stuff with not much care. The world around you blurs for a second though it clears when you blink, but blurs up soon after and it takes you a little while to realise you’re silently crying.  You heave your backpack and walk out just as Jane walks to the table, plates in hand. You don’t have the strength or heart to tell her what you’ve just heard. You’re not sure where you want to go, but you find yourself on the forth floor of PPTH, walking toward your dad’s office. He’s in the middle of a diagnosing session with his ducklings but he sees you through the window and stops the session when he sees your expression.  He looks mutinous.  “Who,” he asks and you know he wants to know who’s responsible for the tear-tracks on your cheeks.  You look at the man before you, take him in, and you can’t equate him with the person those vile women were describing at the coffee shop.  Sure, your dad has pain issues with his leg; he’s never hidden that from you and with Uncle Wilson’s help he’s been able to manage the pain, somewhat. Yes, some days are worse than others, but you’ve never seen him popping pain pills, or injecting himself with opioids to forget about his pain.  What you see when you look at the man looking back at you is your dad. Your hero… Uncle Wilson often told you that you were the reason your dad become such a party-pooper and you always laughed it off but now… now you’re thinking about it.  Chase had talked about poker nights at the apartment, but you don’t remember living in an apartment and all the pictures of you since you were born were taken at the house you and your dad currently live in. Poker nights moved to your new home and boys nights decreased. You often heard Chase and Wilson complaining that your dad never joined them, but House always told you it was because he wanted to spend time with people he actually liked… Despite his leg pain, your dad was the one who taught you to ride a bike, without the training wheels. He was the one who cleaned and treated bruised and bloodied knees. He’d been the one to calm you down when you’d fractured your wrist falling off the monkey bars in the fifth grade and assured you it was fine to get a sky blue hard cast even though the nurse tried convincing you blue was for boys. Cooking, baking cupcakes, piano and guitar lessons were quality time he made available for you.  He was also the one who terrorised your dates if he didn’t like them, and to his credit, he was correct about ninety-five percent of the boys and thirty percent of the girls. You loved that he grilled them endlessly about their intentions toward with and with you, even though you made a show of protesting his behaviour in front of said dates. Your interest and love for medicine came from him. He was always explaining things to you, making learning as exciting he could for you and appreciated it. There was nothing your dad didn’t know or couldn’t do… “(Y/N),” you hear him call you though before you can answer his phone starts to ring.  You see the screen light up with Jane’s picture and you have no doubt she’s relating the coffee shop events to him… His expression changes from concerned to furious as Jane talks and you’re grateful his attention is off you for a few minutes.  The sound of heels clacking on the vinyl flooring gets your attention and you turn to see one of the women from the coffee shop walking toward your dad’s office.  The silence at her presence is deafening. Your dad’s ducklings have stopped quarrelling at are looking in shock at the woman. You’re clearly missing something here and its obviously something big.  “House,” she greets, but your dad is livid. You don’t have to hear his voice to know it, you can see it in his eyes.  “You need to leave,” he tells her and you note he hasn’t addressed her by name. Your dad’s anger doesn’t scare her and she continues talking as though he never asked her to leave.  “I want to see her,” the woman says.  “No.” There’s no explanation or reason.  “She’s mine too,” the woman says and the anger that your dad has been holding in blows out.  “Yours? Yours? Are you kidding me? You left her when she was three days old. Couldn’t wait to leave her on my doorstep because you didn’t want to have kids with a drug addict. And you needed to focus on your career. If she’s yours too, where were you when she had fevers that wouldn’t break for days, or when she cut her first tooth, or when she took her first steps or even said her first word? Where were you in the first grade when she had to do an oral presentation about her mother and she had no idea what to say, because she doesn’t know what having a mother feels like,” House is on a roll.  “You weren’t there!” he booms. “House,” the woman tries, but he’s done.  “For fifteen years you’ve missed every one of her milestones, every important event in her life, so no, you don’t get to meet her. She might have biologically inherited some genes from you, but everything else comes from me. She’s mine,” you hear your dad say.  And then just as suddenly as it started you see the fight leave your dad. He looks exhausted and older than he really is.  “Actually, she’s old enough to make her own choices so (Y/N) if you want to meet your mother and spend time with her, that’s up to you,” he tells you.  You, however, have no intention of doing so. Not when wounds are so raw and she’s hurt your dad so badly.  “I think you need to leave. And you can tell your posse of friends my dad isn’t a drug addict,” you tell her as you walk to your dad and hold onto his forearm.  He’s been your one constant in life and you’re not letting go of him anytime soon. Not for anything.  “It’s always been dad and I and I’m okay with that. We’ve done okay without you for fifteen years…” you don’t need to complete your sentence, she gets the meaning of it.  Your heart hurts at the sight of tears in her eyes, but you stay strong. That’s the most important lesson you’ve learnt from your dad…

Tag-list: @kyky9103 @diaryofafan17 @wefracturedmotivation @yeetmetohim @manicmarsupial @cameronmonaghantrashaf If you’d like to be tagged, let me know More house MD here

[necroheir]

weeks have turned to months and your journey to olympus, your acceptance of your life as a demigod, has lead up to this moment. it's been brutal, wrought with pain and close calls, thick with loss, but you've endured. as you begin to get ready to sleep, winding down for the night, something inside of you feels different. there's a strength that grows that you only dimly knew was there before. you feel stronger, faster, more attuned to your senses and your own inner power. if you ever doubted that you might have divine blood in your veins before, now, more than ever, you feel it. as soon as your head hits the pillow you fall fast asleep, exhausted from the events that have lead up to this point. who knows however long later, you "awaken". you're not where you fell asleep, there's no familiar body curled beside yours, nothing is as it was when you slept. you have to blink a few times but you realize that you're in a place that seems familiar to you. describe this place? what does it look like, sound like, smell like? 

viktor awakes to the feeling of cool rain against his face. his lids open, and he sees the sky, slanted, silver streaks of rain pattering onto his wasted mug, as if to rouse him conscious. he shifts and feels the uncomfortable jab of cardboard boxes pressed into his spine. he fidgets again, and a pile of rotted trash knocks over and clatters to the ground next to him. his body feels like a thousand tons and he knows... knows by the muffled sound of bar tunes and the stench of alleyway filth that he'd blacked out drunk in his own vomit again. he drags himself up, sitting properly against the brick wall behind him, and closes his eyes to clear the pounding headache in his brain.

with your eyes closed, you will your headache to go away, will your senses to block out the familiar stench of trash and vomit, the familiar sounds of the jukebox that plays song after song. after a while, with the rain still battering down upon you, an onslaught of cold, you open your eyes to see a figure standing in the alleyway, looking toward you. it's obscured by the heavy rain, making it almost appear like a dark blot in your vision. for a second you maybe think that it's nothing more than a trick to your eyes, but after blinking a few more times, you can see something or someone is actually there. for a moment, the rain all but stops around them and you get a proper glimpse as to who or what is there. what do you see? describe what the figure is. is it a person an animal? be as descriptive as you'd like.

the miserable sights and sounds around him are too familiar to him, reminiscent of his days in russia, getting wasted every chance he got. he blinks away the rain and drags a too-heavy hand down his face as he makes out a familiar figure in the rain. a small, sincere smile traces onto his lips. "pashka?" the burly man curls himself forward and opens his hands for the cream-colored kitten that he'd befriended in the rain, some years ago. little pashka, with his cream-colored coat drenched and taut against brittle bones. he'd found him chewing on a rotted core of an apple that day, and brought him home. little pashka, the first thing to love someone like him. this little one, however, is not like the pashka he remembers vividly in his memories. this one has blue, comforting eyes, like yves'.

bright, comforting blue eyes look up into yours as you extend a hand out toward pashka. the cream-colored coat sticks to his frail bones like a second skin and, even though he looks miserable out in the rain, he perks up when he notices that it's you. sauntering over toward your hand, he butts his nose and forehead against your calloused fingers before he slinks his body along your hand, down his mane and back. then, pashka speaks. at first, you think you heard something—it's a muffled noise, maybe the rain battering against dumpsters and pavement makes it harder to hear, but it almost sounds like something is being muffled by water or glass. you strain to hear once more and you can make it out. a voice. coming from the cat. after the shock settles, you hear it clear as day, as if the rain is gone and there's nothing but you, pashka, and the voice speaking to you. what do you hear? what does the voice sound like? is male, female, animalistic? describe the reaction you have to hearing it.

viktor doesn't recognize the voice, but it sounds like a little boy's, not exactly like his son's. it sounds playful, and peppy, like he always remembered pashka to be, bounding up and down his bedroom corridor with an excitement that always had his hind legs teetering above his little head. even his own son looked upon him with disappointment and disdain, but pashka, his little kitten, had never, always greeting him with affectionate mewls and yowls. a soul snatched so soon. as viktor closes a hand over the kitten's head and thumbs it behind his ear, he remembers coming home one day to pashka's mangled head and gouged body on his doormat. then, the sneer of a stray dog with its muzzle coated in blood. a tear rolls down his cheek as he hears the voice, but he wipes it away quickly. "pashka," he wheezes mournfully. "pashka, my little boy."

the excited mewl turns into a voice as a gentle purr begins to rake through pashka's body. his eyes close, the bright blues closed happily as you pet behind his ears. "i've been waiting for you!" he says happily, the purr coating every word, the excitement and joy ringing true in his voice. "i knew you'd find me again and i'd find you! what took you so long?"

"i'm sorry," viktor chuckles through his tears. he's glad it's raining, and that nobody would think twice about glancing his way like this. he'd always been something of human trash, invisible and unloved. he wipes his snot and tears across his sleeve. "i have found someone who loves me." he laughs and cups pashka in his hands. he's barely a few ounces in his gigantic palms. "can you believe that, little pashka? someone like me. i have been... very happy."

pashka purrs happily as you say this and opens his eyes. he looks up at you and you find yourself staring back into the same ocean blue eyes that you stare into more often than not, the ones that look at you like you belong, like you matter. pashka moves to jump into your lap and curls up, legs outstretched over your side, and lays sideways a little to crane his head up toward you. "that's exciting! i knew someone else would love you." he butts his head against your stomach, getting comfortable against you. "you deserve to be happy! you always have!" he stops wiggling to look up at you again, his small mouth looking as if it's curled in a smile. "does it scare you, though, viktor? feeling worth something to someone?"

with pashka, it has always been easier to confess some of his deepest darkest secrets without fear of scrutiny. this little pashka with the color of yves' eyes makes him feel even more comforted, and at home. "no," he mumbled as he wipe away the last of his tears. he sits there, cross-legged, and strokes pashka's fur, wet and matted against his palm. "i am not afraid of being a monster." he wasn't afraid of being unlovable. he'd done far too many vile things in life to expect that kind of gesture from anybody, but... "i am scared of losing..." the knot tightens in his throat but he has to push this out. "i am scared of losing that someone." not for his own selfish gains, surprisingly enough. if someone or something was so pure to love someone like him, why couldn't it be him to die? maybe the gods had a plan for everything, but he just couldn't understand the fairness of that. when he'd come home, grocery bag in hand, to see pashka's blood smeared across his doormat, he'd wondered: why couldn't it have been him instead? he'd felt that when yves had gone down. dane couldn't have understood his mad desperation to save the person who viktor had thought too good to die. too loving. if not to love him, he knew pashka, or even yves, would sow that love to someone else undeserving.

"then we'll make sure you won't let that happen!" pashka says it as if it's the easiest truth to swallow, like a gummy bear versus a pill. he bounces up onto his paws, kneads into your thigh, and looks up at you with bright, intense eyes. "you're different now, you know! you're not the same viktor that found me. i think some of it has to do with this someone, but there's more to it. you've changed!" it's not a question really, nor a statement, but an observation. "you're not like your father, even if you still have that bottomless rage in you."

he doesn't know if pashka's words are true, but he wants to believe it. he's tried so hard these days to be someone deserving of yves' love. of pashka's love. "i didn't really know him," viktor chuckles. "but you are right." the russian hiccups, feeling a little more at ease as the rain soaks through his clothes and washes down his face. "i have to be steady," he drunkenly mumbles. "like the cliffs. i have to protect yves, because i could not save you, little pashka. you didn't deserve that."

"you do not know him, but i do." pashka's words are a purr as he nuzzles against your side once more. he looks up at you as you say his name and, for a moment, his eyes get sad. "your heart is in the right place. do you think you'll be able to be as strong as a mountain and as steady as a cliff, as fierce as the ocean, where you're at?" he butts his head against your chest after stretching to be on his hind legs. as he does so, you see flashes of the ASPIDA house and how you belong there, but then there's flashes of the other houses, too. "is that where you belong?"

viktor smiles easily and kisses the little kitten's apple-head. "of course," he chuckles, drunkenly confident. but something says that he's normally like this when he's sober, too. "i'm viktor zalessky. no matter how the wind howls, the mountain does not bow to it, eh?" he squints a bit as he sees flashes of the ASPIDA house. he sees his housemates, too, and while he has his differences with them, he considers them family. they all want to protect someone, just like him. belong. now, that wasn't a word he'd heard in a while. "maybe," viktor shrugs, and then he imagines an empty spot next to yves in their bed back home. that's where he belongs. not in some house. not in some bratva. not in prison. just there, next to yves, protecting him by all means necessary, even if it is a bit selfish. but ASPIDA... ASPIDA is the closest he's felt to home besides his boyfriend's arms, sure.

it's almost as if pashka can see what you're thinking, can see the same flashes as he lays his forehead against your chest, listening to the steady drumming of your heartbeat. "you love him." he says to you, looking up, craning his head to get a better look into your eyes. "you'd destroy the world to keep him safe." he doesn't form it into a question because he knows the answer already, knows the harsh reality of he tsunami and earthquake of your love. as harsh as it may be, as volatile and dangerous, pashka knows the calm eye of the storm that is your protection, your love. "we will make you strong enough to keep him safe." he kneads at your chest, claws digging in affectionately. "if you let me."

viktor's heartbeat is steady, like he's never been more sure of something in his life. "i do," he confesses with a slow exhale of relief. "i love him." he'd done worse things in exchange for much less. stolen, scammed, and even killed for money. for love? there was virtually nothing he couldn't do. he glances down, a hand protectively cupping the kitten's bottom so he doesn't tumble off. pashka had always been slow to recover from his maladies, growing much slower than other kittens his age. "i will, whatever it takes."

"whatever it takes." pashka says in return, purring deep and loud. "when you wake up, you'll be stronger! you'll be the biggest, baddest mountain ever! unstoppable!" he mewls loudly, the sound cutting through the pattering of rain that still falls on them. "we'll see each other again, i promise! just keep doing right by him and by you." clumsily, pashka jumps from your arms and skids a little, paws falling out from under him as he topples over before he slowly gets back to his feet. his tail sways from side to side, high and proud, as he walks away, out of the alleyway and into what looks to be spots of sun. you wake up in the middle of the night feel warm, droplets of sweat hang on your brow and yves' body is curled against yours. this, you think, is home. this, you know, is where you belong. you feel stronger now, more revitalized, but you still fall back asleep easily with your arms wrapped around your lover. when you wake in the morning, you feel brand new, unstoppable.

[batskulldrag]

Phoenix by Fallout Boy

Heads up, the beginning to this chapter in intense with angst. Trigger warning for abuse. 

After that it should be ok. and we finally get to see deceit. His human name is Ethan and he is their new lawyer. 

Chapter Seven: Hellfire from The Hunchback of Notre Dame soundtrack

               Virgil woke up in a sterile greenish blue room. There was a heart monitor beeping somewhere. It might have been his. He felt an IV in his arm, and a truck load of pain everywhere else. He tried to remember how he got here.

               Last thing I remember is…  His blood turned to ice water.

               The last thing he could recall was his father being furious. And hurting him, he had been thrashed within an inch of his life. He tried to look around, but he could only see out of one eye. The other one was swollen shut. He didn’t see his father though.

               Maybe he had finally gone too far, and CPS had stepped in. Maybe things were ok now. And he’d get sent somewhere else. And his dad would get sent to prison. Maybe it was over.

               A few doctors came and went, checking his vitals and stuff like that. None of them said anything about him of his dad. He had to know.

               “Why am I here?” He fought intense agony to speak.

               “Shh.” One of the nurses cooed. “Don’t try to talk, sweetie. You’ve had a nasty fall and you injured a few ribs. Just lie very still.”

               “Where’s my…” He felt like he had been stabbed with a hack saw. “My… Dad?”

               “He’s right outside. He’ll be in with you in a moment.”

               Whatever pain he was in was dwarfed by the crushing blow of disappointment. Nothing was ok. He felt tears falling across his face, seeping into open cuts and stinging like hell. Of course, they swallowed whatever excuse his father had fed them. And there was no way they’d ask for his side of what happened. No, he was just a prop. No one wanted to know how he said it happened.

               “It’s ok,” The nurse soothed. “You’re alright now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

               She didn’t know! Of course, she didn’t know! How could she even say that!? Didn’t she know that it wasn’t ok!?  

               It’s not ok! Help me!

               His dad walked into the room with a mask of concern that he wore amazingly. Nominate him for an Oscar, he deserves it. Even Virgil himself was tempted to think his father had an ounce of remorse.

               “How is he?” His dad asked in such a genuine tone, when did he find time to rehearse?

               “He’ll pull through.” The nurse assured him.

               “Oh, thank goodness.” He sighed. “I was so worried. He’s all I have after his mother left me. If something happened to him…” He trailed off. The fucker even shed a tear.

               “I understand.” Welp, he had her.

               “Is it alright if I stay with him now?”

               “Of course.” She said.

               NO TAKE IT BACK!! TAKE IT BACK!!!

               “In fact, he was just asking for you.”

               “Poor baby. He must be terrified.”  

               DON’T LAEVE HIM WITH ME!! PLEASE HELP ME!!!

               “I’ll leave you two alone.”

               NO! SAVE ME!! PLEASE HELP ME!!!

               She left. And more importantly she left him alone with his dad.

               “It hurts doesn’t it.” The mask came off. All that was left was the sadistic tone of his father. “I may have told them you were morphine intolerant.”

               “Why?” It came out as a whimper.

               “Well, I had to get my point across.”

               “Why?” He wheezed again.

               “Well.” His father started. “First off, I want you to know they’re not going to ask you if you can have morphine, they already believe me. And they won’t ask for a second opinion. And that goes for your little tumble down our stairs. You tripped and fell, and your frantic dad rushed you to the emergency room. And if you say otherwise, I think we know who they’ll side with.”

               “And even if they believe you.” He grinned; the monster might as well have had three rows of teeth. “They’re a bunch of doctors who didn’t repeat seventh grade. They’ll just say I went easy on you. You see the grown up isn’t just always telling the truth, but they’re also always right.”

               He pressed down on one of his ribs. Virgil yelped in pain.

               “So, don’t disappoint me again.” He hissed.

               Last thing Virgil remembers is everything going black.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!!!” Virgil cried. “PLEASE HELP ME!!”

               Patton and Logan both shot awake and bolted to Virgil’s room. They met Roman in the doorway; he had brought a weapon. They all ran in as Virgil continued to shriek.

               “SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!” He pleaded, thrashing around on the bed like he was being murdered.

               Roman burst in and Logan switched the lights on.

               “Get away from him!” Roman demanded of the empty room.

               Virgil screamed and fell of the bed. He then just laid on the floor whimpering and drenched with sweat.

               “My baby.” Patton yelped, rushing to his side. “Are you ok honey?”

               “…I-I-I’m fine.” He panted. “I just had a bad dream.”

               Roman hid his samurai sword behind his back.

               “It’s ok.” Patton cooed, pulling the younger man into his lap. “I’m here, Da- I’ve got you.”

               “Do you want to talk about it?” Logan knelt beside Patton.

               “No.” Virgil’s voice came out as a squeak.

               “Ok.” Patton gently rubbed his back. “You don’t have to. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

               With that said, Virgil started sobbing. Patton looked at Logan in horror and mouthed out ‘what did I do?’. Logan shook his head in mutual confusion.  Roman sat down on the floor with them and stretched his hand out to Virgil.

               “It’s ok.” He said softly, running his hand through the child’s hair. “You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to feel this. It’s ok.”

               Virgil continued crying as he buried his face in Patton’s shirt.

               “They-they’re gonna…” He gasped from Patton’s chest. “They’re not gonna believe me.”

               “Who?” Logan asked, with a pretty good idea he knew the answer.

               “The courts or the jury or whoever.” He panted. “They’re gonna take his side.”

               “No,” Patton soothed. “No, they won’t. it’s just his word against, like mountain of evidence.”

               “But he said I’m allergic to morphine and I’m not allergic to morphine,” He rambled in short, ragged breaths. “And they just went with it, and no one asked me if I fell down the stairs or not. Cause he already said I did. And…and…” He gasped hard.

               “Shh, shh.” Patton tutted. “It’s alright, no one’s gonna just blindly believe him ever again. He’s been branded as a liar. As he should be.”

               “Virgil.” Logan gently grabbed his shoulder. “No one is going to believe him over you. No one is going to believe him over evidence. This isn’t just he says you say.”

               Virgil mumbled something into Patton’s chest.

               “What?” Logan made a face like he had just been slapped.

               “I said.” Virgil sniveled. “What if they think he was going easy on me and I deserved it.”

               “Virgil.” Logan grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled his face up. “Look me in the eyes and listen to me. No one is going to say that. No one! You did not deserve any of what he did to you. Do you understand me!? You did not deserve that! And he did not go easy on you! He nearly killed you twice now! That does not quantify going easy on someone! No one is going to think that he was in the right, because he wasn’t! What he did was wrong! And nobody is going to think otherwise! Do you understand?!”

               Virgil nodded timidly.

               Logan sighed and pulled Virgil into a hug.

               “Ok.” He whispered. “I’m sorry for raising my voice to you. But you need to understand this. Your father…” He made a face at the title. “Payton was wrong to do this. And no one else is like that. This isn’t normal, and it isn’t right.”

               “I lied about what grade I’m in.” Virgil said. It was barely audible over his breathing. “I got held back. I’m starting eighth grade in the fall.”

               “I figured that out.” Logan sighed. “We got your school records last night.”

               “And you were asking all the questions about being held back earlier.” Patton added. “It was a really bad lie.”

               A long, tense silence filled the room.

               “We’re not going to do anything you expect us to do.” Roman broke the silence. “Please don’t lie to us again.”

               “Yeah, that about sums it up.” Patton wiped a tear off Virgil’s cheek. “We’d like you to trust us, and we wanna be able to trust you. Sound fair?”

               Virgil nodded.

               “Good.” Logan patted him on the head, it was unspeakably awkward. “Do you think you can fall asleep on your own, or would you like to take one of your pills?”

               “I’m fine.” Virgil sighed. “I don’t need to take anything.

               “Ok. But if you need your medicine come get one of us.” Patton fussed, pulling Virgil in and stroking his hair. “Do you want one of us to stay here until you fall asleep?”

               “No, I’m ok.” He paused and smiled coyly. “Trust me.”

               “We gotta get you some other bands to listen to.” Roman said unamused. “You can’t just keep quoting My Chemical Romance.”

               “My chemical Roman?” Patton quipped.

               “Patton,” Logan said calmly. “No.”

               “Absolutely not.” Roman agreed. “Never call me that again.”

               “I thought it was funny.” Virgil piped in, giving Patton a weak smile.

               “Well, at least one of us can appreciate humor.” Patton ruffled his hair. “You go ahead and get some sleep now. We’ll talk more in the morning if you feel like it.”

               “Ok.” Virgil yawned. “Thanks.”

               “It’s no trouble.”

               “I mean thanks, for.” He looked down and bit his lip. “Thanks for everything. All of you.”

               “That’s no trouble either.” Patton continued to pet him softly.

               “Don’t lie to me.”

               “Oooh, you’re feisty.” Patton teased. “Let’s get you into bed kiddo.”

               Patton helped him up and tucked him in, despite his protests the he was thirteen and didn’t need to be tucked in. Patton disregarded him without so much as going ‘uh-huh’ and pretending to listen.

               “Sometimes.” Patton kissed him on the forehead. “It’s nice to be tucked in.”

               As the three of them left the room Logan switched the light off and closed the door.

               “Poor little baby.” Patton whimpered as soon as the door closed. “How could anyone do something like that? He’s just a little kid.”

               “Some people are just rotten,” Roman patted him on the shoulder. “In a perfect world you’d be an only child. All we can do is be decent human beings to make up for the vile few who waste our air.”

               “I agree.” Logan nodded. “Just not as dramatically. Yes, there are bad people out there. And yes, all we can really do to counter them is act properly. There’s no point dwelling on what your brother did, all we can do now is work to help Virgil.”

               “I mean,” Roman gestured towards the door. “We already succeeded in not giving him night terrors. I’ll call that the minimum. So, we’re off to a great start.”

               “What the proverbial hell are you wearing?” Logan asked, only really looking at him for the first time.

               Roman looked down at himself. He was shirtless and clad only in red booty shorts that read ‘Royal’ across the butt.

               “It’s hot!” His face changed to match his shorts in hue. “it’s summer and we live in Florida!”

               “I think we all look silly.” Patton mumbled, tugging on the hem of his Pawton T-shirt.

               “I thought Virgil was being attacked by an intruder.” Roman argued. “I had time to either grab my robe or my sword!”

               “What were you gonna do, seduce the murderer?” Patton made a face.

               “Why are we having this discussion again?” Logan rubbed his temples.

               “Oh, we’re doing this?” Roman got defensive. “Because I happened to notice you were wearing seashell print underwear when you came to get me on Friday. And Patton had on dark blue boxers.”

               “So?” Logan challenged.

               “So, you don’t wear print underwear and Patton doesn’t own any without print.” Roman smirked sadistically. “I think you had on more than his shirt.”

               “Oh my God!!” Virgil screamed from the other room. “Get away from my door! I can hear you!!!”

               “I take back what I said about the nightmares.” Roman said flatly.

                                                               #             #             #

               The following evening was Patton and Logan’s turn to have to deal with the press. So, Roman was on babysitting duty. Given what would go down in infamy as ‘the booty short incident’ things were a bit awkward between the two. And now that Patton and Logan had left Roman was starting to feel a bit like the friend of a friend.

               “Do you think you’d like to be on the news once you’re feeling better?” Roman asked to ease the tension.

               “Sorry, what?” Virgil pulled out an earbud. He was curled up on the couch with his computer.

               “I was wondering if you wanted to be interviewed when you feel better.” Roman fought the cringe. “I’m sure they want to speak to you.”

               “I’m sure I’m not as beat up as they want me to be.” Virgil paused what he was watching. “Not too many bruises to exploit. Unless they want me to strip.”

               “That may not be so uncommon.” Roman said. “They asked me to strip last night.”

               “Really?” Virgil sat up and looked at him intensely.

               “Yes, I’m so gorgeous that everywhere I go people want me to take my clothes off.” Roman finished off the bit elegantly. “Mostly the ladies, but once the guys find out I’m on that side of the field… well. Let’s just say that they are not as weak as people think they are.”

               “I can’t believe I fell for that.” Virgil slumped back. “I’m an idiot.”

               “Well, maybe it’s just really believable.” Roman smirked. “I do have a god bod.”

               “You are like uber gay. Patton and Logan are married to each other and you’re still the gayest person in the house.”

               “How about you? Any crushes?” Roman turned the tables. “I bet everyone goes crazy over those eyes.”

               “Nah.” Virgil looked down and drug his hand across the rim of his laptop. “None yet.”

               “I guess that’s been pretty far from your mind.” Roman realized what he had done. “I’m sure you’ll be getting into it as you get older. Logan didn’t have his first until he was eighteen.”

               “Logan has…” He trailed off.

               “And you had other stuff to deal with.” Roman finished for him. “When you get your bearings, you’ll get your first crush, and if you never take an interest in romance, so be it. Different people need different things, and they need them at different times.”

               Virgil smiled softly at him, his lips only parting slightly to show a thin portion of his teeth.

               “And right now,” Roman stood up. “You need to watch Hunchback of Notre Dame with me.”

               “No way, I read that book, it’s horrible.” Virgil objected.

               “We’re watching the Disney version; it has a happy ending.” Roman explained. “Also, there’s a book?”

               “Yeah, it’s long.”

               “You’re in middle school, what are you doing reading stuff like that?”

               “I was in some kind of advanced reading class over the past couple of summers. You know, anything to eat up whatever free time I can get.”

               “So, you’re reading on like a high school level.” Roman pointed at him.

               “So, what, reading’s not hard. Like, everyone can read.”

               “Not on a high school level they can’t.”

               “Anyone who passed high school can.” Virgil countered, throwing his hands up.

               “Do you remember our different people chat from a moment ago?”

               “Just put in the movie.” He paused. “Wait, what time is your interview showing?”

               “Last night.” Roman shrugged. “It was pretty boring. And I decided that I hate it when the press tries to be clever.”

               “Go on.”

               “Actor Roman Lupine, known locally for his role as Mufasa in the community theater portrayal of The Lion King has found himself in a different kind of cast following the events of Friday night.” He recited.

               “That’s not even funny.”

               “I’m just thankful no one brought up my infiltration of the press.”

               “You’re the dude who pretended to be a reporter to troll my dad?”

               “I had to make sure they asked the right questions.” He defended. “And they didn’t. So, it’s a good thing I was there.”  

               “Yeah,” Virgil looked down. “Honestly, before you guys showed up the press thought the sun shined out of my dad’s butt.”

               Roman couldn’t help but laugh at that image.

               “Wow,” Roman coughed between laughs. “You are a word smith.”  

               “This movie another musical?” Virgil asked, stretching himself out.

               “All the best ones are.” Roman declared.

               Roman out the movie in and flopped himself down on the couch next to Virgil. The little one scooched away from him and curled up into a ball.

               “You don’t have to be afraid of me.” Roman smiled at him. “I may be gay, but I’m only attracted to people old enough to consent.”

               “Weirdly enough, I wasn’t worried about that.” Virgil said giving him a confused look. “I just haven’t bathed in a while, and I’m starting to smell.”

               “That’s you? I just thought my deodorant gave out.”

               “No, it’s me. I smell like death barfed up a bunch of old Band-Aids.”

               “Remind me why we haven’t bathed you yet.”

               “I can’t use my hands.” Virgil held up his gauzy paws. “Or get them wet or get my cast wet.”

               “Let me think for a minute.” Roman put his hand to his chin. “I’m great at creative solutions.”

               “Whatever you say, dude.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               Roman did come up with a solution. So, the two of them were now standing in Patton and Logan’s bathroom as that one had a walk-in shower with a grip bar installed inside. Roman unrolled a generous amount of plastic wrap.

               “So, we can wrap up your cast and hands really good with this stuff.” Roman smiled. “And then I can duct tape a back scrubber to one of your hands. That way you can clean yourself.”

               “I’m doing this more for entertainment than out of thinking this will work.” Virgil scoffed.

               “My kind are never recognized for their genius.” He feigned hurt and placed a hand on his heart.

               “Fine let’s do this.” Virgil sighed and held out his hands. “The smell is unbearable.”

               “Now, I’ll help you get your shirt off.” Roman said as he bound Virgil’s hands. “But your pants are your responsibility. I’m not getting my name put on any lists.”

               “You’re a saint.” Virgil said flatly.

               “Thanks for noticing.” Roman stood up. “Now, I find duct tape.”

               “Can’t you just put socks or something over my hands? It’d be easier.”

               “Now I go to get a pair of socks!” Roman rephrased. “Stay right here.”

               “Where would I go?”

               Roman returned with the socks, applied them and left Virgil one of his robes. With that done he left the bathroom. No way was he getting his name put on any lists. He sat on Patton and Logan’s bed, tracing the blanket pattern with his finger. It was creepily quiet.

               “Virgil,” Roman called. “Are you ok in there?”

               “Yeah, I’m fine.” He yelled back.

               “Ok. I’m right here if you need me?”

               “What the hell could I possibly need you for in here?”

               “I meant in case you fall. Weirdo.”

               “You’re weird.”

               Roman laughed to himself. This kid was terrible at name calling, at least in the moment. Roman softly sang to himself to break the silence. He looked around the love bird’s nest, they sure did like blue. He didn’t normally go into their bedroom if he could avoid it. Not that the room had anything wrong with it, it was the standard room with more plushies than would be expected scattered around. There was one desk, Logan’s, and it was home to many piles of books. As would be expected.

               “Sup?” Roman nodded at the large stuffed dog laying on the foot of the bed.

               “Roman?” A timid voice asked.

               “You can talk?” Roman grabbed the plushie. “Wait, I’m an idiot. What is it Virgil?”

               “Can you come in here?” Virgil sounded strained.

               “Did you fall? I’ll be right in.”

               Roman darted in and saw Virgil bunched up in one corner of the shower, covering himself with a towel. Thank god.

               “What’s wrong?” Roman asked, stepping closer.

               “There’s a bunch of weird spots on my skin.”

               Roman looked down at his chest and saw that it was peppered tiny irritations that were rough to the touch.

               “Ok.” Roman forced himself calm. “You come on out of there and put this on.” Roman held up the robe and looked away. “It’s probably just a reaction to the soap, or to not being able to shower for a while. You know, that kind of rash.”

               “Ok.” He squeaked. “I know it wasn’t here yesterday, so you’re probably right.”

               “Right. So, we’re just going to wash your clothes and see what happens.”

               Roman sent Virgil to his room and immediately called Logan. Logan answered surprisingly fast, he must have really not wanted to be interviewed.

               “Roman, is something wrong?” Logan answered, confused.

               “Virgil has this weird bunch of spots on his body, I don’t think it’s chicken pox, but it looks like scarlet fever.”

               “It probably is.” Logan said calmly. “That or he’s having a reaction to his antibiotics.”

               “WHAT!!?” Roman screamed into the receiver. “He’s going to die?”

               “Roman, scarlet fever is also known as strep throat rash.” Logan explained. “Both are caused by the same bacteria. I suspect he contracted it because his father didn’t take him to the doctor. Symptoms are the same as strep throat, and the first degree burns he suffered in the fire must have covered the rash.”

               “What do I do? Do I have to burn things? Is he going to live?”

               “He’ll be fine, just put some baby powder on the rash; we’ll take him to the doctor tomorrow to see if he needs his antibiotic dose increased or decreased based on what the rash is. Don’t burn anything, this isn’t the nineteenth century.”

               “Should I tell him?”

               “No, you’ll just freak him out.”

               “All this time scarlet fever has just been strep throat?” Roman mumbled, floored by the revelation.

               “Just wait until we tell you about what happened to measles.” Logan said blankly before hanging up.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Just have a seat on the table and the doctor will be right with you.” The nurse said, holding the door for them.

               Virgil lurked in quietly with Patton and Roman both in tow. He stopped to look at them both and saw that Logan had also gone ahead and come in. Somehow, he had amassed and entourage.

               “I… Uh. Don’t think we all need to be here.” Virgil said, tugging on his sleeves.

               “We need to know what you have.” Roman defended.

               Virgil pulled himself onto the table and silently prayed that the doctor wouldn’t ask him to take his pants off. He was generally opposed to striping, but he was more against it now that he knew his audience wasn’t going anywhere.

               “It’s ok.” Patton rubbed his shoulder.

               “I’m not afraid.”

               “Oh.” Patton said surprised, not taking his hand away. “That’s ok too. You shouldn’t be afraid. It’s going to be alright.”

               “I regret telling them about strep throat rash.” Logan said to him. “I’m very sorry. I should have expected this kind of reaction.”

               “What other reaction is supposed to come with the news that he has a potentially fatal illness?” Roman protested. “Joy? We aren’t Barbra.”

               “The severity is dramatically decreased because of modern antibiotics.” Logan sighed. “Virgil’s not going to die from this. And it may not be strep throat rash, it could very well be a reaction to our detergent or his medicine.”

               “If he’s allergic to antibiotics that’s still a problem.” Patton objected.

               “How do you keep forgetting everything you learned in nursing school?” Logan sighed.

               Virgil chewed on his bandages, longing for the day when he could get at his nails again. Roman had kept his mouth shut about the idea of scarlet fever pretty well, but when Patton got wind of it, he freaked out. First kid and all that. Logan had been good about using the modern name, but of course Patton googled it and found out what it was. Virgil hadn’t had a moment’s peace since.

               Mercifully the doctor entered the room. Virgil knew this one, Dr. Talyn because they had been dealing him while he was still checked in. Nice to see a familiar face.

               “Hi Virgil.” Talyn said, clearly happy to see him. “How have you been?”

               “Recovering.” Virgil sighed. “How long do I need to have my hands wrapped again?”

               “I’ll look at the burns while I’m here, but I guarantee you that you still need to have them wrapped for at least another week.”

               “I know you.” Roman interrupted happily. “You’re the doctor who stood up to Payton that night.”

               “And you’re crazy twin guy.” Talyn nodded. “I’m a friend of Joan’s.”

               “You have one insane twin brother and that’s all anyone ever remembers about you.” Roman protested.

               “So, Virgil has a rash that you two are worried about?” Talyn turned to Patton and Logan.

               “I think it may be strep throat rash,” Logan explained calmly. “I just need to know what it is and if we need to adjust his antibiotics.”

               “Scarlet fever can make people go deaf.” Patton interrupted. “Is that gonna happen?”

               “No.” Talyn looked amused at Patton’s panic. “And it’s probably not strep rash, it seems weird that it would show up after we started treating the strep throat.” They turned on Virgil. “Can you pull your shirt up baby?”

               Thinking he had a bright future as a stripper, Virgil pulled his shirt off. Life was hell. Talyn looked at the rash for a minute and went about the other standard doctor examinations.

               “It’s not scarlet fever or a reaction to his meds.” They said finally. “It’s just a little stress rash.”

               “Oh, poor baby.” Patton fussed, grabbing Virgil and hugging him.

               The demonic voice in Virgil’s head screamed so loud that it blurred his vision.

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Oh, poor baby.” Patton pulled his nephew into his arms.

               “Oh, thank goodness.” Roman sighed. “I thought he was done for.”

               “For the last time, he wasn’t going to die.” Logan added tiredly.

               “If you want, I can prescribe a topical cream for the hives,” Talyn continued. “But aside from that I can’t really do much. They’re just gonna have to go away on their own.”

               Patton brushed Virgil’s hair out of his face and paused. Virgil was being oddly still. He loosened his grip and Virgil fell limp onto him.

               “Guys! I think he fainted!” Patton yelled in abstract terror.

               Dr. Talyn took over and shooed him away. They laid Virgil down on the table, took his pulse and checked his pupils. After that they put a cold cloth on his head.

               “Doctor,” Patton asked softly. “Did we do something wrong? His anxiety is getting really bad around us. Did we do the wrong thing?”

               “No, I don’t think this is anyone’s fault.” Talyn checked Virgil’s pules again. “I think he’s just having a harder time adjusting then we thought he would. All we can really do is give it time.”

               “We already made him a follow up appointment with Dr. Picani.” Logan added guiltily. “I didn’t think we were causing him that much stress.”

               “You don’t need to be in a stressful environment to have anxiety.” Talyn explained. “And he may have PTSD after everything his dad did to him. And he’s only like five days into this transition. That’s not even enough time to get used to a school week.”

               “It’s not right.” Patton brushed his hand through Virgil’s hair. “He’s just a little kid.”

               Virgil murmured a bit the bolted upright.

               “No! Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” He yelped. He stopped and looked around then sighed. “Sorry Uncle Patton, I-I thought you were someone else.”

               Who? I wonder. The words burned themselves into Patton’s brain.

               “It’s ok sweetie.” Patton hugged him. “It’s ok.”

               “What happened?” Virgil pulled himself away.

               “You passed out a minute ago.” Logan explained. “Are you alright?”

               “I’m fine.” He crossed his arms and looked at the floor.

               Talyn cleared their throat.

               “Do you three mind if I talk to Virgil alone?” They asked.

               “No.” Patton sighed. “Go ahead.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               Virgil watched the other three leave and whished that he was going with them. Dr. Talyn closed the door behind them and the room suddenly seemed oppressively tiny.

               “I have to ask.” Talyn sighed. “Are they treating you ok?”

               “Yes.” He looked down from the ceiling that he swore he could reach up and touch. “And not just the bare minimum of not beating me into a coma. They’re all being really nice.”

               “Have they done anything that wasn’t physical? Any insults? Anything like that?”

               “No. None of that stuff. It’s like some kind of alternate reality.”

               “Are you happy there?”

               “Yes. I wanna stay…” He dropped the sentence and stared at the floor.

               You can’t though, it’s not gonna happen. You can’t stay. He’s not going to let you. He’s going to ruin this for you if you don’t ruin it first.

               “Ok then.” Talyn finished. “You understand why I had to ask you that right?”

               “Honestly, I have been asked that more in the past couple of days than I have in my entire life.” He sighed. “Yeah, I understand why you asked. I don’t understand why no one else ever did.”

               “Neither do I.” That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. “I’ll check out your hands, then you can go.”

               Talyn checked his hands over and rebandaged them so that they looked like mittens. They padded the thumbs loosely so he could use them and kept the rest of his hands covered. He looked down at his appendages and saw that three of his fingernails had come off. He gagged and looked away.

               “I know,” Talyn soothed. “It’s creepy.”

               They finished with him and sent him on his way. He lurked out into the other room and joined the others. Patton immediately hugged him. He sighed and slumped into the hug.

               I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you.

               “It’s ok sweetie.” Patton pacified.

               “It’s just going to take some time.” Logan rubbed his back.

#             #             #

               “Ok, we’ll be back in a couple of hours.” Patton said chipperly on his way out the door. “Are you two gonna be okay?”

               “I already watched him last night.” Roman sighed. “I can do it again.”

               “I don’t even really need a babysitter.” Virgil added. “Dad used to leave me on my own all the time.”

               Don’t blow up, it’s ok. We’re literally on our way to see the lawyer. Patton bit his lip.

               “Well, you’re still sick.” Patton smiled. “So, you ought to have a grown up to look after you.”

               “And you’re in an unfamiliar environment.” Logan added.

               “I’m not a cat.”

               “We’ll be fine.” Roman shooed them. “Don’t be late to your meeting. We still have as entire anthology to watch.”

               “Ok, but nothing that can, you know…” Patton mimed pulling a trigger on a gun.

               “I won’t.” Roman rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

               “It’s going to be alright Patton.” Logan squeezed his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry.”

               “Ok.” Patton grabbed Logan’s hand. “We’ll be back in a few hours, or less depending on what happens.”

               “Take all the time you need.” Roman was almost pushing them.

               Patton looked over and saw Virgil staring at him curiously from the couch. He knew something was going on, kids can always tell. Patton guiltily avoided his gaze, there was no need to bring him into this and stress him out even more.

               And I definitely don’t want to get his hopes up and disappoint him. A thought preyed on him.

               No, that’s going to happen. This is gonna work out. We’re gonna be ok.

               You couldn’t save him before, what makes now different?

               You shut up!

               You can’t save him. You already let him endure this for thirteen years.

               Stop it!

               Payton isn’t just going to roll over! You can’t just smile and hope your problems go away!

               “Ok,” Patton forced a smile and took another step out the door. “I love you. We’ll be back in a bit.”

               Patton and Logan walked to the car in silence. Patton stared out his window and caught a glimpse of Virgil looking out one of the front windows at them, trying not to be seen himself. Poor little anxious baby. Patton looked at his feet. He wanted nothing more than to hold Virgil and tell him everything was going to be ok, and just keep holding him until they were.

               “Logan,” Patton sighed as they drove into the street. “Do we have a chance?”

               “A chance of what?” Logan glanced at him.

               “Winning custody.”

               “We do, in fact I’m optimistic in spite of myself.”

               “Are you sure, Payton’s gonna fight us on this.”

               “Payton has been digging his metaphorical grave for years, and it is now too deep for him to get out. The evidence is in our favor.”

               “Are you sure?” Patton rubbed his arms, feeling a sudden cold engulf him.

               “Yes, and if you’re worried that he’s going to lie his way out of this… well I don’t think his silver tongue is going to help him here.”

               “I feel kind of like I’m kicking him while he’s down.”

               “This isn’t about Payton’s feelings. Provided that he can feel. This is about what’s best for Virgil.”

               “Payton’s not gonna like this.”

               “I don’t care.”

               “Maybe he’s gonna say we shouldn’t be parents because we’re a same sex couple.” Patton said worriedly.

               “He was running for mayor as a gay man who had suffered abuse for it.” Logan said blankly. “No one is going to want to hear that.”

               “What if he says we beat Virgil up to make false evidence?”

               “We can disprove that.”

               “I read that judges don’t like to break up families, like take kids away from their parents.”

               “With the exception of that parent being a violent sociopath, who may have tried to murder them.” Logan added, grabbing Patton’s hand. “Sound like anyone we know?”

               “I’m just worried.”

               “I know, I’m worried too.” Logan held his hand tighter. “But I’m not going to let it consume me or make me lose sight of reality.”

               “I love you.” Patton said quietly.

               “I love you too.” Logan smiled. “After all, I am having your baby.”

               “When can we start introducing him as our son?” Patton perked up a little.

               “As soon as custody is granted. And remember not to overwhelm him.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               “Ok,” Their new lawyer said after they finished their story. “It definitely sounds like you have a case.”

               Their lawyer was remarkable short and built entirely of muscle. Outside of that he was scary. Completely pale with light blond hair that he covered up with a black derby hat. He looked like he had albinism along with a massive scar that covered the left side of his face, leaving him a dead eye and a slightly dented lower jaw. The scar pattern looked like a waffle iron. Patton pondered how the poor man got it.

               The lawyer had a name plate that read “E. S. Pent”. No first name.

               “So, what we need to do.” E. S. said. “Is organize what we have now, police reports, medical records and testimonies. You said Virgil is going to be seeing a psychiatrist?”

               “Yes,” Logan answered. “Dr. Emile Picani.”

               “Ok, we should be able to get him as a witness. He’s done all this before.” E.S. sighed. His job probably sucked.

               “Is Virgil gonna have to testify?” Patton bit his lip. “I don’t wanna expose him to all this.”  

               “If he wants to, more power to him. But if not I’m pretty sure people will understand.”

               “Is there anything we need to be prepared for if he tries to counter us?” Logan asked.

               “Well, Patton already passed his background check.” E. S. looked through the papers. “I recommend you and your friend, Roman, both get one as well.”

               Logan looked around tensely and Patton instinctively grabbed his hand.

               “I, I have Asperger’s.” Logan sighed. “Is that going to cause any problems?”

               “No, I don’t think so.” E. S. smiled reassuringly. “Provided that it doesn’t make you violent or suicidal.”

               “No, all it really does is make me weird.”

               Patton mouthed out the words ‘I will fight you’ at Logan. Nobody talks about his husband that way.

               “Is it a problem that we’re gay?” Patton tilted his head.

               “It shouldn’t be.”

               “So, this is it?” Patton squeezed Logan’s hand.

               “Well you need to serve Payton papers, and set a court date. I’ll help you with the papers. And if you don’t want to face him, you can have a police officer, or a lawyer serve the papers for you. And I knew Payton in law school, he’s a prick. So, if you’d like, I would love to serve him the papers.”

               “I’ll give them to him myself.” Patton looked at the table. “I want to talk to him.”

               “Are you sure?”

               “He’s my brother, I can’t just turn my back on him. And if I’m going to do this, I’m not going to do it from behind someone.”

               “Alright.”

                                                                               #             #             #

               It was past nine when they got home. Roman was on the couch contentedly watching the credits of Aristocats while Virgil dozed on his shoulder.

               “Oh, thank goodness you’re home.” Roman teased in an air of mock desperation. “It was so troublesome to look after a sick teenager. We had to watch movies and then he fell asleep. The horror.”

               “Very funny.” Logan whispered, feeling Virgil’s forehead. “Last night you called me in a panic thinking he had scarlet fever.”

               “Which you confirmed.” Roman whisper yelled.

               “No, no. get away.” Virgil mumbled in his sleep.

               “Shh,” Roman purred. “it’s ok. It’s ok. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

               Patton leaned in and pet Virgil’s hair. Poor little anxious baby!

               “Has he been talking in his sleep a lot?” He whispered.

               “On and off.” Roman looked down at him. “Mostly saying the same things. ‘get away’ ‘stop’ and ‘I wanna stay here’.”

               “You can stay with us baby.” Patton continued stroking his head. “We’re not gonna send you away.”

               “No,” Logan smiled. “You’re here for good.”

               Roman covered the sleeping boy’s ears.

               “How did it go with the lawyer?” He asked.

               “I’m serving Payton the papers on Friday.” Patton looked down.

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Author’s note, Deceit’s color was similar to the albino Burmese python, so I made his human alternate an albino. Also a went with a scar instead of scales. Ethan will talk about being trans in a later chapter.