#all of a sudden the harsh lines and black and whites of his image blur and soften

[spideymarvelws]

Always But Not Forever

Mob!Tom Holland x Reader

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Summary : During the interrogation of a mole, Tom learns something

A/n : I want to write something for the holidays but i dont do fluff (unless its requested) so here’s a angsty mob!au instead

Warnings : Torchere, blood, violence, cursing, illusion do death, fluff if you squint (dont worry it doesnt last long), mention of injuries, mention of manipulation, implied death?

Word Count : 1.7k

...

“You know, I almost admire the audacity you must’ve had to pull off something like this,” Tom chuckled, rolling up the sleeves of his white button up, “To betray us, to betray me,”

The pads of his fingers passed over the array of equipment laid out on the table in front of him, teasing the handles of guns, knives and other various torchere devices. Usually, he would just grab his trusty blade from the holder on his belt, slicing the person's throat to watch them bleed out on the chair, coughing and pleading for their life.

But this was a special occasion, one he wanted to drag on for as long as possible. He wanted to hear her screams fill the room, echoing its way around the warehouse. He wanted the floor to be soaked in her blood, dripping from her skin. He wanted to watch her life drain from her eyes slowly and painfully.

But first, he needed to get answers.

“So,” he said slowly, “Are you going to tell me why? Or do I have to force out out of you,”

The woman only chuckled, her eyes hooded as she stared him straight in the eye, “I think we both know the answer to that Tommy,”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he growled, striding up and grabbing her throat with enough force to lean the chair back, not caring if it were to fall and break on the hard, concrete floor.

“Aww, what’s wrong?” she fake pouted, “I thought you loved the name? Or is it only reserved for your whore of a wife,”

“You really want to die don’t you,” Tom chuckled darkly, bending down to look her directly in the eyes, face inches apart, “You’re on thin fucking ice,”

“And I want to shatter it,” she sneered, leaning her own face forward as much as she could with the restraints tied around her, “Just like I did your best pals heart,”

Tom felt his chest tighten at the mention of Harrison. He would never blame the blond for what happened, because despite the guilt he held, he knew that it wasn't his fault. He blamed himself for getting his friend in the hospital on his deathbed. Well maybe not that drastic, Harrison was a hard fucker to get rid of, he knew that no matter what he would hang on  but it felt like he had already lost him.

He couldn't get the images out of his head, the flashes of red, screams pounding in his ear. But the sight of her standing above his best friend, gun in hand, ready to fire. The thought alone made his go feral.

And he hated that, he hated that she knew how to get under his skin so easily. After getting so close, to not just him but his close family, his friends, to you. He could already picture the hurt that would spread across your face when he would tell you. You both valued close bonds with people, building that relationship to something reliable, something worth trusting.

So when that trust was broken, all hell broke loose.

“I’m sure you’ll do just a fine job at that,” he muttered, standing back straight up, “And the moment you do I’ll put a bullet between your eyes,”

“Oh we both know you couldn't do that Tommy,” she smirked, “Not when I have so much valuable information that you so desperately need,”

Tom chuckled, picking up a syringe filled with a light blue liquid. His fingers flicked the cover before taking it fully off, revealing the needle to the open air, “Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he turned back around to face her, his face void of emotion, “Gag her,”

Him and his men had spent the next, god knows how long trying countless methods and tactics they always used to get people like her to talk. But nothing worked, even after repeatedly taking out the gag, waiting for the answers they had been searching for, she didn't budge.

She stayed completely stoic.

Tom tried his best to keep calm, unbuttoning the top of his shirt when his breath became restraint with the added pressure to around his neck

“It wouldn't matter anyways,” she sniffed, finally calming down while spitting out a wad of blood from her mouth, “I’ve already gotten what I wanted,”

“What the fuck is that suppose too mean,” Tom said exasperatedly.

“It means-,” she interrupted herself while trying to stop the sick laughter threatening to erupt from her throat, “I never thought you cared so much about me Tommy, to spend so long with me when-,” she tilted her head to the side, “You have a wife at home don’t you?”

Tom felt his heart stop, “What did you do?”

“Might want to check that little wifey of yours Tommy,” she cackled, blood splattering from her mouth, staining the collar of her shirt and the floor in front of her, “Who knows how much time she might have left!”

“WHAT! The fuck! Did you do!” He screamed, clutching her bloody shirt in his fists, not caring if some of the liquid transferred to his already red hands.

“You left me alone, with Y/n, for months,” she giggled, “What do you think I did?”

“If you hurt her-,”

“You’ve already done your worst to me Holland,” the grin settling on her face became unsettling, “Now it’s my turn to watch you suffer,”

Tom didn't want to question her further. He didn't want his temper to take over the little control he tried to maintain over his mind. With a short gruff he pulled away from the woman, walking over to one of his men stationed by the door of the warehouse.

“Break her legs and take her to the hut, prepare the call and get Dr brown on the phone and tell Sam to get to Y/n as soon as possible,” he whispered under his breath, “Take me back home to my wife,”

...

“Good Girl,” you yawned, lazily scratching the top of Tessa’s head. It had been a chill day for you in the mansion, lounging around in your husband's clothes while you decorated your section of the building, preparing for the holidays. Tom insisted on getting decorators, knowing how clumsy you were, he didn't want you to hurt yourself. At least that’s the excuse he told you, you knew it was because he didn't want you doing any work on your holidays. 

Nevertheless, you were proud of the work you’ve done, the lights strung along your bedroom walls illuminating the room, making your placement by the window feel more cozy than usual. And with the addition of the cutest dog and a mug of ginger tea, staring out into the snowy garden never felt more calming. The only thing that would make this better is to be cuddled with your personal teddy bear, but your prayers were answered when he called unexpectedly.

“Hi Tommy,” you answered sweetly, gulping down a good bit of the tea,“What’s wrong? I thought you were busy with work?”

“Y/n?” Tom said seriously, a hard edge to his voice you never heard when he talked directly to you, “Y/n, you need to listen to me right now, okay?”

“Okay,” you sat up, throwing your blanket off your lap, “Okay, yeah,” you learnt not to question things like these with Tom’s line of work.

“Where are you right now?” you could hear the click of his shoes hitting the floor in the background, the sound of the vehicle's engines vroomed to life.

“I’m in our bedroom, with Tessa,” you answered quickly, squinting your eyes when you watched her body bounce away when your hand retracted from her fur, “Well just me now,” 

“You’re going to need to go to the medic bay, Doctor Brown will be there and he’ll explain everything,” a car door slammed shut, “Sam is coming to escort you, just,” he let out a deep breath, “Are you alright?”

You melted at the crack in his voice, clearing your throat before answering him, “I’m fine Tommy, never felt better,”

“Are you sure love?” he whispered, his voice losing its harsh tone, falling back to the soft, breathy one you grow to love.

“I’m-,” you moved away from the phone, coughing into your sleeve, “Sorry, uh, yeah I’m fine Tom,”

“It doesn’t sound like you’re okay to me,”

“I-,” you coughed again, this time more violently that the last, “It’s just a cough, probably from that food truck we went out to last night,” you forced a chuckle, trying to keep the air as light hearted as possible.

“A cough? When did this start,” Tom said urgently.

“Uh, this morning i think?” you sniffled, shuffling around to find a tissue box for your sudden runny nose, “I’m sure it’s just a bug Tommy,”

“Y/n, Is Sam there yet?”

“I didn’t hear him no,” your coughing continued, “Do you want me to go outside to check?”

“No, no, stay until he comes, I don’t want you going by yourself,”

Tom’s words began to blur when you took note of the red sploshing your white hoodie. You ran to the bathroom, cursing at the blood trailing from your nose, staining the bottom half of your face.

Your raging coughs continued, splattering droplets across the marble counter

“Love? Are you still there?” Tom said panicked, “Sam said he’s moving as quick as he can,”

“Tommy,” you whimpered, your hand clutching your chest in pain, “I-,” you braced yourself against the counter, feeling weaker and weaker, “Tommy, I don’t-,”you grabbed at your closing throat, “I don’t feel so good,” 

“Love? Y/n?” Tom said frantically, “Hey, hey, hey, listen to me, Sam is almost there, I’m so close to our house, hang in there okay?” he debated his next words, “You’ve been poisoned okay? You’ve been poisoned and if you get the help in time you will get better, just,” his voice hitched, “Please don’t go,”

Your throat burned as your breath started to become short, hiccupy wheezes. Blood began to drip from your nose and mouth onto the tiled floor. You could feel your chest tighten, your heart physically hurting until you couldn't take in any longer.

“Tom-my?” you managed to let out before collapsing on the floor, the shouts of your name echoing in the back of your ear before blackness covered your eyesight, followed by a bright, white light.

...

Permanent TagList : @jadegill​ @joyleenl​ @sarcastic-sunset-7​

[ashintheairlikesnow]

4: numb, for Kauri?

(going through some old prompts just... collecting cobwebs in my inbox)

CW: Drunk whumpee, trauma references, trauma memories, past abduction, past noncon, past abuse, very brief emeto reference, nausea reference, BRIEF pet whump reference, this is Kauri at his most fucked-up but it ends nicely I promise, content warning for some serious fucking yearning

The walk back in the dark is a little... wobblier than usual, but Kauri doesn’t care. He stepped off the bus and stumbled when his ankle turned as he hit the sidewalk, rolling forward and finding himself in a bush, a bit of landscaping carefully kept up by some guy who drives a truck around cleaning up the bus stops.

Kauri giggles, then pushes his hands over his mouth to quiet himself, fails, giggles some more. His hair gets caught in a little bit of branch and he winces as he yanks it free and loses a curl.

The bush gets to keep that one. Maybe the guy who trims the bushes will find it tomorrow and fall madly in love with him, like Cinderella’s glass slipper. Kauri starts laughing at the idea of the guy in his big neon orange-and-yellow reflective vest and his stupid button-up shirt with the city seal embroidered on it holding up a curl of black hair to this person or that, looking for its match.

“Hey, man,” A woman says, crouching in front of him. She’s older than he is, maybe by ten years, maybe less. Kauri can’t tell and she’s lit only by the harsh pale streetlight, adding definition to beginning wrinkles around her mouth. Or he’s making that up. Her face is kind of blurred anyway, spinning a little like everything else. She’s wearing hospital scrubs under a coat, her hair pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck. She reminds him of Nat’s neighbor lady, only a bunch younger. “You gonna make it home?”

Home. What the fuck is a home? Home is where they lock the doors, home is where you get the shit kicked out of you for trying to leave. Home is where he holds you down on the bed until you cry because it hurts, and it’s always going to hurt unless you want me, Kor-Bore, you know that-

Kauri’s giggles hiccup into something like a sob.

The bus is still idling along the curb next to the stop, and the bus driver knows Kauri - sees him two or three times a week in variations on drunk or high or scared or elated. She leans down and calls out, “You gonna be okay, Kauri?”

Maybe one day he won’t. Maybe one day someone will murder him in a dark alley instead of hooking up or shove him into the trunk of a car or-

into a white van with no windows and the needle’s in his skin and his sister is screaming and there’s a hand over his mouth wearing black leather gloves and a man smiles at him and there are other men and zipties on his wrists and they tell him sucks to be you, gorgeous, but you couldn’t hide a face like that and then his head drops as whatever they gave him hits and Liam’s head drops onto the plastic mat that lines the van’s floor, his eyes close, and he’s gone-

Kauri lays there staring up at the spinning stars with his had pounding at the memory, but not enough to make it stop. When he’s really drunk, sometimes he can roll with the pain, let it wash through him and change nothing, mean nothing, do nothing at all.

He feels the way the earth rotates around the sun, every motion of the giant planet but it’s not big - it’s tiny, really, the Earth and all its purple mountains majesty, and Kauri is tinier, and whatever life lives in his head, somewhere underneath the layers of pain and fear, never mattered at all.

“‘m fine,” He slurs, trying to focus on one single star. Just one.

Please, just one star. 

“No, you’re not,” The woman says with a soft sigh. She glances back at the bus driver. “I’ll figure something out, Virginia,” She says, and waves one hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night, Sadie,” The bus driver calls out over the low rumble of the big engines, then adds, “Get home safe, Kauri.”

Kauri closes his eyes. Why does everyone always want there to be a home?

“Where’m I taking you, then, Mr. Whiskey Breath?”

“T-Tequila,” Kauri corrects her, then gives a pale shadow of his effortless, airy smile. She takes him by the arm and pulls him to his feet and he overcorrects as he stumbles again, smacking into her side. She stays standing, if only just, and holds him more firmly. “’S... tequila. Good, good stuff, too, good...” His head drops against her shoulder, and he giggles again.

“Oh, honey,” She murmurs. They stand for a second while she thinks this through, and Kauri sees himself through her eyes - gorgeous and hammered, barely able to stand on his own, a piece of shit who can’t take care of himself or won’t or chooses not to, anyway. 

He tries to feel something, like maybe shame, but nothing happens.

He’s too numb for that.

“D’you have a phone?” Sadie asks after a pause. 

“Mmmmnyes,” Kauri responds, suddenly aware he hasn’t lifted his head off her shoulder yet. “I do have a phone. ‘s a very nice phone, too.”

“No doubt. Is there anyone we can call for you? I don’t-... I don’t think you’ll make it far on your own, um, Kauri? Did you say your name is Kauri?”

Kauri tilts his head back to look at her, and the world suddenly crashes hard to one side. His knees buckle and she quickly throws an arm around his waist to keep him up. He starts giggling again, shaking his head, mumbling what he hopes are apologies until he manages to locate his cell phone and pull it out of his back pocket. “M’name’s whatever you want it to be,” He says with his most charming, beautiful smile.

Sadie quirks an eyebrow as Kauri struggles to unlock his phone, then takes it once he manages, tapping over to his contacts list and scrolling. “Who do I call?” She asks, looking at the photos Kauri uses to identify everyone instead of names. “Who can I call to come get you?”

A wash of sadness so strong it feels like being hit by a wave made from bricks hits him and tears prick at his eyes, burning hot behind his eyelids. He feels a sudden wild urge to say Owen Grant, call Owen Grant, just take me back where I belong, this is too hard and I don’t want to do it anymore, being a person is just too hard but fights it off and instead, shaky and uncertain, he offers, “Th’ photo of th’ guy in th’ blue, blue shirt. That’s... thassss... Jake.”

“And he’ll come get you?” Sadie’s thumb hovers over the image, a picture Jake took of himself and sent to Kauri once, smiling over his iced coffee studying at school. “This guy will come get you, this Jake?”

Kauri whispers, “I hope so.”

Sadie looks at him, tilting her head. “Did you guys have a fight or something? Is that why you’re out here like blackout drunk?”

“No,” Kauri mumbles. “Fight... I fight with m’self.”

Sadie gives a soft sigh and a nod. “Well, I’ve been there done that. Okay.” She taps the photo of Jake, gives a low whistle and mumbles a soft damn, that guy’s hot, I see why you’re out here being schmoopy about him, and before Kauri can correct her that it doesn’t work that way, she’s got the phone up to her ear and Kauri can hear it softly ringing.

Jake must pick up because the ringing stops and Sadie says, “No, this isn’t-... I’m Sadie Williams, I’m on his phone. We’re at the bus stop on Penntuck Drive, do you know where-... oh, okay. Yeah, I live a couple blocks from here and this, uh, Kauri is way too drunk to go anywhere.”

“Am not,” Kauri protests, and his stomach suddenly flips and he swallows, eyes slightly widening. Oh no.

Sadie sighs and says wryly, “Trust me. Too drunk to get home on his own. Can you-... oh, okay. Cool. We’ll be here.” She hangs up the phone. “Okay, your buddy’s coming to get you. Let’s just sit on the bench in the bus stop, all right?”

Kauri nods, not trusting himself to speak, and lets Sadie maneuver him, fighting ripples of nausea that follow every movement, to sit down on the cold metal bench inside the shelter at the bus stop. As soon as she lets go, Kauri flops onto his side on the bench, letting the metal chill the sudden heat he feels, the sweat breaking out all over his body. 

“There we go. Just stay here for a while.” Sadie pats him on the shoulder and he wishes she would pet his head, suddenly, tell him he’s a good boy, good pet, and he turns his face to the bench to hide the tears that finally escape and drip down to pool there. Sadie stands and leans against the side of the shelter, scrolling through her own phone. Kauri twists to look at her and, after his dazed vision stops spinning and settles enough to focus, he thinks... she’s tired.

She’s tired, because it’s two o’clock in the fucking morning, and she probably just got off of work and rode the bus home in her scrubs still under her coat, and watched a drunk boy fall laughing into a bush, and decided to stay with him and make sure he didn’t get found there in the morning by a cop or the bus driver who does the early morning shift, Andrew something, and... 

“‘m okay,” Kauri says, and she doesn’t look up, but one eyebrow slowly quirks upward. “You could... go home. He’s comin’. I’m okay.”

���Oh, you are the exact opposite of that,” She says without looking at him. “Whatever’s got you fucking yourself up, I’m not gonna be the one who walks away from you. I’ve seen too many people like you wind up in the ER.” 

Is it his imagination, or do her eyes briefly drop to the thick leather bracelet Kauri always wears around his left wrist to cover up his barcode?

“You don’t know me,” He protests.

“I know enough,” She says, flatly, and he stops trying to argue. He knows that voice - Nat uses that voice when she’s getting you to do things, a voice that brooks no appeal. Kauri calls it her mom-voice, even though she doesn’t have kids and never will. It makes him think of TV moms, and maybe of his own, who must have existed, and is maybe still missing her dead son, whoever the fuck he was.

Kauri winces at the headache that pings around his skull and curls up on the bench on his left side. There’s silence, for a while, and then the sound of a car engine coming closer, the bright flash of headlights against Kauri’s closed eyes.

Jake’s new beat-up four-door - well, new to him, but it’s a Subaru that has seen better decades, not just better days - pulls up alongside the curb, idling as he opens the door and unfolds himself. Sadie, Kauri sees from the bench, tenses slightly at the sight of him, and Kauri wonders if she’s got her phone ready to dial for help.

He wouldn’t blame her - if you don’t know Jake and just see all that height and muscle alone with you in the middle of the night, you could see the threat, in that. If you didn’t know that Jake’s the guy who beats up your attacker, not the attacker himself.

Jake seems well aware of her tension and puts up both hands. “I’m Jake. You’re Sadie? You called for Kauri?”

Some of Sadie’s tension dissipates. “That’s me. Mind if I get a little distance while you pick him up?”

“Yeah, no problem. Go ahead.” Jake waits for Sadie to step away, and Kauri watches her hand move to her purse. He never thinks about stuff like that - she probably has pepper spray or a gun in there, and here is Kauri blackout drunk half-passed out on a bus bench, here is Kauri who passes out on park benches and underneath that big black box that doesn’t do anything over by downtown, Kauri who sleeps in alleys and grassy lawns and anywhere he thinks he’ll get a couple hours, here and there.

She’s careful - and Kauri is lucky.

“So fuckin’ lucky,” Kauri mumbles, then coughs out a bitter laugh, and Jake sighs as he moves over to him, sliding big arms gently between Kauri’s body and the bench. The world spins again as Jake picks him up and Kauri’s arms go around his neck, suddenly terrified he’ll fall and not hit the ground but fall up, up and up and up, and end up somewhere high above the clouds.

“D-don’t, don’-... let me-”

“I got you, Kaur,” Jake says, and his voice is low and it rumbles against Kauri in his chest and he relaxes, a little, but his hands tighten behind Jake’s neck. “Thanks for waiting with him,” He says to Sadie, moving Kauri to the passenger side of the car and leaning over to help him slide him in. Kauri flops to one side, eyes sliding closed.

“No problem. I’m going to head home. Take care of him.”

Jake gives a huff of laughter as he closes the door for Kauri. “I always do,” Kauri hears him say, a little muffled. There’s a pause and then Jake sits back down in the driver’s seat, leaning across to buckle Kauri’s seat belt for him as he half-sits, half-lays limp against the seat. 

“We’re going to get you home and you’re gonna drink some water,” Jake says firmly, slipping a hand behind Kauri’s head to help him reorient himself. Kauri shivers at the simple pleasure of the affectionate touch, eyes sliding closed, and turns his head, just barely pressing a kiss to Jake’s wrist.

Jake doesn’t pull away - Kauri will lose his balance if he does - but he goes still. “Hey. No, Kauri. The answer is still no.”

Kauri sniffs, nuzzles at his arm, and then pulls away, turning away from Jake to clumsily curl up against the car’s door, as far as he can get. “I know. But-... I just-...”

“I know. But we can’t, ever, not like this.”

Kauri tries to feel something other than the spin of the earth, his stomach flipping at the motion of the car as Jake slowly pulls his hand back and drives down the dark street, every house silent, everywhere around them still and quiet.

Jake’s speakers play music, softly, a man’s voice singing, well, let that lonely feeling wash away - maybe there's a reason to believe you'll be okay over the press of piano keys and hint of strings. 

"What is this?” Kauri asks, tries to point, fails.

“Um, Chris’s shit,” Jake says, but he doesn’t change the song. “I drove him to get some hair dye today, he must have put his playlist on. Musical shit.”

And oh, someone will come running and I know they’ll take you home

“When can it?” Kauri asks, softly. “When can it happen?”

“What?”

“Us. When can us happen, Jake?”

Even when the dark comes crashing through, when you need a friend to carry you and when you're broken on the ground, you will be found

“I hate this song,” Kauri mutters.

Jake doesn’t look at him as he signals a turn - Kauri fights a laugh at the sight of Jake, totally and utterly alone on the road in the earliest hours of the morning, fucking putting on his turn signal a careful distance back from the intersection - and takes a right.

“Jake-... I want you,” Kauri says, the last vestiges of tequila pressing the words onto his tongue, rolling them off and out into the soft air between them. “When can I stop wanting and-”

“Kauri.” Jake’s voice goes softer, not harder. It’s not chiding him, it’s not angry, but laced with something very different. 

He wants me, too, I know he does, I know it.

“Jake, I-”

“It can’t ever happen,” Jake says in that same soft voice, lost in something that some dim part of Kauri recognizes as an echo of his own feelings, “until it’s not like this.”

Jake reaches down to grab his phone, hits a button, and the song changes. Kauri fights back a laugh when he realizes it’s just a different song from the same fucking musical.

“Fucking Chris,” Kauri says, trapped between laughter and tears. 

Jake’s hand moves to rest on the console between the seats, and after a second, Kauri’s hand remembers how to listen to his brain and he lays his cold, thin, long fingers over Jake’s larger, warmer ones.

Jake doesn’t pull away from him.

By the time they get back to Nat’s house, their fingers have wrapped around each other, and Kauri feels a little warmer than he felt before. 

When you’re falling in a forest and there’s nobody around, all you want is for somebody to find you

“Next time, can it be your music playing?” Kauri asks, voice a little huskier and rougher than he means it to be. All the numbness that came with the drinking is gone, and Kauri hurts, inside himself, in a way he’s almost grateful for.

When you’re falling in a forest and when you hit the ground, all you need is for somebody to find you

“Uh, um, yeah,” Jake manages, and his voice is rough, too.

No one deserves to be forgotten, no one deserves to fade away

“I can get better, Jake,” Kauri says, voice low. “I can. But I’m never-... I’m never gonna be whoever was me before.”

No one deserves to disappear

“I know,” Jake says. “That isn’t who I care about, anyway, Kaur... I care about you.”

No one deserves to disappear

They sit in the driveway until the song ends. And through the next song, and the next. The streetlights shine down and the dark is otherwise total and the world slowly steadies in its constant spin around the sun. Kauri lets his head slowly lean back against the headrest.

“I’m-... so fucking lucky you found me,” Kauri whispers. Jake’s fingers twitch in his, and his eyes are locked on Nat’s front door, up on the porch. 

“No,” Jake says, softly. “We’re-... I’m lucky you found us.”

Neither of them wants to be the first to let go of the other one’s hand.

---

@maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @moose-teeth, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl, @slaintetowhump, @astrobly @whumpiary @whump-tr0pes  @raigash @cubeswhump

[imbeccablee]

Old Wounds

Author’s Notes: me? writing half a fic on the day it’s due? it’s more likely than you think.

LMAO anyway I hope you enjoy it! I’m quite proud of it, even if it’s a little rushed.

archive link will be in the reblog

TW: panic attacks, references to past abuse

Summary: You learn things when you grow up like Izuku did.

Izuocha Week 2020: Injury/Recovery

You learn things when you grow up like Izuku did.

Stuff like how to disappear into a crowd, or how to predict the immediate future based on someone’s tone of voice, or how to cry so silently nobody can hear and find you, hidden in the janitor’s closet or wrapped tightly in your blanket.

You know.

Fun things.

While other kids were learning their friends’ favorite foods and hobbies, Izuku learned how to hide. While other kids were learning boundaries and communication between peers, Izuku learned that simply being present and participating was crossing the line. While other kids learned how to love themselves, Izuku learned he didn’t deserve to be loved.

That last one might be a little harsh, a little hyperbolic, but when you’re alone for so long with only your regretful mother to say she cares, that kind of thinking tends to be the norm.

To put a long story short, Izuku had a very, very lonely childhood.

And then Izuku went to U.A.

It was… an adjustment, to say the least. His classmates were so kind and his teachers were tough, but fair. His peers wanted to be his friend, they thought he was cool, heroic, even. There were no sneers, no cruelty, no hatred. As far as they were all concerned, Izuku belonged there. And it felt good, wonderful even. And that feeling lasted for a long time, held strong in the face of villain attacks and grueling schoolwork alike. Izuku felt more alive than he had in years and he believed nothing could ever bring him down to that low, horrible point he’d been not four months ago.

And, well… He was wrong.

---

It’s stupid, he knows this. He knows his friends, knows Uraraka, and they don’t mean anything by it. They’re laughing at her exasperation, because he exasperated them, and it’s supposed to be funny, it is funny, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s, well… dying. 

Not literally, of course, because that’s also stupid; he’s fine and just hanging out with his friends, and they’re just joking around, of course he’s not in danger. But there’s a tightness to his chest, a stiffness to his posture, and he can see flashes of a classroom behind his eyes. It’s nondescript and boring, and it’s filled with students in black, gray, and white, teenagers not too much younger than Izuku’s classmates now, and it clashes so terribly with the warm atmosphere of the lounge.

Izuku’s breath quickens as his throat closes and as the seconds (or minutes? Hours?) pass, it gets harder and harder to differentiate the two images until they all but align with one another.

The students in the dreary, old building stand above him now, towering over him as he cowers on the cold, hard linoleum, trying desperately to understand why they’re laughing, why they find it so funny that he has a dream, why it’s so hard to believe he could do it. Why is it so hard for them to just let him be, he just wants to be a hero, just like them, why do they care so much, why did they hurt him, he’s done nothing wrong, it wasn’t his fault! 

But they keep chanting and chanting that horrible, horrible name at him, burning it into his skin, marking him with a scarlet letter, until it’s the only thing he can think.

Deku, deku, deku, deku, deku, dekudekudekudekudekudekudekud���!

“—eku! Deku!”

Izuku snaps back into himself suddenly, gasping for air and vision blurring. He feels strangely cramped and uncomfortable, and as he slowly focuses, he realizes it’s because he’s curled into a tight ball on the couch.

Slowly, breathlessly, he pulls his arms from around his head and lowers his feet back to the floor, and he sees his new classmates, his beloved friends standing before him, worried. They’re so tall compared to him this way, leaning over him and taking up his entire field of vision, and again he sees images of events long since passed flicker through his mind. He pushes those thoughts away because the people before him now aren’t like that, they’re kind and good, they would never hurt him like that, so why—?

Izuku realizes Uraraka is talking to him still, and forces himself to focus on her words. “—eally scaring us, are you okay?”

Izuku blinks and feels something leave his eye. He doesn’t need to touch it to know it’s another tear.

It’s stupid. The whole thing is so stupid. It was just a stupid joke, a light barb just meant to tease, why’d he have to ruin it by freaking out so badly? There’s no reason to react like that, falling so far they had to call for him. They wouldn’t ever hurt him like that, certainly not Uraraka, he had absolutely no reason to go and worry them like this. He’s pathetic. Pathetic.

Patheticpatheticpatheticpathetic—

“Midoriya?” It’s Iida now, calling for him, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Izuku feels a sharp frustration run through him.

“I’m fine,” he says automatically and shoots to his feet. His friends stumble backward, surprised by his sudden movement, and Izuku wants to beat himself bloody. “I’m just a little tired, I’m gonna check in now, see you all tomorrow, goodnight.” His mouth runs on autopilot, listing the normal farewells like a robot. His eyes are locked on the elevator as he speedwalks toward it and no one stops him. He doesn’t turn back even as he enters and slams the button for the second floor too hard. 

When the doors close, he allows himself to break.

---

Ochako and the others (Iida, Todoroki, and Tsuyu) watch as Deku disappears behind the elevator doors, stunned and worried. 

Her mind rapidly plays through the past couple of minutes, trying to figure out what exactly had caused Deku to freak out so much, but nothing that’d happened could have been that bad, could it? The five of them had just been joking around, enjoying each other’s company. They began reminiscing. Ochako teased Deku about his recklessness, or something, though maybe it had been about his hero obsession or his tendency to get into trouble; the specifics of it seems to have left her, probably swept away in the midst of all the action. 

It doesn’t really matter what specifically had happened though. All that mattered is that it hurt Deku. 

That’s probably what’s throwing Ochako so much. The fact that it had been her words that had cut so deeply somehow, that it’s her fault he felt he needed to flee. He had looked so scared as they stood above him, but it wasn’t any fear she had ever seen on him before. It wasn’t like the horror at seeing villains infiltrating their school, or the terror of being face to face with a man who could tear you apart with a single touch. It isn’t even the fear itself that sits so wrong with her. It’s the resignation that was in his eyes, as if he was expecting something from them and had accepted he couldn’t stop them. That fear was learned and… he was used to it.

She had caused that. She made him feel so afraid.

“I do wish he would talk to us,” Iida says suddenly, and when Ochako turns to him, she sees he has a far off look in his eye, like he’s stuck in a memory.

It ends quickly, however, and he comes back into himself with a small shake. Upon seeing them all staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate, his cheeks go a bit pink. “Ah, I just mean… Midoriya always seems a bit preoccupied these days. The first few times I noticed it, I made sure to remind him that he could talk to me—or any of us, really—if he needed it, but he would always just smile, thank me, and change the subject.” He sighs. “It never became any better, but I feared if I kept telling him the same thing over and over, he would get defensive or offended or…” Iida shakes his head, seemingly at a loss.

Todoroki nods. “Yeah, that sounds like Midoriya.” He gives a sigh of his own. “For someone so keen on sticking his nose in other people’s business, he’s incredibly dodgy about his own issues.”

Ochako is struck, then, by a thought that always seems to emerge whenever Deku’s involved. Who protects a hero when they need protecting?

Iida isn’t the only one who’s noticed how often Deku gets lost in his head. Honestly, she’d be surprised if anyone in their little friend group missed it whenever Deku got quiet and far away. He’s not really subtle about it, but he’s really good at flipping the subject or brushing off concern. So good, in fact, it kind of worries Ochako, if she’s honest.

She hadn’t ever tried to confront him about it, though. Honestly, she’s been kind of avoiding him over the last few weeks. Sometimes her heart just gets too loud and she can’t concentrate on anything other than him, and she can’t stand it. She was never in the right mind to talk about heavy things, so admittedly she hoped one of their other mutual friends had gotten him to open up about whatever was bothering him, but… 

It seems none of them were successful.

“I wish we could help him,” Ochako says, eyes now glued on the closed elevator doors, like they’ll suddenly part and Deku will emerge, spilling his heart out for them to hear and help. They stay decidedly shut.

“Well, there’s only so much we can do if he doesn’t want to tell us, kero,” Tsuyu reasons and Todoroki nods. 

“It’s not as if we can fight it out of him,” he comments, before a contemplative look crosses his face. “... Could we?”

“Of course not!” Iida immediately shuts down as Ochako and Tsuyu breathe out a halfhearted laugh. “That is not proper conduct on how to approach delicate subjects!”

“It worked for the two of us,” Todoroki shoots back. As Iida sputters about how that’s not quite the same thing, Ochako allows herself to laugh fully, if only to distract herself from the worry gnawing at her heart. Silently, she thanks Todoroki for breaking the oppressive atmosphere that’s fallen over them.

“I-In any case,” Iida moves on after nearly a full minute of stammering insistences that they couldn’t beat Deku better like he had admittedly done to them. “Any attempt to help Midoriya with his problems will have to wait until tomorrow. It is getting late and though I had allowed it before in the name of jovial banter and much-needed relaxation, I cannot in good conscious let us stay up any longer than we already have. We should retire so that we have ample energy for tomorrow’s classes.”

The other three of them give hums of agreement and the girls part from the boys.

On the elevator to the girl’s side of the dorm, Ochako must still look worried, because Tsuyu places a hand on her shoulder and says, “Don’t worry, Ochako. Midoriya will be fine. We’ll all make sure of it.”

She knows this; really, she does. But it doesn’t really stop the ache in her chest nor does it stop the image of Deku looking so, so afraid of her from burning into her mind’s eye.

Still, she smiles and thanks Tsuyu. It’s all she can really do.

---

Ochako can’t sleep.

She lies there, face up, staring at the ceiling with tired eyes and a racing mind. Try as she might, she can’t force herself to ignore the worry and concern that bites and tears at her heart. The scene from before keeps playing over and over in her mind, and she can’t help but try and figure it out. What exactly was it that she said that caused Deku so much distress? Is it something she knew about before and forgot was a trigger for him? Is it something he had never told her because he didn’t think it would be a problem? Or because he didn’t trust her with it? Is it something new, even to him?

You know, now that she thinks about it, for all she calls Deku her best friend, she actually knows very little about his life before U.A. She doesn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he and Bakugou went to the same middle school and, as such, have a sort of history together. For the life of her, she can’t recall any details outside of the ones she’s learned over the past few months: wants to be a hero, analyses heroes as a hobby, has an unusually high pain tolerance, has a concerning lack of self-preservation, used to be really skittish and tense at the beginning of the year… 

Ochako blinks and considers the last three points. The pain tolerance could easily be explained away by his destructive quirk, but the other two… She thinks about Deku, curled so tightly into a ball as to take up as little space as possible. She thinks about the combined fear and resignation in his eyes as his friends stood over him, as if he was waiting for something that never came. She thinks about how he cried and babbled about how “it wasn’t his fault”, how he’s “done nothing wrong.”

She remembers how he used to jump at every touch and sudden movement. She remembers him telling her how “deku” was an insult. She remembers the excitement that shown in his eyes when she first called him her friend, how quickly he had started crying, how he had brushed her concern off by saying he was “just so happy.”

And, well… she thinks she might cry.

She doesn’t know what Deku’s life was like before U.A., not really. But she can make a good fucking guess.

Before Ochako knows it, she’s out of her dorm and halfway to the elevator. She can feel a boiling rage rush through her veins even as she berates herself again and again for not noticing, not realizing, and for being so incredibly careless with her words. They had all just been joking around, but that’s not an excuse. She had dearly hurt her best friend without even knowing how and Ochako will not let another minute go by without Deku knowing how sorry she is.

She tries to form some sort of script as she makes her way to the boy’s side of the dorm, sneaking through the dark lounge area and taking the stairs to avoid the loud elevator, but through her conflicting feelings, she can barely get passed the phrase “I’m so sorry, Deku” before she’s in front of his door.

Ochako stares at it, lips pursed and veins thrumming, trying to dredge up something more than a halfhearted apology. He deserves more than that, especially from her.

Fed up with her stalling, she lifts her fist and quietly raps twice on Deku’s door, resolving to just… wing it.

She waits for a full minute, ears straining for any sound indicating movement, before she deflates. He’s probably asleep. It has to be past midnight by now, there’s no reason why he would still be awake. Ochako’s had her fair share of panic attacks before and they are quite exhausting.

Still, she came up here to talk. She won’t be able to sleep if she doesn’t get her feelings out. Even if she’s only speaking to a door.

“Hey, Deku,” she whispers, leaning her side into the door. She crosses her arms and tries to feel less small. “I… I know you’re probably asleep, so I won’t talk long, I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about it, you know?” The side of her head gently thumps against the door. “You looked so scared and small, but it wasn’t anything I’d ever seen on you before. It… Honestly, it didn’t really belong on your face. The Deku I know is brave and steadfast and so incredibly kind, that kinda fear had no right to be on you.” 

Ochako breathes in slowly and softly sighs it out. Her fingers clench on her arms and her words start to waver. “And… And it’s not just that either, I couldn’t… I couldn’t believe I had made you feel that. That something I said so flippantly had struck you so deeply, I just—” Ochako shakes her head despite it still being pressed into the wood. She sniffles and tries to steady her voice. “I’m so, so sorry. I never want you to look at me like that again. I’m supposed to be your friend, but I—I hurt you. I made you remember something awful and that’s—that’s not what a friend does. Friends make you feel safe. Friends make you feel loved. Just—I’m so, so sorry, Deku. I… hope you can forgive me.”

Ochako hears shifting from somewhere in his dorm and she holds her breath. But no one comes to the door.

She lets out a little breath, sagging. She takes a step away from his dorm, arms shifting to wrap around herself in a hug. “Right,” she says wetly. “Well, I’ll say all this to you again tomorrow. Hopefully I won’t cry. I know you’ll just feel bad for me then.” She laughs a little, but the sound falls flat. 

She takes one, two steps away, and is nearly fully turned toward the stairwell when she hears a door open.

She turns back to face it and sees Deku’s door is slowly swinging open, its new hinges nearly silent as it does. Deku doesn’t appear in the doorway, but the invitation is clear.

Apparently, he had been awake.

Ochako steadies herself, nodding and murmuring “right” under her breath before she slowly makes her way into Deku’s dorm, closing the door behind her.

Deku’s balcony door is open and he is leaning over the side, arms propped on the railing and gaze skyward. Ochako swallows and makes her way over to him, sidling up on his side with an appropriate amount of space between them. 

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They only stare up at the night sky together, watching as the moon slowly makes its way across it. Ochako’s already said her piece, all that’s left is for Deku to respond.

Ochako doesn’t know how long they stand together, but it’s enough that she starts to feel the chill of the night seep into her pajamas. Just as another shiver crawls up her spine, Deku whispers, “Thank you for apologizing.”

She blinks and turns to face him. He has a soft look on his face, off put by the red rimming his eyes and the tear stains on his face. He looks exhausted, but he has a tiny smile on his face as he gazes upward, looking gently happy and relieved. Ochako’s heart stutters in her chest.

“Of—Of course,” she stammers. “We were all going to apologize tomorrow, I just kinda jumped the gun.”

Deku nods. “Still, it means a lot. And,” he continues, turning to face the brilliance of that beautiful smile in her direction. Her heart lodges in her throat. “I forgive you.”

“R-Really?” she chokes out, not really knowing why she’s surprised. This is Deku she’s talking about here. He was probably going to forgive her regardless of when or how she apologized. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about that, if she’s honest.

Deku nods, casting his eyes downward now, at his hands still suspended over the edge of the railing. “It wasn’t really your fault to begin with,” he says. “The whole thing is… kinda stupid, if I’m honest. I don’t know why I reacted like that, I’ve never had such a problem with teasing before.” He shakes his head. “I dunno.”

“It’s not stupid, Deku,” she protests. “Like I said before, you looked so afraid of us. Of me. I should have never said anything to make you think we were going to hurt you in any way.”

“I guess,” he concedes, but he still doesn’t look convinced. “I just—can’t help but feel like I ruined the whole evening, you know?” He laughs mirthlessly, his hands now clutched together tightly, and she wants to reassure him that he didn’t, but he’s already continuing, “Like, we were having fun, laughing and teasing each other, exchanging stories, and for some reason I flashed back to—t-to a place I put behind me. Honestly, I hardly thought about the place until today, it doesn’t—well, I thought it didn’t bother me anymore.”

“... Do you… want to talk about it?” Ochako asks.

“Not really.” His reply is so quick and unexpected Ochako flinches back. Noticing this, Deku quickly soothes, “Ah, I mean… it’s just a lot… and it’s already so late, so…“

“It’s fine, Deku,” Ochako says, waving a hand placatingly. “Really. I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to. But…” She hesitates, but gently sets her hand on his arm. “You can talk to me. Or any of us. I-I know Iida has already told you this and all, but really, Deku, you can.” He purses his lips, so she continues, “You’re our friend, and we want you to be okay. We want you to feel safe around us and be happy. None of us think you’re a burden. Okay?”

Deku’s eyes go a bit misty and his voice wavers as he says, “It’s just… it’s so hard sometimes… I-I’ve wanted to before, but my head, it just… suffocates me until I decide it’s not worth it.”

Ochako nods sympathetically. “Yeah, that… trust me when I say I understand. But it won’t ever get better if you don’t talk about it, you know? Regardless of what it is. And I dunno about the others, but I know I’ll drop everything the second any one of you needs help. Whether it’s homework or to vent or because you just need a shoulder to cry on.” Ochako smiles. “I’ll always be there for you. Okay?”

Deku sniffs and nods quickly. “Okay.”

Tension drips off of Ochako’s shoulders and she barely holds in a sigh of relief. “Okay… good.”

Deku gives her a lopsided smile and, after a moment of quiet between them, his cheeks turn a bit pink. “Um, Uraraka, c-can I… hug you?”

Despite the sudden screaming in her head, Ochako’s smile widens and she says, “Sure.”

His arms leave the railing and quiver in the air between them, and after a few seconds, she realizes that’s about as far as he can make himself go. Ochako breathes out a quiet laugh and steps into them, finishing the hug for him. He tenses as their torsos meet and her arms wrap around him, but after a moment, he lets out a shaky breath and tightly reciprocates. She can feel him shaking as she holds him, his cheek pressed tightly against the top of her head, and when she starts to feel something dripping into her hair, she pulls him closer, arms wrapping even tighter around him. She hopes he understands her silent message: I’m not going anywhere.

Eventually, they do pull away, once their exhaustion becomes too much to ignore. They share a sleepy smile with one another and Deku walks Ochako to his door. She opens it and is halfway out of it before she turns back to him and says, “Talk to you tomorrow?”

He chuckles, rubbing at his eye. “I think it’s already tomorrow.”

With a roll of her eyes, she corrects, “Then tonight.”

Deku smiles again, toothy and happy. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Ochako yawns, covering her mouth with her hand, and begins to walk out again as she says, “I love you, Deku.”

“Love you too, Ura…” They both freeze, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as dread fills the both of them to the brim.

Ochako whips around in a blur. “Pl-Platonically!! As friends!”

“Yep that’s exactly the same as me, just friends, nothing more!!” Deku nearly shouts in agreement, face as red as Ochako’s feels.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, eyes wide with similar expressions of mortification, before the ridiculousness sets it. Ochako’s mouth wavers before she snorts and lets herself laugh out loud, ignoring the wild thumping of her heart.

Deku looks so confused for a few breathless seconds, but he must catch on to the hilarity soon, because eventually he starts laughing along with her. Embarrassed, emotional, and just a little bit delirious, the two quickly become out of breath, wiping tears from their eyes and heaving in huge gulps of air.

“W-Well,” Ochako breathily giggles, feeling happy and light. “Good night, Deku.”

“Y-You too, Uraraka,” Deku responds, looking so incredibly beautiful with his huge smile, red face, and delighted red-rimmed eyes. Ochako takes a second to memorize it, wanting this perfect image of him to be burned into her mind forever, before she turns and makes her way down the hall, occasionally, turning to give a little wave goodbye to him, something he returns as he watches her go.

Ochako collapses into her bed soon after, feeling giddy and exhausted and so incredibly happy to be Deku’s friend. She falls asleep to the memory of strong, warm arms around her and the sound of tearful, relieved laughter ringing in her ears.

---

A few hours later, Ochako wakes feeling the exact opposite. She’s groggy and brittle and she knows she has to get up to tell the others that everything’s fine now, but she does not want to.

Eventually, she does, still with enough time to beat the rest of the class downstairs, with the exception of Iida, Todoroki, and Tsuyu. As she gets ready and makes her way down, she remembers her conversation with Deku, how relieved she had felt and he had seemed, and it’s enough to round her edges out, if only a little bit.

“Good morning, Uraraka!” Iida loudly greets, and Ochako decides that Deku’s happiness and laughter can only do so much. “You’re just in time for us to begin planning how to help Midoriya!”

“You look terrible,” Todoroki comments, to which Ochako gives him a withering glare.

“Did you sleep okay, kero?” Tsuyu asks and Ochako sighs.

“No, but that’s my own fault,” she grumbles and rubs at her eyes. “But that’s besides the point. We don’t need to do any planning, Deku is—”

“Hey, guys…” Speak of the devil.

The four of them turn towards the man in question as he approaches them, looking just as tired as Ochako but sculpting it very differently. He looks much less irritable than she with his smooth expression and small smile, one that is not too dissimilar to the one he gave Ochako last night after her apology. There’s a nervous energy about him as well, though Ochako supposes that’s fair; the last time the others saw him, he was frantic, crying, and afraid.

“M-Midoriya, how are you?” Iida quickly recovers, seemingly surprised that Deku had come to them.

“Better,” he says. He glances at Ochako before returning his gaze to the other three. “Uraraka talked to me last night, and apologized already. You guys don’t have to, I already forgive you. It was… well, not stupid, but I didn’t even know I would react like that, so I can’t exactly blame you guys for saying those things. And, um… “ He fidgets where he stands, eye contact faltering. “If you want to, um… can we talk? Sometime tonight?”

Ochako is taken off guard, and by the looks on the others faces, they are too. They all share a look, before Tsuyu asks, “Are you sure?”

“We don’t want to force you,” Todoroki adds on.

Deku nods resolutely. “Yes, I’m… I’m sure. I really, really want to talk with you guys.”

“Well,” Iida starts, misty-eyed. “We’ll be sure to listen.”

Deku gives them all another wonderful smile, looking relieved and so very happy.

The conversation soon moves on to today’s classes and what they all might do during their Heroics class, but Ochako isn’t really listening. She’s watching as Deku falls easily back into the conversation, comfortable and safe. She thinks about that fear she’d seen on him yesterday and how not one trace of it is left in his face, and she lets herself relax. 

Deku seems to realize she’s looking at him and he meets her gaze. He smiles brilliantly at her and her breath is stolen away like always. Normally, she would feel some sort of frustration at herself for that, but now, she relishes it. Her very dear friend is smiling at her with no reservations and with such contagious elation, what else can she do but reciprocate?

---

When you grow up like Izuku did, you learn things.

They’re not fun things, quite the opposite really, but along with those harsh lessons, Izuku learned how to treasure the truly good moments. And maybe one day, the cruel teachings of his childhood will give way to newer lessons, the ones he should’ve been able to learn before.

Izuku doesn’t know.

But what he does know is that standing in the lounge area, surrounded by his close and dear friends, Izuku has never felt more safe.

[omg-baeyoung-baeran]

Marked with the Kiss of Death: Chapter One (A Mystic Messenger AU Fanfiction)

Archive on Our Own Link

YT Trailer

Genre: Crime, Action,Thriller, Romance, Comedy, Drama

Pairings: Saeran/MC 2, 707/MC 5; more to come

Summary:

Would you rather be famous but live with a criminal?

"I swear he finds me anywhere I go! I see his white hair in all---"

The feeling of freezing arms snaking around her waist gave her sudden reconsiderations of her life decisions.

"It's just how it is, Princess."

Or would you rather hide from a criminal and live as a beggar?

"Sorry, I don't have coins," he muttered as he ran his hand through his unruly red hair.

His boyish charm has sufficed her eyes, but not enough to please her stomach.

"Big bills are fine."

He never knew beggars can be so picky.

o-o-o-o

 Every waking minute, she wondered…  just what the hell is wrong with him?

  “Yes, princess—”

  “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again—my bodyguard is broken.”

 o-o-o-o-o

 Ayu clipped two braided blonde locks in a half ponytail. Although she preferred a full braid, her chin-length hair forbade her to do so. She sometimes wished she had not cut her hair, but the barrage of compliments from her social media had tickled her narcissistic side.

 It took merely a week before she eventually grew bored with the limited variety of styles she could do.

 “Pink or nude? Red is good too, though?” Ayu shook her head. “No, that’s trying too hard.”

 Looking into the mirror, she pictured two versions of herself, one sporting a pink shade, the other with a nude shade. At first, it was a simple dilemma that boiled down to three choices—  would she go for a feminine, striking, or a subtle kind of beauty?  With the striking red out of the picture, her options narrowed down to a subtle nude or a feminine pink.

 Eventually, she set down the other two tubes, settling for feminine, “Pink it is.”

 Twisting the cap open, she looked at the mirror and swiped the applicator on her lips. She smacked her lips twice to even the colour out. Once she was done, she placed it back in the tube and twisted it close.

 For her most dreaded part—contact lenses. As the fanmeet fiasco happened fairly recently, she was yet to get used to poking her eyes.

  ‘I just got your messages~!’

 Ayu switched off the alarm notification and checked the time— 2:00 P.M.

  There was no time for contact lenses. 

 “Guess I’ll go nerdy.”

 o-o-o-o

  When she says her heart almost leaped out of her chest, of course, it was an   exaggeration...

  ...but there was no denying that he scared the living daylights out of her.

 “Do I know you?”

 There was no knock on the door; not even a text message—as she opened the door, she found herself face-to-face with astranger in a black suit, waiting in the front door.

 “Sorry I’m late,” he bowed. “I was told a princess needed a bodyguard?”

  ‘Princess? Bodyguard?’

 Frowning, Ayu eyed him up and down; he was of average height—with her stopping just below his ear—and had white hair with its tips a faded red. Despite the white hair, he did not seem old—he looked to be in his early 20s, in fact. Just like her.

  Was it too late to take out her pepper spray? He might attack her anytime.

 “Bodyguard?” she scrunched her brows.  No one informed her about a new bodyguard.  “How would I know if you’re telling the truth? Do you have any proof to validate your claims?”

 “Yes,” he fished through his pocket and pulled out a phone. He quickly tapped his fingers on the screen, then handed it to her. “You can call your dad.”

 Though suspicious, she took the phone from his hand.

 His contacts book had only one contact in it— Big Boss.

 Her lip curled into a sneer at the name, ‘Big Boss? Cringey.’

 She pressed the ‘Call’ button and held the phone against her ear. Two rings later, the other line picked up.

  “Ray? You called?”

  Sure enough, it was her father’s familiar deep voice. And he knew Ray… So Ray was not a random die-hard fan trying to get close to her.

 “Dad?”

  “Oh, princess, it’s you. I see Ray has arrived.”

 “What’s this about a bodyguard? What about Mister Park?”

  “Ah, about that… I replaced him. I figured Ray would handle the job better.”

  So he was still hung up about the fanmeet incident! Granted, it only happened three weeks ago but...

 “Dad! I swear he did nothing wrong! It happened so fast; no one could have foreseen it!”

  “Still, it was his job to act fast.”

 Ayu let all her stress out with a sigh. As his only daughter, her father cared for her too much that it bordered on overprotectiveness.

  Scratch that; it was not borderline—he certainly was overprotective.

 “Okay, Dad. I’ll call you later. I have to go.”

 After saying their goodbyes, Ayu tapped ‘End Call’ before handing it back to Ray.

 “So…,” she crossed her arms,  “you’re Ray?”

 He took the phone from her, then nodded with a polite close-mouthed smile that screamed forced. Being in the showbiz industry had exposed her to such smiles that she was no stranger to it.

  After all, she herself was an expert at that sort of smile.

 “Just Ray.”

 Uncrossing her arms, she nodded. “Well, at least you’re on time. I’m going to have lunch with my friend. Do you know where Chamwon Restaurant is?”

 “No, but I can use Noogle Maps.”

 “Alright,” she nodded and walked past him. “Let’s go, then.”

 o-o-o-o

 “Zen-oppa!” Ayu excitedly waved, bouncing on her heels.

 A handsome long-haired albino turned his head to her direction, “Ayu!” He waved back, motioning them to come over.

 “Hey,” she tapped Ray’s shoulder, then whispered, “Does my hair look good?” 

 “Of course, Princess,” Ray vigorously nodded. “You’d still look good even without it!”

  ‘Is complimenting me also part of his job description? Dad really did things overboard.’

 Though weirded out, she led him to their reserved spot, with Ray following exactly five steps away.

 Multiple eyes followed their move, but no one dared to get close. With the peaceful atmosphere and customers minding their own businesses, she could not help but feel that their lunch would go smoothly.

 “I’m sorry! Did you wait long?”

 Zen shook his head. “No! Come on, let’s order.”

 Pulling their chairs back, they were about to take their seats...

 Ayu paused, wearing a look of plain confusion on her face. Zen, too, had an identical expression on his face.

  Source of confusion: her new bodyguard.

 It must have been a strange sight: three adults, pausing mid-sit with their asses hovering over their chairs.

  His first day working for her and he was not doing a good first impression.

  ‘What does he want?’  Standing straight, Ayu held Ray’s arm and pulled him up. “Zen-oppa, will you excuse us for a moment?”

 “Um, sure,” Zen said, confused, but sat down anyway.

 “You can order now! We’ll be back reeeaal quick!” She faced Ray and released his arm, cocking her head to the side and motioning him to come with her.

 He nodded, following Ayu as she led him further from the table. With Zen out of earshot and taking a menu from a waitress,  Ayu placed a hand on Ray’s shoulder and pushed it down, making him bend to her height, and whispered, “Okay, I know Dad told you to be this overprotective, but I promise to give you a bonus payment later—just please! Sit somewhere else!”

 Ayu made sure her smile did not falter. Personal space in public places was a luxury celebrities like her could not afford. A headline of  "Idol caught mistreating her bodyguard?!"   would prove detrimental to her image… especially in Zen’s presence.

 Ray whispered back, “A bonus payment is hard to enjoy when I'm missing my head.”

  ‘You coward. Can you even call yourself a bodyguard?’

 “You don’t have to worry. Just enjoy your date—”

 “Shh! It’s not a date!” Blood rising to her face, she darted her head side-to-side, then sighed in relief.  So far, no one noticed.

 The showbiz industry was an unforgiving one—she was basically  “owned”  by her fans. Being in a relationship was seen as something of a betrayal to them. Even being seen with Zen was a surprising sight, and rumours about their “dating scandal” used to pop up.

 It had caused an uproar within the fandom so as a result, she always assured her fans that they were just friends.

  Unfortunately.

 The explanation seemed to satisfy them, as hanging out with Zen was not much of a shock anymore.

 “And don’t mind me. I promise you’ll forget I even exist! Trust me," he beamed at her with an innocent smile on his lips.

 "Does this face look like it trusts you?" she hissed back in a harsh whisper.

 Ray studied her face, and for a moment,  he thought he was looking at something utterly hideou—

   "Yes," he answered briefly.

 “Fine,” she sighed. “Let’s go back. Oppa must be hungry.”

 Heading back to the table, Ayu took slow strides to calm her nerves, gazing longer at Zen who was intently reading the menu, unaware of the attention she was giving him. Even from afar, Zen gave off an aura of unrivaled beauty and charm. Hell, even the way he flipped pages stirred in her tingles of teenage giddiness.

  How anyone could look perfect just by doing nothing was something Ayu once thought impossible. But the first time she laid eyes on him, she realized just how closed-off her world had been.

 She was not alone in thinking that; almost everyone in the room had their eyes fixated at Zen, and not just because he was a famous celebrity.

 The closer they got to their table, the more the surroundings blurred for her, and the more focused Zen’s beauty became. Ayu somewhat hated the paparazzi, for despite how perfect Zen looked in every angle, they lacked the skill to capture the breathtaking beauty he possessed. A disgrace to photographers around the world, was what they were to her.

 At least the paparazzi's incompetence worked in her favour, for she was one of the lucky few able to admire his beauty in the flesh

 “Sorry about that,” Ayu spoke as she reached their table.

 “It’s fine.” Zen handed her the other menu.

 “I haven’t introduced you guys to each other. By the way, this is my new bodyguard, Ray! He replaced Mr. Park just a while ago.”

 “It’s fine! So, are you ready to or… der?” Zen’s voice faltered at the end.

 Confused, Ayu followed his line of vision and frowned.  She was willing to give him a second chance since not everyone should be judged by their first impression but this…

 Ray, arms crossed over his chest, stayed rooted by Ayu’s right.

 “Oh,” Zen was the first to regain his senses, “don’t you want to join Dongwon? You might feel out of place.” he pointed to a nearby table where a tall, bald man sat, reading a menu.

 “It’s fine. Just enjoy your meal, Sir.”

 “But—”

 “Ah, don’t mind him,” Ayu dismissively waved her hand.  They were just wasting their time. Smiling through gritted teeth, she gave Ray’s arm a squeeze. “Ray here! He’s just really,” she squeezed it tighter, “reeeaaally… passionate about his job.”

 Ray pulled his arm out of her grasp, “Ahaha! You overestimate me, Princess!” He said, sporting a big smile on his face, intensifying in Ayu an urge to rip it off of his face.

 “Ooh, 'Princess' ?” Zen said with a playful quirk of his brow.

 “Ah! That’s what he used to call his bosses! It kinda just… stuck to him! Old habits die hard, you know?”

  ‘How dare Ray embarrass me in front of Zen?! What if he found it cringy?’

 “If you say so, Princess!” Zen teased. For some reason,  "Princess"  sounded far better coming from his lips. As usual, Zen will always be the exception. “Well then, at least take a seat,” he requested and gestured to the chair beside Ayu.

 Ray shook his head. “Oh no. I’ll stay here.”

 “You’ll,” Ayu choked out her next word, “what?”

 “You know, I need to act fast if something happens to you,” he said matter-of-factly.

 She did not know what potential her father saw in Ray; all she could see was Ray teetering on the fine line between caution and paranoia.

 “Ah, you don’t have to!” She forced a smile, shaking her head. Surely, not even he was dense enough to miss her straightforward message.

  ‘Seriously. You. Don’t. Have. To.’ 

 “Oh, what’s wrong?”

 Dongwon walked over to their table, then slightly bowed. He stood by Zen’s side, mirroring Ray’s position.

 “Oh, um, want to sit with us?” Zen offered, albeit confused.

 To Ayu’s dismay, Dongwon shook his head.  Things seemed to be going in a direction that strayed from her original vision.

 “Hmm, I see?” Zen said. “We’ll order takeout for you after, how does that sound?”

 The two bodyguards nodded, mumbling their thanks.

 “Okay! Now that that’s settled… Ayu, is there anything you want?”

 Humming to herself, Ayu flipped a page and shrugged, “I’m not sure. Whatever you think is good.”

 “Okay! I’ll just order the usual then.” Zen raised his arm, catching not only a nearby waitress’ attention but the other customers' as well.

 They must have wondered if their presence was an elaborate endorsement; after all, having two celebrities hanging out in basically any place—from five-star restaurants to junkyards—was bound to bring attention.

 The waitress that came over was a young woman, possibly around 18 to 19, with a name tag that says "Jihyo".

 “Yes?”

 For a second, Ayu was unable to suppress the frown from showing. Once she noticed, she quickly replaced it with a smile.

  ‘Who the hell does this girl think she is?’

 Being in the entertainment industry made it easy to discern that type of voice—one she heard a lot from girls;  it was the voice that made her want to slice her ears off.

 Ayu looked in disgust, as the waitress swayed her body side-to-side, bouncing on the balls of her feet and looking at Zen with an awestruck expression.

  ‘Please mess up our order.’

 “We’ll have Set C….” Zen showed her the menu, pointing at their order.

 The way the Jihyo girl’s face got closer to Zen’s triggered within her an urge to….

 Jihyo scribbled their order on her notepad, particularly slow for a two-word order.

  ‘Hurry up.’

 Once she was done, she bowed and left the table. Ayu’s murderous thoughts were finally put at ease.

 “So… about your role!”

 Zen’s face lit up. “I’m glad you asked!”

 “What’s your role?”

 “Okay, so it’s a murder mystery show. Basically, my character is a lawyer prodigy. Something happened in his past that made him into who he is, which I won’t say because it’s a spoiler. So anyway—”

 Not once did she chime in or cut his words off, only nodding every so often. The combination of Zen’s perfectly-sculpted features, enchanting red eyes, melodic voice, and passion for acting never failed to capture her in a trance.

 “I’m sure you’ll do a good job!” Ayu gushed. “Can’t wait to watch it!”

 Zen chuckled, “When I first heard the summary, I thought it might be something you’d like.”

 “You thought so?”

 “Here’s your order.”

 To her relief, a different waiter came with their order. After turning the grill on, he set down two trays of raw meat and plates of side dishes—kimchi, fish cakes, japchae, steamed eggs, and baby potatoes. 

 “Order’s complete. Enjoy your meal." The waiter dipped his head, and left.

 o-o-o-o

  ‘Discomfort by proxy’—did such a term exist? If so, that was the perfect way to describe what Ray currently felt, what with all those stares directed at the two celebrities.  How could anyone get used to this? It was hard enough to eat with just one person staring, but more than one? He might as well be a zoo animal, then.

 Glancing to his left, Ray spotted a group of high school-aged boys five tables away, two of them holding menus in front of their faces, trying to catch a peek of his oblivious boss. Today was a lucky day for those boys, as their idol crush was too busy making disgusting googly eyes at Zen to notice them.

 “You mentioned you wanted to try acting, right?” Zen asked.

 “Oh… yeah. I just wanted to try it out like once, but I’m not really actively looking,” Ayu shrugged.

 “Hmm, if you want, the director told me he has a friend who’ll be directing a film! And she’s looking for actresses who can star in her movie.”

 “Ooh! What’s it about?”

 “Not sure yet. I’ll ask him.”

 “Tell me, okay?!”

 With another glance to the left, Ray saw that those boys now had phones discreetly peeking out from their menus. 

 Ray rolled his eyes. Seriously, who were they fooling? 

 He shifted to the left, blocking Ayu from their view. Though faced away from them, he could hear them whining how perfect the photo would have been were it not for  “that photobombing tofu”.

 He suppressed a snort, ‘Tofu? That’s the best you can do?’

 As derogatory as it sounded, it did not bother him at all. After all, pale skin such as his own was sought after.

 “So Sienna—”

 The brief frown that rose from Ayu’s face did not go unnoticed to Ray’s eyes.

  Sienna Park, the visual, center and lead vocalist of the girl group his boss’ daughter was from—Dandelion; also considered the second-most popular member after Ayu.

 Zen, however, was unaware of the sour change of mood, for her face reverted back to its over-the-top cheerfulness in an instant.

  ‘Well, idols have to keep up a facade…’

 It jarred Ray as to how she could switch from sweet to murderous with ease.

  Click!

 Ayu’s head instinctively snapped up. “Oppa!” She squealed.

  ‘Oppa,’  Ray almost sniggered at that.  ‘Do girls actually think they look cute saying that?’

 “Hmm, what caption should I put?” Zen sang teasingly.

 “Delete that!” She threatened with wide eyes, only for her growing grin to render her threats futile, as though she enjoyed being teased by him.

  ‘Get a room…’

 “Why not? It looks cute! See?”

 Zen held his phone in front of her, which showed a candid shot of her, mouth slightly open, in the middle of talking and flipping over a piece of beef.

 “Cute?” A dust of pink slowly spread on her cheeks as she turned her head away.

 “Yeah. I rarely see you with your glasses on. It always looks so new to me.”

 “Oh… Maybe I should’ve worn my contact lenses instead,” she pouted, before adding a new set of strips to the grill.

 “Nah, that’s not what I meant. I think you look cute with your glasses.”

 Her hold on the tong loosened.

  Shing!

 “Ah!” She exclaimed, recoiling as the meat sizzled and spattered oil droplets on her.

 Zen took the tong from her, taking over. “Do you disagree that much?” He chuckled at her flustered face.

 “O-Oppa! You’re such a joker!” She sheepishly laughed. Without the tong to keep her occupied, she fanned her reddened face with both hands.

 Ray wanted to throw up all over their fishcakes.  It was hard to stand there with a straight face.

 Before he could actually throw up, Ray stopped listening in on their conversation. It’s not like there was anything interesting to take from it.

 As for her father, he could finally sleep at night without worrying about Zen stealing his only princess away.  From the looks of it, his paranoia was baseless, as it was all unrequited on Ayu's part.

 With a father like that, he pitied any guy unfortunate enough to catch Ayu’s fancy.

 “Ooh, I think this is done,” Zen said, switching the grill stove off. One by one, he took each slice and placed them on another plate.

 “Hmm!” Ayu gushed as she inhaled the barbecues’ mouth-watering aroma. “This looks so good!”

 “Eat up,” Zen said, handing her a pair of metal chopsticks.

 “Yes! Thank you for the food!”

 She waited until Zen took the first bite. “Is it good?”

 “Yep!”

 Using his own chopsticks, he pinched a chunk of rice, adding a small slice of pork along with it. With a palm below to catch any falling grain, Zen brought it closer to Ayu’s mouth. “Say ‘aah’!” 

  ‘What do you think you two are doing?’

 They were famous celebrities; would it kill them to be more careful? Surely, this would cause a dating scandal.

  And a scolding from Big Boss as well.

 Just in time, he could already see someone pulling out a phone from two tables away.

 Eyes closed, Ayu leaned forward and opened her mouth, “Aaaahh.”

  ‘You’re not helping matters at all, dummy.’

 Ray moved to her left side, just before she took a bite, hiding her from the photographer’s view before giving the camera a “little” smile— an apology for ruining what should have been a perfect shot.

 But his apology seemed unwanted, as they scowled both at their phone screens and him.

 “Is it good?”

 “Mm-hmm!” Ayu nodded, simpering, and seemingly disconnected from the real world.

 “I’m glad you liked it,” Zen nodded, before facing Ray. “Mister Ray, you really don’t want to sit?”

 “It’s fine,” he shook his head with a forced smile. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

 “Hmm, I see—”

  Bzzt! Bzzt!

 “Oh, just a moment,” Zen said, glancing at his vibrating phone, then at Ayu. “Sorry. Can I take this call? It’s a bit urgent.” 

 “Sure! Take your time!” She nodded.

 “I’ll be quick!” Zen held the phone near his ear, speaking in a hushed tone as he headed to the bathroom.

 With Zen away to take the call, the whole table was quiet. Ayu continued eating without him.

  This was bad. The absence of a tall and handsome guy like Zen to be intimidated by made it easier for average no-name guys to try their luck.

 Not even 10 seconds after Zen left, a young man, holding a journal and pen, was heading towards their table.

  How foolish. Ray may not be as tall or breathtakingly handsome as Zen, but it didn’t matter. Now that he was paid to be stuck by Ayu’s side, the chances of ever coming near her were close to nil.

  The date had numbed his mind so much, he might as well amuse himself.

 Taking advantage of Ayu’s absentmindedness, Ray sidled to her left, placing a hand behind her and resting it over the chair’s rail.

 Ray’s protective stance prompted the young boy to stop in his tracks, looking as though he was having second thoughts.

 He flashed the young man a cheeky smile that was in no way welcoming. 

 Put off by the hostility emanating from his smile, the boy’s conflicting thoughts were put to rest, and he finally backed out.

 With his intimidation a success, he straightened his posture.

 “Okay, done!”

  Her rat-tailed friend finally arrived.

  Zen announced, then pulled his chair back and sat. “Did you wait long?”

 “Nope, not at all!”

 “Soooo… how’s this charity thing of yours doing? Something… F.A? ” Ayu questioned with a slight tilt of her head.

 “RFA? It’s doing well! Hmm, we still don’t have a set date for the next party, though.”

 “Oh, I see,” she nodded.

 “I’ll send you and the girls an invitation once our party coordinator decides on the date.”

 A split-second pout crossed her face but was immediately replaced with a full grin.

 “Yay!” Ayu clapped. “What will the party theme be?”

 “Umm…”

 Their heads turned at the stranger’s sudden arrival.

 “O-oppa…”

  ‘Oppa? The princess wouldn’t like that.’ 

 The barely noticeable twitch in her eye was enough proof.

 A slightly chubby girl approached their table, accompanied by another girl who looked the same age as she did.

 “Go on,” said the other girl, giving her friend a light push towards Zen.

 “Yes?” Zen flashed her a polite smile.

 “U-um…”

 “She wants an autograph!” The friend said, sipping from her mug and positioning herself near Ayu.

 “I-I…!”

 “Oh, sure!” Zen said, easing her nerves. “No problem at all!”

 Etched on his boss’ face was an uncomfortably wide smile that failed to reach her eyes. 

 “R-really?!” The girl smiled, handing to him a DVD case of  Tei’s Tea Leaf, the film that skyrocketed his fame, making him a beloved household name.

 Smiling, Zen took it, “Mm-hmm!”  He stretched a palm out to his bodyguard, who then placed a black marker pen on it. Uncapping it, he asked, “What’s your name?”

 “Y-Yoori!” The girl blushed, leaning closer to Zen.

 Hidden underneath the table was Ayu’s tightly-clenched fist, nails digging in her palms sure to leave a crescent-shaped mark. 

 “Okay! Yoori, ” Zen mumbled as he wrote his message. “May you always be happy and healthy. Make sure to always eat your meals…”

 Face still close to Zen, she snuck a glance at her friend, mouthing something before giving a slight nod.

  Something seemed off. 

 Ray jolted his head to his left.  Something was definitely off. No one, not even Zen’s bodyguard, paid attention to the mug in the girl’s hand, hovering above Ayu’s head, and slowly tilting downwards.

 Quickly shifting to the side, he reached out to grab the girl’s wrist.

 “Ow! W-what the?!”

 “Ray?!” Ayu abruptly stood, widening her eyes at him. “What are you doing?! Let her go!”

 She reached a hand out to pull Ray away from the girl, but was too slow to stop…

 the tea…

 from spilling…

 on…

 Zen.

  Splash!

“Ah!” Zen stood, hair dripping wet and clothes stained with black tea, squeezing the liquid from the drenched part of his shirt.

 Ayu snapped her head towards Ray, “What did you just do?!”

  She had on her face an absolute look of disgust.

 “Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry! He didn’t mean it!" She panicked. "What to do, what to do…?” Ayu grabbed a fistful of tissues and dabbed them on his damp shirt.

 “This has gotten… a bit out of hand,” Zen lightly chuckled, rubbing his nape. “Take out?”

  o-o-o-o

  “I forget this usually happens when you’re famous.” Zen joked once they reached their car.

 “Same.…”

 For the first time since meeting Zen, his humour was lost on her. She’s always laughed even at his unfunniest jokes, but now...  How could she laugh when the day she’s been looking forward to the most turned into such a wreck?

 “It’s weird. You know, I sometimes invite Sienna here—”

  ‘Sienna this, Sienna that.’  That cursed name always brought out a frown on her face.

 “—but this never really happened.” Zen scratched his head and chuckled. “You be careful, okay?” He held the door open for Ayu, handing her the take-out bag and waved. “Make sure Mr. Ray doesn’t skip a meal!”

 With zero enthusiasm, she nodded, forcing out a smile that failed to reach her eyes. “Sure!”

 The windows rolled up, and they sped off. Ray did not turn the radio on this time and simply drove in silence, occasionally glancing at her from the rear-view mirror.

  As for Ayu, she was too busy cooking up a plan on how to get away with murder.

 o-o-o-o

 Ayu slammed the door open, hitting the wall with much force, and stomped her way in. 

 Following exactly 5 steps behind was Ray, carrying a box package under his arm and staying silent all throughout.

 Coming to an abrupt halt, Ayu kicked her wedges off of her feet and flung them to opposite directions. 

“I hate her. I hate her. I hate that… UGH!”  She tightened the grip on her handbag’s strap, knuckles turning white and fingernails digging into her palms. The temper she kept contained the whole car ride was now bubbling beyond her control.

 Skipping the mandatory 5-second countdown, she snapped her head at Ray and snarled, “YOU!” 

Stomping her way towards him, Ayu jabbed a finger on his chest. “First day working and this is what you do?! Why did you have to mess this up? What right did you have to ruin everything? Everything was going well until you decided to literally spill the tea on Oppa!”

 Ray said nothing, simply watching her seethe with anger.

 “AND. THAT. SIENNA. He had barbecue with Sienna before… me? Huh?”

 Ayu grabbed fistfuls of her hair, yanking it at its roots. A glimpse of Sienna eating and laughing with Zen flashed in her mind—fleeting, but enough to fuel her rage.

 Taking deep breaths, she paced back and forth around the living room. With gritted teeth, she let out a soft scream, controlled and barely a scream at first, gradually rising to a crescendo.

  And thus came the apocalypse.

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!”

 She picked up a throw pillow from her couch and hurled it towards Ray, who barely avoided getting hit. “AAAAAAAHHHHH! I CAN'T EVEN!”

 Nothing was safe in her presence. Any object unfortunate enough to be within arm’s reach was practically Sienna and Ray in her eyes.

 She grabbed three more pillows, hurling them one by one in every direction. “AAAAAHHHHH! CURSE! EVERYTHING!”

 Even her Louis Vuitton handbag was not spared from the madness. She unzipped it with much force, almost detaching its zipper, and dumped all of its contents on the ground. 

She picked up her first victim—a pressed powder around ₩78,000—and threw it across the room, letting out a long, ear-piercing battle cry. Not even the slightest hint of regret crossed her mind as it collided against the wall, dropping to the floor with a loud crack. Her ₩78,000 pressed powder was now barely worth a cent.

 Her second victim—a flower vase she received from a fan two Christmases ago—met the same fate as the first. Who cares if it was a gift? Who cares if they were expensive? She. Wanted. Everything. Destroyed.

 Imagining the scattered ceramic shards as Sienna’s face was doing nothing to curb her bloodlust. Driven by the memory of their disastrous date, she picked them all up, not caring about the wound or even worse, the infection she could get.

  It’s fine as long as they die before she does.

 “AAAAAAAAHHH!”

 From the corner of her eye, Ray was darting his head side to side.. The chaos unfolding before him went beyond his control.

 It was not enough. Thrashing the whole living room was not bringing any satisfaction at all!  

  If laws did not exist, she would have killed those two already!

 Lastly, she caught sight of her phone, grabbing it and dialing the only person she knew would understand her.

 At the first ring, the other line picked up.

 “Yes—”

 “FIRE HIM! FIRE! HIM! I WANT ANOTHER BODYGUARD! IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE MR. PARK! ANYONE BUT THIS PIECE OF TRASH! THROW HIM AWAAAAAAAAAAY! AAAAAAHHH!” She screeched at the top of her lungs.

  “P-princess, calm down! What’s wrong?”

 “MY BODYGUARD IS BROKEN!”

  “What?”

 “RAY! HE… RAY! HE RUINED EVERYTHING! I’LL NEVER GET THIS CHANCE AGAIN AND HE–HE! UUUUUGGGGH!” She repeatedly stomped her feet.

  “Deep breaths, Princess, deep breaths. What did he do?”

 “RAY! HE SPILLED—"

 Then followed a string of curses befitting a sailor. If her words could be censored, it would merely be a continuous, uninterrupted beeping noise.

 “Give Ray the phone. I’ll speak to him.”

 “FIRE HIM, OKAY?”

 Ayu tapped the loudspeaker button, stomping towards Ray, who was standing still, carrying a box package under his arm.

 She shoved the phone on Ray’s free hand. “You’re screwed.”

 Ray held the speaker near his mouth. “Yes, boss?”

 She crossed her arms and loudly tapped her foot. If looks could kill, Ray would have been shish-kebab by now. To be more precise, he had already been impaled by her death glares immediately as they stepped out of the restaurant.

 “What just happened? I don’t understand what she’s saying. She said you spilled a girl on her tea? And someone’s shirt was drenched with this Zen? What? W-what does that mean?”

 “Ah. That.”

  “So you really did something?”

 “Yes, but not in the way she makes it out to be.”

 Ayu uncrossed her arms and stomped her foot. “JUST GET TO THE FREAKING POINT ALREADY!” 

 “I’m not done talking,” Ray coldly snapped.

 She gaped at him in a scandalized manner.  ‘How dare you?’

 “And she’s right… somewhat.”

 Irritated, she huffed a few stray hair strands away from her face,   ‘Somewhat my ass.’

 “I did spill the tea on Mr. Zen but I was only trying to stop the girl’s friend from spilling the tea on your daughter.”

 At Ray’s words, the frown on Ayu’s face slowly faded and was soon replaced by confusion.  The tea was meant for her?

 Stills of that unfortunate incident flashed in her mind—malicious intent hiding behind a useless piece of trash’s youthful smile, aiming a water gun at Ayu’s eyes, hellbent on blinding her with whatever unholy mixture she had concocted.

 If Ray had been with her back then… would he have prevented it? She watched the conversation between her father and her bodyguard, a somber look marring her face.

  “What? Why would they do that?”

 “Simply put, they dislike Ayu..”

  “This is unbelievable! How could anyone dislike my Ayu?”

 “Heh, I wonder how as well,” he sneered as he sent a sidelong glance her way.

 Ayu’s spirits sank lower. All this time, she was lashing out at someone who... did not deserve it?

 Having tea spilled on her was not nearly as dangerous as the time she nearly went blind. Unlike then, the one from the barbecue place was merely an expression of hate rather than a desire to harm, but still….

  “Tell me their names! I’ll make sure—”

 “Stop!” Ayu marched towards Ray, snatching the phone from his hand. “No need! Goodbye, Dad!”

  “Princess—!”

 She ended it before he could say another word. She knew it was rude, but she did not care anymore. He’d forgive her anyway.

 She looked around her, at the mess...

  'Mess' was an understatement; it was a trainwreck brought about by her rampage— the aftermath of a friendly date gone horribly wrong.

 With the anger ebbing away, only silence was left between the two.

 “Are you being honest with me right now?”

 “Yes.”

 “You know I could fire you anytime, right?”

 “Yes.”

 Blue eyes scrutinized his mint ones, intently searching for the slightest hint of a lie… at least something to justify her outburst...

 However, Ray held his ground, staring her down with the same intensity as her. He looked as though he was challenging her, disregarding the fact that he was still working under her…

  ...as if he thought they were equals.

 “Are we clear? Can I go now?”

 She was the first to break eye contact. “Do… Do what you want,” she said, casting her gaze on the ground.

 He bowed, carrying the box package under his arm, then left.

 o-o-o-o

  He had seen better content from Nat Geo Wild.

 Ray rolled his eyes and scoffed. Handling his boss’ daughter’s tantrums was not part of his job description; last time he checked, he was a bodyguard, not a babysitter.

 Her shrill voice was grating to the ears. He knew how much her father doted on her. Judging from his boss’ stories about her, he expected a spoiled princess wannabe…

  ...not the batshit crazy woman package that came with it.

 He was expecting at least a "thank you" from her, even when his effort deserved nothing short of a bow of gratitude. Were it not for him, those dirtbag fans of hers would have flooded in, asking for autographs and ruining her date. She should have been thankful that he was considerate enough to help her enjoy her date in peace.

                     | From: Big Boss

                    |You did a good job today. Keep it up. Be ready by midnight sharp tomorrow.

 Ray shot a glance at the box package under his bed.  Another one? He’d have to be extra careful around Ayu, then.

 “Tsk, tsk… useless brat….”

  ‘Condoms exist to prevent the birth of such abomination.’

 o-o-o-o

 As Ray stepped foot in the dining area, he was greeted by the smell of bacon and butter.

 Ayu, who was seated at the other end of the table, glanced up at him. Upon meeting his eyes, she hung her head down, playing with the ends of her hair instead.

 Across from her, at the spot he usually sat on, was an untouched plate of five greasy bacon strips and scrambled eggs. Beside it was a plate of pancakes stacked atop each other, drizzled with syrup and topped with slowly melting butter.

  Bzz!

 A fly flew past him, then landed atop a strip of bacon.

  Ayu waved it away, but it was a stubborn one, moving on to another strip instead. “TCH!” She shooed it again, and the fly eventually gave up and went away.

 “You should’ve eaten it sooner if you didn’t want flies getting to it.”

 “I don’t eat these stuff.”

 “Why is it here, then? Is Boss coming over?”

 “No.”

 “Ah. How about that pretty boy?”

 “I don’t invite men to my house. And Zen is too much of a gentleman for that.”

 “Ah. Your frie—”

 “AH!” Ayu slammed her hands on the table. Testing her patience first thing in the morning was not good for anyone’s health. “JUST EAT ALREADY FOR GOODNESS—!” She stopped herself before she could continue further. Closing her eyes and taking a sharp inhale, she composed herself. 

 “Eat it now if you don’t want it to go cold,” she said in a somber tone.

 This brought about a scowl to Ray’s face.  Was it that hard to say sorry?  She was in the wrong, yet she still held her pride.

  He figured her father had probably instilled in her mind how she never needed to apologize.

 “Tough luck, then, Princess.” Ray reached for an apple in the fruit bowl, then bit into it.

 She felt annoyed at how the seconds ticked at an unbearably slow pace, and his loud munches only worsened it.  Was it that hard to eat? If it was a matter of taste, there was nothing to worry about. She can cook if that’s what he was worried about.

 After what felt like an eternity, Ray swallowed. “I don’t eat those kinds of food too.”

 He stood up and headed straight to the door, leaving her sulking.

  ‘Go choke on your pride and bacon. See if I care.’

[bloodlinevalentine]

Helena (1)

Some nautical krii7y written for my personal aesthetic mostly that I thought I may just share with you guys. In fact, I was so hyped that I didn't even really proofread lol :)

[BTW, if you like my writing (by whatever miracle) you can expect an unholy amount of BBS and GBG Christmas stuff incoming in the next month and a half:]

Ice cold. That's what Smitty's mind screams the moment he regains consciousness.

He gasps twice very hard, once as his face is flooded with the feeling and taste of salty seawater, and again when he feels the overwhelming pain in his chest. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the stinging and darkness, blinking chunks of mucus and foggy tears away, before they allow him to see the ship around him.

He registers quickly that the wooden splinters in his back prodding at his skin are from the deck of the ship, which is not even his ship he notices, and twists into a sitting position. He is lying face up in a slight divot, the boards pushed in no doubt from the force of his body slamming into them, if the already deep-set pain in his bones was anything to go by. It was also likely what knocked him unconscious, he realizes absently.

With some difficulty, he manages to completely pull himself from the creaky floorboards, but not without jostling a bloody gash in his arm. He pauses and tries to assess it, but it's more or less out of his field of vision, the only evidence of it being the spotty drops of blood staining the light wood red, just now beginning to ebb away. How long had he been out cold?

He shakes his curiosity away and stands, finding a much better vantage position on his feet. Right now, what he needs to focus on is strictly getting back to his ship and helping his crew with the recovery. He couldn't remember much, but he could at least gather that this fight must have been a nasty one. They were probably strung somewhere worried and furious at his disappearance. He needed a compass, but right now he would have to make do with using the north star. 

Above him, the sky is a mess of puffy clouds, dim yet plentiful stars, and their weak light competing with the reflective moon. He catches himself staring for a moment, and realizes that the lights were slowly getting further and further away: he had to be falling very slowly. 

He runs over to the rails and looks over to discover that yes, the ship is sinking, and the nearest island is too far to simply swim to if he wants to live. He plops down right where he's standing, panting in a panicked sweat. This was how it would end for him, lost aboard an enemy ship with an island just close enough to be a blue blur off to the distance and nothing more. His heart hammers inside his chest so hard he thinks he might be able to hear it.

Suddenly, a harsh wave strikes the ship, almost knocking him overboard as it forces it into a near-horizontal tilt. His fingernails split and his knuckles go white as he grips the rail for his life, fear lacing his blood like oxygen. The severity of the wound in his arm is still unidentified and screams sonic protests that he is forced to ignore. There must be a whirlpool just off the distance, spinning and sucking water into it and causing some sort of backlash pulling system, his brain supplies weakly, but it does little to quell his rising panic. He forces himself to catch his breath as the ship is uprighted and left to rock in place. He needs a plan and he needs it fast.

Smitty looks over at the island again, really eyeing the distance and chewing his lip in thought. Brown eyes flicker back between the railing and the dense line of trees, counting paces, praying to deities he hasn’t thought of since childhood. After a moment, he decides that if there is anything he needs to do, it's try. It seems like the only chance he has at surviving right now, but even the thought makes him swallow thickly.

Well, the very least he should do before he goes is to search the ship.

He dashes over to a ladder and hatch near the wheel, but pauses short on the steps. The second floor had long since begun to take on water, and now was over halfway full, still rising. The only things still visible were the barrels that this crew had used to likely store food, and a chest full to the brim with riches. He toys with the idea of wading through the water, but ultimately shrugs and settles for a bag hanging haphazardly from one of the ceiling beams. A quick rummage inside shows a few gold coins and a beaded necklace, but nothing overly personal. Perfect.

Next, Smitty makes to run into the navigation port and pick up something like a compass and a map, but he quickly realizes that those are useless after they’ve been wet, and there are no small rowboats in his vicinity. They would be ruined after the swim.

And that’s where his mind is when he sees the man.

It’s not until he turns back to cut his losses and head down the ladder that he spots another figure, slumped in half on one of the planks leading up over the edge of the ship. He can’t see much from this angle, but the body spasms and twitches with life even though it appears so dead.

Carefully, he approaches and watches for any sudden movements, but the person, distinctly male he can see as he nears, is completely unconscious. He can’t help but feel a tug on his heartstrings.

Smitty winces, but drops his bag and reaches down, dragging thin arms around his shoulders to hoist the body up onboard, but stops short. God, the guy is heavy.

It’s odd, considering how normally sized the person seems, but he just shakes his head, squints down at the rising water levels, and pulls with all of his available strength. The body follows, and he gets the wind knocked out of him under the force with which it comes crashing onto his chest. He lies there for a moment, panting and staring up at the sky again before he rolls himself free, only to gasp at the creature lying next to him.

The upper half was just as he had become well acquainted with, curly brown hair and oddly bare chest aside, the figure looked strikingly human. But the bottom half consisted of a long, thick, and shimmering tail where legs should have been. What he had thought before was a man had turned out to be a merman!

It's a slight wrestle between Smitty’s self-preservation instincts and his inner curiosity, but in the end, he knows that he cannot bring himself to leave the being there to die, no matter the species

He finds himself chewing his lip again, but there is really nothing he can do in such little time, but jump and hope for the best. Unceremoniously, he leans over and angles the torso to rest over his shoulders and around his neck, perhaps his best option for transporting it. Then, he pulls the string within his bag and secures it to the threadbare loops in his pants so that it safe while he swims. With that done to the best of his bloody and shaky ability, there is only one thing left to do.

Smitty feels the wooden planks with an awakened sort of clarity as he climbs off the edge of the hull. The soggy rope, frayed and waterlogged, threatens to tear under his weight as he rocks with the waves. His eyes bounce between the restless ocean and still unconscious face next to his as his nerves spike again. He feels another deathly tilt, and this time the boat really does tip so far that there's no going back: it's going to capsize for sure. It takes more strength than he sure he has in all of his body to gather his faith in himself. The deep breath is not nerve-steeling enough to reassure him, but he leaps off the ladder and plunging into the water anyway, the lifeless figure gracelessly falling from its perch around his neck and following him down, the rope tethering him to the bag dancing wildly in the air.

He begins sinking the moment he hits, the sudden temperature change being the first to register on his skin. It is surprisingly therapeutic, even as it breaks him out in gooseflesh and instates the urge to shiver himself right off of his bones. The salt burns across the deep wound in his arm, pulling a hiss from his parted lips, but the sound is swallowed up by the bubbles in the ocean. He pries his eyes open and heads to break the surface, but just as he gasps, he feels an agonizing impact from above. Through the fireworks exploding throughout his vision, Smitty sees the distorted image of the prone figure come crashing down onto him before the world goes black. 

Overhead, a flock of birds split apart from their formation and slowly drift until they're all going their own directions.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

The ship was going down very quickly now, taking his last hope of survival with it. If anything, he was lucky to be alive after that encounter but was doomed because of it, and maybe he had done more bad than good "rescuing" this man. If he perhaps had more time to salvage what he could maybe gather some food, he may have had a better chance. The real question was how quickly would he this end for them.

John feels every muscle in his body screech for relief, but he forces himself to keep going. The wind is foreign on his soft skin, and his very bones seem to creak under the weight they are forced to support, bent akimbo to hold the body over the water. 

However, he ignores the pleading and continues above the surface. The pirate is limp and heavy in his arms, even heavier when his muscles are so weak, but he knows that the creature is a human, and too much water inside them kills. His lips fall open idly and he squints to see the hazy alcove before him. Hope rises in his chest the closer they manage to drift towards it, but they're still too far to make it before he succumbs to fatigue.

With wobbly arms and a slight prayer to whatever would listen, John straightens his arms into the air and sinks below the surface, hoping the angle is enough to keep the human’s head out of the water. Immediate relief bustles through his system as he gasps heavily. His muscles thank him as the water eases the load, but he knows he can't stay like this. Nothing above the water is visible, and he can't navigate around the pesky schools when it's so dark. The air bites harshly at his fingertips, which have long since lost sensation aside from the fiery heat of the pirate's rough, dirty flesh. He takes a few more labored breaths before his arms threaten to buckle and he's stuck breaking out above the waves.

John doesn't know for sure how long he does it, or how he does it at all, but eventually, he's flapping his tail in short, sharp movements to carefully maneuver through the entrance to the cove. Dragging the lifeless body felt lighter than the bag locked between his teeth with all the euphoria thrumming through his blood. He felt like he was on fire, and he didn't need to touch the clammy skin of his comrade to know he was probably stone cold. In a sweep of pride and pure unadulterated joy, he swings the body past his own and onto the black sand. His shiny green eyes roll back as he sinks into the water to just stop and breathe. He'd saved the human!

He rises up to look at the figure, triumphant grin still locked in place, but the person is still and lifeless in the sand. Fear traces John's features, and he pulls himself up onto the shore to get a better look. He runs a hand across the face and presses his head to the cloth clad shirt, but the human is indeed breathing, if shallowly and in small pants.

That alone makes him feels grateful, but the thought doesn't last. The human is cold, injured, and perhaps even starving. He’ll need a fire if he doesn't want to freeze to death, and desperately needs something to cover that vicious cut for the night. The only thing the human has to protect himself is a short, dull dagger, chipped and dirty from what must have been years of use. John's teeth clench; it seemed like just when he thought he was out of hell another gate opened up. In a somewhat childish fit of rage, he curls his still hot fingers into a fist and slams it onto the human, hoping to will him awake.

And, it works. Sort of.

Water spouts out of the pirate's mouth like a geyser and his brain snaps into consciousness. John watches in slight fear as the human coughs and sputters more and more murky water filled with mucus and other fluid slime, dragging himself onto his side. It seems to help, as the human's fit comes to an end and his eyes finally fall open.

🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸 🕸

Smitty flops bonelessly onto his back and stares wide-eyed and shocked at what must be the roof of a cave. His chest burns just like his skin in that way that suggests it's from extreme cold, and a subconscious groan escapes his lips. He takes a moment to just breathe and feel his heartbeat hammer away at his chest. A shaky hand raises to wipe the salt caking the area around his eyes push his hair out of his face. Well, it looked like he’d survived anyway.

A shuffling off to his side brings him to the present, and a quick glance over makes him do a double-take. Laying next to him in the dark sand is the gorgeous merman, sprawled out with arms protectively curled around Smitty's own form.

"You're a mermaid." He says, voice hoarse and scratchy, and it sends him into another coughing fit. The merman pulls himself away from his prone figure but holds a hand out to help steady him, even after Smitty's natural flinch in response. He allows himself to be dragged into a proper sitting position, which also gives him the ability to properly breathe.

The creature watches him take a few breaths before deeming him not on the verge of death and nods hesitantly. A closer look reveals familiar wisps of brown hair and moonlight pale skin. It was indeed the merman he'd dragged off the enemy's ship before he blacked out.

"You saved me?" He asks, but it sounds less like a question and more like a comment. The merman's eyebrows draw together at the words, and he shakes his head.

"I was only returning the favor. It was you who saved me first." He says quietly, but his voice reverberates heavily through the empty cove, although it is just as scratchy as Smitty's.

"Well thank you anyway." He concedes, clearing his throat and running a hand through his knotted hair, but the merman only shakes his head back.

"You don't need to thank me.” He says, voice much clearer now, as he re-positions himself into a crawl. Smitty watches delicate hands find purchase in the dark sand and begin dragging his ill-suited body back into the pool. “What you need is to get out of those wet clothes and get a fire started."

"You're right," Smitty says and winces into a stand. He makes it a good twenty seconds of attempting to shuck off his lone boot, having long since lost the other one in his impromptu trip, but finds that he’s not quite ready to be entirely upright just yet. He sits back down and his head thanks him as he slips his jacket over his shoulders and pulls his shoe off. His ripped brown shirt is next, but he hesitates with pants.

When he realizes why the human is staring at him so expectantly, the merman feels the strong desire to roll his eyes.

"Alright. While you do your thing, I'm gonna go find us something to eat." He sighs, face darkening slightly as he speaks. He opens his mouth as though to add something else, but gives up and turns to dive into the shallow pool.

"Wait!" Smitty calls, and he pauses for a moment, confusion crossing his subtle features as he twists back to face the human. Smitty crouches into a seat at one of the higher edges of the shoreline.

"What's your name?" He asks softly, now that they were so close. The merman stares up at him for a moment in consideration before seeming to mentally shrug and cock a brow.

"You can call me John."

Smitty nods lightly and brings a calloused, bruised hand to grip at the cold stone. "Well John, I'm Smitty," he conjures up what he hopes is a charming smile, "And I really do mean it when I say thank you."

John's eyes widen ever so slightly and fierce violet rises into his cheeks. He nods once before finally sinking into the water and taking his leave. Smitty watches him swim away until there is no trace of him in the cave, before he finally allows himself to attend to the agony of his cut.

All that aside, however, he can’t seem to wipe the grin off his face. He’d met a real mermaid today.

:)

[void-tiger]

Gentron Week: Days 1-3

Characters: Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane, Ryou “Jiro” Shirogane

Prompts: Bed-Sharing/Sleepovers; Clothes-Sharing; Soulmate AU (sorta), Hand-Holding

Canon Compliant?: NOPE! Not even a little, although canonical events are referenced.

Other Notes: ...I started this with Sunday’s prompt, got behind, then realized that it fit with the first three days, anyway. Hope that’s alright.

He’d been back for almost a phoeb now, thanks to the combined efforts of Jiro, his Team, and his Lion. And after he got back there was a bit of a scramble trying to sort out immediate things like Lion bonds, then of course the much more mundane ones as well. Like sleeping arrangements. Clothes. Who owned what with the small stockpile of belongings after months-to-years in space between them and the lines already blurred.

When they first rescued Shiro from the Void of Black Lion’s inner quintessence field, there hadn’t been time to figure these things out beyond who flew with Black and their Team. And after that what time hadn’t been spent fleeing Haggar’s repeated assaults was spent running repeated tests over both Jiro and Shiro for any lasting “presents” left by the witch, or any lasting damage from his time spent suspended at the subatomic level for so long. Then remedial drills as well as he reintegrated back into the Team and they had to relearn how to form Voltron...again.

But after they exhausted every drill, and after they could confidently form yet a third version of Voltron with their current Team (Shiro was disheartened to learn about Keith defecting to the Blades after his stint as Voltron’s leader. He still hoped to reach his friend, to let him know he was still alive, that the Team and Shiro both wanted him to return home), and after Allura and Coran were finally confident that both Shiroganes had a clean bill of health (and NO nasty spells and implants leftover) ...they could finaly rest.

Only, they still hadn’t sorted through who owned what. Or who even had bigger claim to Shiro’s old room. 

But like with his bond with the Black Lion, Jiro practically shoved Jiro into his old room, only pausing long enough to grab himself a fresh set of bedclothes, with Lance insisting Jiro crash with him. (Shiro was pretty sure that the tank and sleep pants he himself had ended up wearing actually belonged to Jiro. Not him.) But sleeping alone in a dark, quiet room proved unbearable. It was too easy for Shiro to return to that listless floating he experienced while suspended in the Void, body free from all the aches and pains he’d long since reconciled as his “normal” but only his mind kept intact. 

Well, mostly.

Only...

Soft, steady snores competed with his own gulped and held shallow panting. His right side felt lopsided and pinned down by a weight that wasn’t from his now-absent Galran prosthetic. And for all the Black Lion’s efforts to make him comfortable while he was stored as atoms within the Lion’s quintessence, he’d never felt warm. Or felt anything at all, really. And the Lion’s quintessence certainly hadn’t smelled like laundry detergent. Come to think of it, Shiro didn’t quite remember making it back to his bunk.

Slowly his eyes adjusted to the Castle’s night cycle gloom. Soft green light cast shadows against his sleeping clone’s pale skin, ragged scar, and inky black hair. Shiro felt his eyes flutter closed as they were dragged down by tiny, but dense, dense weights. Like mini neutron stars. Shiro felt himself lulled back to sleep, drifting not in Voltron’s Void, but the innocence of stars that space once held for him.

In the morning, neither spoke about the previous night. But to his bemusement the room had somehow converted into holding two stacked bunks where there was only one previously overnight.

.

Jiro wrenched himself awake with a silent scream. His sheets stuck to his skin thanks to a dripping sheen of cold sweat as well as lay tangled around his legs and feet. As did the image still vivid behind his mind’s eye

He scrubbed his face furiously and sniffed reflexively, glaring at his ruined bedding. Even if the could get back to sleep again, no way was he going to be able to sleep in that. With measured movements in an attempt to not shake the shared alcove and wake his brother in the upper bunk, Jiro softly set his bare feet down against the frigid floor. He then cautiously groped his single hand in the dark until he finally felt a bed corner, then tugged. The mattress rose about half an inch before slamming back down. Jiro barely bit back a curse.

The sheets, however, stayed firmly tucked for all his trouble. Naturally. Yet another reminder about Why He Needed His Own Prosthetic. Or at least his own bayard. He’d prefer not borrowing Shiro’s.

The sheets above him rustled as he heard Shiro stifling a yawn. “Jiro, what are you doing.”

Jiro winced. “N-nothing,” he murmured as he fought to keep his voice steady. “Go back to sleep.”

“Ry.”

Jiro knew that tone. That sympathetic I’m the Black Paladin and Leader and Your Big Brother so you better tell me And Deal With It tone.He’d used it himself against Shiro more than once. He hated being on the receiving end. Especially when Shiro felt the need to switch to using some form of “Ryou” to further his point. “Just remaking my bed,” Jiro hedged.

“At 2:30 in the morning?” Takashi pressed.

Jiro remained silent. The bunk shifted as Shiro’s feet scraped against the rungs. Shiro gently nudged his brother to scoot over with his right shoulder. Jiro obliged. He heaved an exasperated sigh when Shiro immediately started untucking the sheets and gathering them into the center of the mattress as one, wadded bundle.

Of course Shiro could. Shiro had a bayard that could double as an arm while they both waited for new prosthetics.

“Nightmare or memory,” Shiro asked abruptly.

Jiro squeezed his eyes shut. “Vision,” he finally choked out in a strained whisper. “I’ll just...” Jiro cleared his throat thickly as he grabbed the damp bundle of sweaty bedding. 

“Ry,” Shiro called again. “We can deal with that tomorrow.”

“But--” 

Shiro tossed a fresh set of bed clothes at him, forcing Jiro to drop the bundle as he reflexively tried to catch the set thrown at him with his non-dominant hand. Jiro shot Shiro a baleful glare. Shiro toothily grinned.

“Fine,” Jiro mumbled through a faceful of pantleg, then stalked out of the room and into the bathroom to change. He flipped the light on, immediately wincing at the sudden, harsh light, then glanced down at the set Shiro tossed at him. It wasn’t a fresh tank and sweatpants, oh no. It was that quiznacking Black Lion Onesie, with the right sleeve already zipped off.

When Jiro returned, he found Shiro sitting crosslegged atop a newly remade bed with fresh sheets, face illuminated by the glow of a datapad resting in Shiro’s lap while he rested his chin in his left hand. The bayard sat deactivated on top of the bed next to him.

“You’re gonna kill your eyesight that way,” Jiro snarked.

Shiro glanced up and shrugged nonplussed. “It’ll get fixed again by the next pod visit.”

Jiro balled up his discarded pajamas and chucked them at Shiro. They struck Shiro’s face with a wet-sounding smack before landing in his brother’s lap.

“Okay, first of all, gross,” Shiro drawled dryly. “Second, is that the thanks I get for remaking your bed, brother dearest?”

“You earned that and you know it,” Jiro dead panned.

“Fair.”

Shiro wadded up the sweaty clothes, then tossed them at the heap of used bedding already shoved into a corner. However, he still didn’t budge from Jiro’s bunk.

Jiro sighed in exasperation. “Look...I appreciate you putting my bed back together, but are you gonna move or not.”

“Not just yet, Ry,” Shiro said seriously.

Jiro swallowed. “Ryou” again. That didn’t bode well. “Alright...” he said apprehensively. “But no way can I sleep between the sheets in this thing. It’s way too stuffy.”

Shiro chuckled softly with a small smile. “You don’t get it, do you.”

“Apparently not, unless you tell me,” Jiro huffed impatiently.

“You’re right, that thing is way too hot to sleep in--”

“Think you do need your eyes checked, afterall,” Jiro interjected sardonically.

“Hush,” Shiro scolded lightly with a playful swat to the back of Jiro’s head. Jiro continued to glare balefully, but without any real heat to it.

“--but that’s not exactly the point,” Shiro continued. “The Team made that for me when they threw an impromptu surprise slumber party.”

“...And think you need a reminder of the definitions of ‘impromptu’ and ‘surprise’,” Jiro remarked. “And yes, I do remember.” He tapped his temple. “So what’s your point.”

Shiro rolled his eyes. “It’s the Team’s reminder that I’m not alone to sort things. that they--and the Black Lion--are always gonna be there if they can. And I’m reminding you that that extends to you, too.”

Jiro’s eyes squeezed shut as he tensed around the way his breathing tried to hitch. The vision, which already left him raw, flashed resh into his mind’s eye once again. As did the loss of his Lion Bond--or rather, how he never had one, not really--although technically he knew that wasn’t Shiro’s intention. Shiro wasn’t that cruel. His hand clenched around the fabric pocket of the onesie until his knuckles turned white.

“Hey,” Shiro called again urgently. “You still with me?”

Jiro nodded stiffly. He gulped down more air as he tried to stuff down the impending sob that threatened to erupt out. A hitched hiccup escaped instead for his trouble.

Gently Shiro unwound Jiro’s hand from his death grip against the fabric until he could hold Jiro’s hand in his own, shifting so that his good arm and shoulder could support his brother. “I’m sorry. That didn’t help, did it,” Shiro murmured apologetically.

Jiro shook his head furiously. A few traitorous tears leaked out to trail down his cheeks and nose and stinging the ragged scar across his face, before splattering against the tacky thing. Jiro felt Shiro hug him tighter, promptint the violent sob to finally escape. Shiro simply held him closer, but thankfully one-armed. Jiro didn’t know how he’d react if the bayard shifted into Shiro’s prosthetic and rubbed it in even further.

“Which one was it?” Shiro asked softly.

“They chose you,” Jiro finally bit out around his sobbing. “She...the witch. She tu-turn-ned me against them. I wasn’t...I wasn’t strong enough to stop her! A-and they chose you!”

Shiro’s eyes closed. Of course it was that vision, which happened to be his own worst nightmare. Of course, despite his best intentions, lending the silly onesie only made things worse. But, secretly Shiro was glad that Ryou was processing things this way, instead of...

Jiro’s tears gradually slowed into steady, shallow hiccups as they finally spent. For now. Snot and saline still continued to flow from his eyes and nose. Jiro’s face wrinkled in disgust and embarrassment. Shiro wordlessly passed him a box of tissues from the alcove’s shelf. Jiro accepted it and sniffed.

“But how have things happened in this Reality?” Shiro finally said softly.

“They...the Team found you,” Jiro answered hesitantly with a sniff. “I didn’t have to die.”

Shiro hummed his confirmation. “And you were the one to find me. The Black Lion placed the bracelet Princess Allura made me around that prosthetic,” Shiro reminded him. “And you never hurt anyone. Our Team found another way to...” Shiro faltered, then swallowed thickly. “...to bring me home.”

Shiro felt Ryou nod against him. Good. Maybe his words were reaching his twin.

“And even if that did happen, it wouldn’t be your fault. Not now. Not ever.”

A spike of anger shot through Jiro’s chest as a memory of a different vision shoved its way forward. Shiro’s voice through his lips. Lance not contradicting him. No one contradicting him. But he swallowed that resentment back down. Shiro didn’t need to know. He’d sort that one out on his own, or take it to the grave.

Jiro felt Shiro staring at him in bemusement, but thankfully his brother didn’t push it.

“Besides,” Shiro continued. “Is Allura responsible for what Empress Allura has done?”

“No,” Jiro ground out vehemently.

“Then neither is our Team. This Team would never do that. And if for what ever reason they did try it, I’m eating my arm. Then kicking their butts no-handed.”

Despite himself Jiro laughed. And silently he supposed that Shiro’s logic applied to Shiro and That Other Shiro as well (the Shiro that wasn’t him...quiznack this was complicated.) Somehow they had avoided That Reality, although Jiro desperately wished that he wasn’t the one dealing with all the aftershocks as space and time realigned and knitted itself back together. Not that he’d with that on anyone... (the witch included. Especially the witch. He shuddered to think about what she could do with that knowledge.)

“...okay,” Jiro finally whispered tightly. “Although then you really would have two robot arms.”

Shiro barked out a laugh then reached over and tapped Jiro’s right stump. “Technically I already did. Or will.”

Jiro chuckled again, then yawned. Exhaustion dragged at every joint and limb. The vision and his outburst left him feeling emotionally wrung out and spent, but he was still suspicious if sleep would come. Or what it would hold this time.

Shiro released him, then laid down on this side, scooting until his back was flush against the alcove wall and left Jiro with most of the room on the narrow mattress. Jiro rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. He placed the tissue box, abandoned datapad, and Shiro’s bayard back onto the alcove shelf above them, passed the folded throw blanket at the foot of the bed to his belligerent brother--really, that should’ve been the first thing to clue him in as to Shiro’s intentions--and settled in on Shiro’s other side. Shiro poked Jiro’s left shoulder and grinned.

Jiro huffed a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Shiro merely grinned harder. “You know you love me, Roo,” Shiro teased in sing-song.

Jiro rolled his eyes then shoved Shiro’s shin with his foot. “Keep telling yourself that, Kashi.”

“Hey!” Takashi squawked indignantly. “No kicking allowed!”

 “Technically this was your idea,” Ryou snorted. “You should’ve know better, older brother dearest,” he added sweetly.

“I’d say I should ask the witch for a new twin, but I’d rather not know how many more models she made,” Takashi grumbled.

Jiro scooted closer to Shiro. Shiro gently nudged him back to make more room. Jiro obliged, then rested his head under Shiro’s right stump.

“We’ll get her back for that...right?” Ryou asked tentatively.

“Definitely,” Takashi growled. “And I’d pay good GAC to see Allura saiyan blast that witch at least once when we do.”

“Think I could get Hunk to make a popcorn basket to hold over that?” Ryou quipped.

“Dork,” Takashi laughed.

“Technically you’re calling yourself that, Shiro.”

“Mmm. And who recently actually took tactical advice from Return of the Jedi?”

“...I’m glad you’ve forgiven me for that,” Jiro said softly.

Shiro nudged him gently with his shoulder. “I’m still not happy about that, no,” he admitted. “But...I understand. I’m not sure what I would’ve done instead if in your shoes, honestly.”

“Well, thanks for that, anyway,” Jiro mumbled.

“Hey. It all worked out. And regardless as to why or how, I’m glad that you’re my brother.”

“I’m guessing that you’re meaning--?”

“Both, yeah.”

Jiro grinned inwardly. He opened his mouth to reply, but Shiro’s breathing had already slowed to soft, steady snores.

He’d have preferred having his own thoughts and own memories and own identity from the start, he mused. And he’d definitely have preferred being born Shiro’s real twin instead of subbing as a replacement for a stillborn one. But...at least this way he could understand Shiro a bit better. In a sense the two had shared a soul for a time, albeit not quite as literaly as in That Other Reality. And besides: what better way to use Haggar’s “gift” than to better protect and support his brother?

With one final, vindictive grin Jiro felt himself drift to sleep, lulled by the slow, gentle thuds of a twin heartbeat.

[glassc0ffin]

Feedback

hee hoo i wrote a tma fic in the form of frankies statement to the institute

words: 2245

warnings: none, except for phil collins and thrown staples

pairing: oc (frankie james)/jonathan sims

[[MORE]]

FRANKIE JAMES:

-That a tape recorder? It's so cute! We've been trying to get one for the station, just so we can say we have one - y'know, to impress the hipsters - but they're well out of my budget. How did you get one?

ARCHIVIST:

I - Uh, it was here when I got the job, it was my predecessor's.

JAMES:

Wow, well, I'm jealous. [GIGGLES] A little tempted for thievery…

ARCHIVIST:

...Right. Would you like to begin your statement?

JAMES:

Oh, yeah, of course.

ARCHIVIST:

Alright. Statement of Frank James, radio DJ at -

JAMES:

Frankie. 

ARCHIVIST:

[PAUSE] Frankie James, radio DJ at Tranzishon Rock, London, regarding…?

JAMES:

Uh, a series of...obscene phone calls from an unknown person. 

ARCHIVIST:

Recorded direct from subject by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of The Magnus Institute, 21st of September, 2019. Statement begins.

JAMES:

Ah, so, okay. [SIGHS]

ARCHIVIST:

...Are you alright?

JAMES:

Yeah, I just… [SIGHS] I have a hard time...getting words out. I'm not...articulate.

ARCHIVIST:

Would I be able to help?

JAMES:

How would you? It's in my head.

ARCHIVIST:

[SIGHS] You'd be surprised. [PAUSES] When did it start? The phone calls.

JAMES: 

On my show. I have a radio show at Tranzishon, late nights, 7 till 10, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Towards the end of the show, from 9 till 10, we do a requests hour. Listeners call, or text, or tweet, or send a carrier pigeon, to ask us to play songs. The last one is only if they're fancy.

ARCHIVIST:

[SNORTS]

JAMES:

[PAUSES]

ARCHIVIST:

[PAUSES] Sorry. You were saying?

JAMES:

[LAUGHS FAINTLY, A LITTLE BREATHLESS] Ah, yeah, erm… [AMUSED] I can't quite remember where I was…

ARCHIVIST:

The requests hour?

JAMES:

Yes! Okay, so, er, I was announcing the requests hour, reading out our phone number and the twitter account, and as soon as I had finished reading the phone number, we got a call. I- We've got a small team of techies - well, two - that handle incoming calls, texts, tweets, whatever. One, Paul, looked up from the switchboard at me and put me through to the listener, and I did my usual spiel. Y'know: [RADIO VOICE] You're listening to Frankie at Tranzishon rock, dear listener, what's your request?

[NORMAL VOICE] And they didn't say anything. There was dead air for a couple of seconds, then as I began to say 'Anybody there?' my headphones are blown out by the sudden high volume. The person on the other end must have been right up on the mic, because there was an immense amount of feedback and white noise. I'm sort of thankful for that, 'cause it nearly covered up what they had to say.

[PAUSES] [DEEP BREATH] I... don't want to repeat what they said. Suffice to say, the techies had some lightning speed reaction time when they cut off the line. There was more dead air as I tried to recover from the shock, I think I made a joke about them wanting the number for Babestation instead.

ARCHIVIST:

[LAUGHS]

JAMES:

[PAUSES] [LAUGHS, WEAKLY] Yeah… Ah, so, w-we banned that number so they wouldn't call again, and I ended the show with Pretty Fly (For a White Guy) by The Offspring. Because I cope with bad experiences by burying them with humour. 

[UNDER HIS BREATH] Give it to me, baby. [EVEN QUIETER] Uh huh, uh huh. 

[COUGHS]

Uh. Anyway. I went home, had my day off, and went back into work the next night and tried to forget about what happened. And for the most part, I did. The first 2 hours passed without incident, and then when I announced the requests hour, I joked about the caller the other day. My techies looked at each other nervously as I laughed. I gave them a questioning look, but said nothing. I'd ask them after the show. I read the number and twitter and waited for the requests to roll in. Again, we had another phone call straight away. I said my spiel, and my heart was in my throat as I waited for the caller to speak. I looked at my techies. Sheena, my other tech, shrugged at me. I sighed, about to give them a signal to cut them off and answer someone else when the feedback returned, louder and more harsh this time. I threw my headphones onto the desk in front of me, but I still heard the words spilling out of them.

[SWALLOWS] Y'know that scene in Silence of the Lambs? Where Lecter asks Clarice to repeat what that other inmate had said to her? Y'know - [SOUTHERN AMERICAN ACCENT] 'He said, I can smell your cunt.'

ARCHIVIST:

Good lord.

JAMES:

Yeah. It was a bit like that. There was a lot more...squelching with mine, though. Ugh. The techs cut the call, as I knew they would. I was more than a little pissed off. I started playing a song someone had tweeted and turned off my mic, turning to my techies. I asked them, why didn't you ban them like you said you would last time? Sheena said she did, that she guessed they were using a payphone or something to harass us. Paul tentatively asked if we should inform the police, and I told him to F off. We've had no help from coppers in the past when we had Nazis and TERFs flooding our lines calling us all sorts of shit, why would they help now? Cops avoid gays like the plague unless its for propaganda. So, Paul backed down. 

Before the song ended, I quickly mentioned that maybe we shouldn't take calls anymore, just texts and tweets. I didn't want it to come to that, not really. I ended the show again with a song from a small local band, earning me a shoutout on their twitter. That felt good, at least.

I went home, picking up a 6-pack of Stella on the way. I wanted to make sure I slept that night. As I sat on the tube, a good 20 minute journey to my flat, my phone began to ring. At that moment, it didn't strike me that it shouldn't have been able to get any reception underground, yet there it was, ringing in my hand. I was more annoyed at it interrupting my music, but I answered anyway. It was the same fucking caller. I couldn't hit the 'disconnect' button fast enough. But I still heard what he said. [LAUGHS SHAKILY] At least the guy has some imagination. Never the same thing twice. [VOICE BREAKS, STUTTERING] I looked around the tube to see if anyone would be witnessing my quickly approaching panic attack, and finding no-one in the compartment with me, I broke down. The next 15 minutes passed with a blur, and then I reached my station, tears stopping as fast as they had came. 

I stepped off the tube and started walking in the direction towards my flat, and my phone started ringing again. My breath caught in my chest as I froze on the pavement, phone vibrating away in my pocket. I picked it up, screen lit up and facing toward the ground. Slowly, I turned it up, half shutting my eyes, as if the person on the other end wouldn't be able to see me if I couldn't see the phone. [SIGHS] Stupid. It was my mum's phone number. I answered, talked with her for a little bit - she lives a ways away, I don't get to see her a lot - and said goodnight when I got to my flat. I got blackout and passed out on my couch when I got in. Yeah, I know I'm a lightweight. When I woke up at 12pm, my TV was still on, replaying the DVD menu for Black Christmas - the 1974 version. I guess in my Stella-crazed state I was desperate to watch it again.

The entire day, I left my phone switched off. My boss won't be too pleased with me, especially after 2 shows of mine had very explicit profanity, thanks to our mystery caller, but I didn't care. 

[PAUSES]

Listen, I-I know, alright? I know it sounds stupid, I know I probably sound like a pearl-clutching housewife, how scandalous that I'm terrified of a few dirty phonecalls, but...you didn't hear them. You wouldn't want to hear them. Paul, Sheena, and I certainly didn't. At least they only heard them at the station…

Thankfully, on the Friday, we had decided not to do requests hour. Yeah, a few listeners would be upset, but the more loyal listeners would understand when one person ruins it for everyone else. We just settled for the last hour of the show to be requests from Paul and Sheena. Strangely enlightening, but I don't wish to hear any more Phil Collins than is necessary. And with Paul, he seems to think 10 songs is necessary. It isn't.

ARCHIVIST:

[OFFENDED] What's wrong with Phil Collins?

JAMES:

Apart from the fact that we're a punk rock station?

ARCHIVIST:

Fair enough. You were saying?

JAMES:

Okay, so, ah… I was on my way home again, and had all but forgotten the mystery caller. We'd figured it had just been some weirdo that got bored of us cutting him off. But as I was walking from the tube station from my flat, I heard that ear-splitting feedback again. Doubling over in pain, I reached up to pull my headphones off, only to find that I had left them at the radio station. I pressed my fists to my ears, crumpling to the ground as the whine of someone being too close to a microphone pierced my eardrums. I felt something cold trickle out of my ear. I didn't have to check my hand to guess that it was blood. I hyperventilated as I lay on the ground. Something was shouting, screaming at me, screeching slurs and threats of what it wanted to do to me, what it will do to me. I remember vomiting, and then blacking out as the overlapping cacophony reached a fever pitch.

I woke up not too far from where I had passed out, £10 and a phone lighter. It was probably some homeless guy who took them, and honestly, I'm not too bothered. I'm more angry no-one took me to a doctor or something. I think, the last thing I saw before I passed out was someone standing in the distance. Staring. Yeah, it could have been some rando, but the image stuck with me.

They were silhouetted against the bright signs of the takeaways on the street behind them, hands stretching too far down, a little too tall. I might have been delusional or in the throes of oxygen deprivation or something, but I swear I saw it smile as I lost consciousness. 

I haven't been back to my flat. I've been staying with Sheena for the past couple of days. She's alright, but I can tell she wants me out. She doesn't want what's happening to me to happen to her. 

ARCHIVIST:

Statement ends. ...Are you alright?

JAMES:

[SNIFFS] Er, I - Uh, I should be, in a bit. Thanks for, uh...I don't know. Listening?

ARCHIVIST:

It's my job. 

JAMES:

Is that it then? What happens now?

ARCHIVIST:

We'll get in contact with you if we find anything out.

JAMES:

Oh! Then, you'll probably need this then. [SCRIBBLING]

ARCHIVIST:

[SHOCKED NOISE] Wh- What are you doing?

JAMES:

Giving you my phone number, what's it look like?

ARCHIVIST:

Well, I'm sure you can give it to me on paper, not my hand! And didn't you say your phone was stolen?

JAMES:

[SCRIBBLING STOPS] Oh. Yeah. Well, if I ever get it back, then. You know where to call.

ARCHIVIST:

R-Right. Goodbye, Mr. James.

JAMES:

Frankie.

ARCHIVIST:

...Goodbye, Frankie.

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST:

Mr. James -- Frankie's behaviour was certainly... strange during our conversation. He kept looking at me, pausing and then quickly looking away again, having to restart his sentence whenever he did so. Maybe he realised that he had virtually no evidence to back up his testimony. The only witnesses we have are this Sheena and Paul, and they can only back up the instances of the phone calls happening at the radio station, not anywhere else. Conveniently, Frankie does not appear to record his mobile phone calls, so we have no evidence the phone call on the tube happened. Assuming it even could happen.

Furthermore, his constant stuttering only made me think he was making the whole thing up. Maybe he just wants a story for his show. He --

TIM:

Knock, knock. Was that Frankie James?

ARCHIVIST:

Yes, i-it was -- Tim, saying 'Knock, knock' is not a good substitute for knocking. 

TIM:

Did I hear you saying that he was making it up because he was stuttering?

ARCHIVIST:

Well, yes. It's a common tell for lying.

TIM:

It's a common tell for a huge goddamn crush.

ARCHIVIST:

What?

TIM:

Oh, come on. You didn't notice?

ARCHIVIST:

No, n-no, I didn't.

TIM:

Jon, he was the colour of a tomato. He wrote his phone number on your hand! Look, he even drew a heart, for god's sake.

ARCHIVIST:

[MUTTERING] Hmm, yes, I suppose it does look like a heart… No, don't be ridiculous, Tim.

TIM:

[IN A SING-SONG VOICE] Jon has got a boyfriend, Jon has got a boyfriend!

ARCHIVIST:

Are you twelve?! Get out! [SOMETHING CLATTERS ON THE GROUND]

TIM:

Ow! Stop throwing staples at me!

[CRASHING SOUND]

[CLICK]

[codyfernaesthetic]

Chocolate part 2

(Part two finally up! Enjoy!)

Feeling the panic rise in your throat, you whirl back to face the stage, still empty, but beginning to move as if going backward. A man appears...disappears...appears...disappears...He looks like Mark, you think for a moment. A horrifying ringing shoots through the air, surrounding you. You cover your ears, but to no avail; it screams louder. You hear creaking, as if reality itself was being forced to bend and contort far beyond its capabilities; warped and molded to fit some twisted design. The world is drained of color, desaturated into a dull gray; flashes of red and blue streaks pulse and blur your vision. The room splits into different parts, shrinking and multiplying; you see them all at the same time, as if staring into a million glitching TV screens with the same image. They begin to converge; making your line of vision smaller and smaller until they become a tiny ball of light which is immediately gone; blown out like a candle. Crushing darkness wraps around you like a python, squeezing every breath from your lungs. That horrible ringing pierces through your ears, stabbing its way into your mind.

In the middle of the darkness, Mark appears inches away from you...no, it can’t be Mark. His skin is gray, surrounded by those flashes of blue and red. His maliciously excited grin seems almost distorted. His black irises borough into you.

“Did you miss me?”

His voice slides over your skin like oil, seeping into your bones, violating every sensibility you have. You try to move, but he holds you captive with a paralyzing gaze; his words become invisible chains weighing you to the black void.

“I missed you...very much,” he continued, savoring every word with predatory pleasure. He clasps his hands behind his back and craned his neck, “I’ve been waiting a long time to see you again.”

A calm realization was able to slip through your panicked thoughts and remind you...you knew him. You’d noticed his influence from the beginning. All those times Mark wasn’t acting quite like himself...all those strange shadow figures and faces appearing in older videos...whenever Mark seemed to slip off the precipice of sanity and become possessed by something...dark, it was him.

And now he was making a personal appearance.

The dark figure’s tone became biting, frustrated, “I’ve been pushed aside...replaced...mocked. And then he had the gall to not invite me to his little adventure with you. No more. Never again.”

For a moment your vision blurred, blue and red painting across your eyes as the creature smiled, “It’s my turn now.”

Suddenly you were jerked into clarity, his growling voice rising. He became slightly less composed, gesturing angrily as he complained, “I’ve been waiting patiently! He promised he would let me in again!” He furiously readjusted his tie, in fact you began to notice his infrequent fidgeting, as if breaking in a new piece of clothing that didn’t fit exactly right, “I’m tired of giving people a choice. But,” he sighed, calming himself, “I suppose I could give you one last option. Take your pick!” he gestured with both hands to either side of him, “Anything of...four different choices--more than he’d ever given you--” he added with a flippant snarl, “and let’s see how far down this rabbit hole really goes. So, take your pick. Show me what you’ve got.”

He took your shaking hand, his touch cold and electric, sending sharp chills into every nerve, “And maybe,” he added, his features softening, “we’ll have a good date, after all.”

As he placed a gentle kiss on your knuckles, four sleek, black boxes on marble pedestals appeared on both sides of him. You’re terrified to choose, you’re terrified to refuse. You were immersed in the world of the devil you didn’t know, and playing his game meant survival. Heart pounding, you step forward to inspect your options. Each one is engraved with thin silver letters all reading the same word: FREEDOM.

You scrunched your face in confusion. What kind of joke was this? You wanted to confront him, tell him your options were a sham; how were you supposed to know which one to choose? But perhaps that was the point...you never had a choice, only the illusion of it. You find yourself drawn to the last box on the right, gazing at the mockery sprawled out in the word FREEDOM. Betraying your fear with trembling fingers, you lift the box’s lid, daring to glance inside. You stare at a piece of silk, its color a stark, ungodly white. You reach inside and pick up the long cloth, the warm softness contrasting the frozen harshness of the world around you.

“Good choice,” he commented softly, “But why do we need to choose in life?”

Before you can blink, you’re sitting at the restaurant table once again across from him. For a moment, you think you see a glimmer of sincerity emerge from his eyes like a flame in a dark chasm, “If dinner is what you want, then I can provide. And I can take you anywhere you’d like to go,�� but then he leans in, voice menacingly seductive, “I can especially take you to the places where you don’t want to go. It’s exciting,” he purrs, barely reigning in a sadistic glee, “knowing that there are endless possibilities waiting for you.”

There’s a sudden glitch, a tear in the illusion’s fabric. He erupts, demonically screaming, “I CAN GIVE YOU ANYTHING!”

It temporarily mends, but he’s disoriented, taking deeper breaths, “I’ve been waiting a long time to get some personal time between us.”

His rage slashes into view again, animalistic, “THERE’S NOTHING YOU OR HE CAN DO TO STOP ME!”

“So,” he snaps back into composure, fixing his tie once more, smiling, “now that we’re here together...we can really get to know each other,” he glitched one last time, a raw scream ripping from his throat.

He offers a caring look, just a friend offering what’s best, “You just need to let me in. It’s as simple as that.”

The silken cloth which you had forgotten you were still holding, began to move; taking on its own life. It crept around your arm, almost like an animal nuzzling close to you, showing a sign of friendship, of affection. Its grip was warm, comforting, like a place of safety. You felt every fear melt away, suddenly wanting desperately to feel the silken embrace on your whole body, on your very soul. The table had disappeared, you were enwrapped in a euphoric mist, floating in the dark, now deeply soothing. He was behind you, inching closer with every released ounce of terror until you felt him at your back. You breathe in a contented sigh and lean your head against his chest, all apprehension disintegrated. His hand traced itself down the cloaked arm, and then found its way up to your shoulder; his touch just as cold, yet more like a soothing balm on an open wound than frostbite. Your peace is shattered with a sharp sting in your veins. You gasp wide-eyed at the blistering white viper crushing your arm, sinking its fangs deeper into your skin. You struggle in vain to throw it off, but he holds you still, his bruising grip tightening like the viper’s. You scream into the void, pain overtaking you.

A violent power rips you out of the blackness and searing pain. You stand blinking in the sun, dazed and reeling. He stands before you, the harsh daylight blurring his glitching form.

“You’re never ever going to escape. Not now--”

Suddenly he begins to shake, gritting his teeth and clutching his side. He emits an animalistic roar, a spear of white light slicing open his chest, that penetrating ringing cutting through your mind. You’re then enwrapped in blackness, groping at nothingness, your scream your only defense. The daylight slashes through and wrenches you back to reality. Your heart feels as if it will punch its way out of your chest, adrenalin shoots through your veins, exacerbated by the impossible sight in front of you.

Two Marks, standing on either side. Both of them begging with terrified eyes and rushed voices, “Shoot him! Shoot him now, please!”

A gun, deadly cold and unbearably heavy is in your shaking grip. You frantically look back and forth between them, unable to hold back tears pouring down your face, trying to make the right decision. You close your eyes. You aim.

Time slows to a crawl. The crack of the gunshot...the pained wheezing of one of the Marks...your eyes slowly opening...

Mark runs up to you, hugging you close, assuring you gently, “You made the right call. Come here, it’s ok. It’s ok.”

You barely let him go for a long time, refusing to even release his hand as the two of you slowly made your way towards a little ice cream parlor on the corner. You had apologized over and over again, but he wouldn’t hear it. He let you cry into his chest, slowly stroking your hair to calm you, “It’s ok. We’re here now.”

He was so kind, so gentle and warm. He was Mark, thank God.

You sat down at the outside table and buried your face in your hands while he ordered your ice cream. You took deep breaths, holding back the urge to cry again. When he returns and accidentally bumps into the table, you jump, just holding back a scream. He takes your hands, assuring you once more, “It’s going to be all right. Just relax.”

He smiles and sits down, “We’ll just enjoy some nice, dairy-based treats. And get to know each other; really, personally,” he indicates to the bowl in front of you, “Go ahead.”

You take a long look at him, his smiling eyes and kind demeanor. You return the smile, looking down at your bowl and feeling a kind of childish excitement spring up. You did always love chocolate.

The world goes silent. Your vision turns to hazy gray, tinted red and blue. Your heart drops into the pit of your stomach. You trace your gaze upwards to look into the evil grin of Darkiplier, “Oops...” he offers sardonically, “looks like you made the wrong choice,” his grin stretches into a crazed toothy smile, “But now we’re going to be together...forever.”

Another box, much like the ones he had presented before appeared on the table, this time with the phrase: Try Again? written across the top. Relief washes over you. It doesn’t have to end like this! You can fix everything! You hastily reach for the box to tear off the lid only to have it faze through your hand, your desperate touch never finding it to be real. in your hands. Dark’s cold hand finally grabs yours, squeezing it possessively.

He whispers, and you hear it echo in your mind.

”No more choices.”

[sp00kworm]

Resurgence (Castlevania:LoS fanfiction) Chapter Two

Summary:  The infected and followers of Satan have all been extinguished. Monsters are a rarity and the world seems to teeter on the thin line of peace. The world has rebuilt itself after the night of chaos and death, and life has returned to some sort of normality with people having long since returned to work and running through the daily routine of life. The Prince of Darkness, however, has been cooped up in his Castle, slowly falling between the lines of reality and memory as he looses his grip on his own mind. What will the finding of a chest amongst the rubble do for his sanity? Perhaps a revelation is what he needs in order to regain his grip on the reality of the world.

A03 Link

Chapter 1   Chapter 3  

Nought but an Illusion

Dracula watched his first born coil like a cobra against the plush cushions of the seat, stiff and tense, his body rigid. Alucard slowly turned his gaze to peer at the ceiling, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes closed in something akin to exasperation. The vampire lord found himself grinding his teeth as his son looked at him with pity filled golden eyes, his lithe body still tightly strung and tension filled as he battled internally with his own feelings. Alucard pushed himself up into a sitting position and curled his claws into the plush stuffing of the high backed sofa, in an attempt to quell his violent outburst of anger, and to reign in the patience, he had spent a millennia honing.

“Father...you-you can't have seen her, the real woman you loved. She's been dead well over a thousand years now and not to mention, she was gone after-” Dracula growled, slumping back into the arm chair, his red eyes dangerous as he mulled over the vision he had just witnessed. He knew what he had seen. It may not have been his love, but she was extraordinarily like her, damnably so. The woman's face was a perfect picture of what he remembered, what he had been plagued by for years in his fortress- alone. Meeting Alucard's wet eyes he grumbled lowly before replying.

“I know what I saw, boy. She's dead. I know that more than any. I saw her ascend to the heavens without me that day. But, Alucard, I know that face. And the face of this woman...it was just like her. It was like looking at an exact replica of Marie.” The words slowly died on his tongue as he peered at the dark, night sky that hung over the city. “I know what I saw...I know...” Alucard sighed and rubbed his face gently, trying to take what his father was saying seriously.

The delusions his father had been having had grown increasingly common. He didn't know what was true when Dracula spoke anymore. So, of course, he had doubts about the truth of this relic's power. His golden eyes stared at the crystal orb, still perched on top of the dusty silk pillow. The bright blue light had dimmed to a weak glow due to the two powerful figures in the room, but the see through properties of the crystal were diminished, as it was clouded with swirling, blue tinged mist. His father was slumped in the large arm chair, brooding, falling into the twisted spiral of his own depression all over again. Eyes hard, Alucard raised his head to peer into his father's haunted eyes.

“You speak the truth, do you not, father?” Dracula met his gaze, his face a definition of anguish. Abruptly, he turned away,  heaving himself up and onto his feet in a swift, graceful movement before he swept his hand across the table across the room, sending the chalices, books and papers flying into the air to try and spend some pent up anger.

“I do not need to sit here and be questioned by you. You think I have lost my wits- lost my mind?! I have not, son! What I saw was real!” Alucard's lips tightened into a thin line, his brows furrowed low as he forced himself to be silent. Retaliation, he had found, only fuelled his father's rage. Dracula growled at his silence and whipped around before he stalked across the room and to the door. Alucard stood and disappeared in a cloud of bats before he reappeared in front of his father, blocking the exit out of the room.

Dracula growled, stalking ever closer to his son, until they were toe to toe, their noses almost touching. His fangs clicked against his bottom teeth and his breath fanned out across Alucard's cheeks as he spoke.

“Out of my way, boy.” The prince's voice was low and dangerous, but Alucard merely blinked, holding steadfast in the face of the power of his maker. He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest, adjusting his stance so his weight was leant more on his right leg.

“Father you need to calm yourself. You can't have seen her. She ascended back to heaven long ago, after you defeated Satan.”

“You think me crazy do you not?” Dracula spat out venomously from between gritted teeth, his fangs glinting in the low light. Alucard did not need to reply, but lowered his gaze to his heeled boots. His father laughed, a few short, harsh bursts of air, that echoed off the stone walls, “Then if you think me deranged...” he took three steps backwards, before spreading his legs in a lower, fighting stance, “Put. Me. Down.”.

Alucard was quick to shift his weight backwards as Dracula launched himself forward with an inhuman burst of speed. The claws of the vampire lord skimmed over the bone of his cheek, the air whipping Alucard's white hair around as the hand withdrew and was sent forwards again in a flurry of punches. Dracula growled in anger as his son sped rgiht in a ray of blue light, effectively dodging the blows aimed for his vitals. Alucard skidded to a stop,before he reached to his left hip and flicked his fingers out in a sign, opening the small pocket dimension he controlled. Quickly, he reached in and withdrew his fabled weapon in a flash of light. Dracula only watched as his son pointed the sword at him, his sword arm extended out, and his hold on the grip tight with anger.

“Father, please, don't make me do this.” Dracula merely flicked his wrist, the Void Sword materialising from his palm in a burst of cold blue light. The sword glowed, the runes on the blade rippling with pulses of energy as its master swung it out, in a large arc, to his side. A sadistic grin curled his lips upwards, revealing his predatory fangs.

“Its too late for that now, son.” He spat the word in disgust, meeting Alucard's eyes before gripping the cold blade harder and launching himself forwards.

The void blade met with the Crissaegrim emitting a resounding clang, as they slid across each other. The metal of the Crissaegrim was unaffected by the freezing power of the Void Sword and Alucard shook slightly against the sheer brute strength of his father. Dracula's blade slid down to the cross guard of the Crissaegrim. He flicked his wrist, forcing the power upwards onto the underside of the sword. Anticipating this move, Alucard drew his blade backwards and pirouetted around his father before taking the grip in two hands and forcefully pushing the weapon forwards, through the air in a rapid succession of brutal strikes. Dracula growled parrying the quick blows with swipes of the Void Sword, from left to right and right to left, which pushed the Crissaegrim's blows aside. He was quick to burst into mist and whirled around the other vampire before reappearing and jumping into the air. The cold creation sliced through the air in a downwards arc, a blur of blue light as it headed for Alucard's exposed back. Before the blade could meet flesh Alucard spun and raised the Crissaegrim, holding it horizontally to meet with the Void Sword in another clang of unnatural metal and energy. The blades scrapped against each other as both vampires pushed forward with unnatural strength. Alucard withdrew backwards slightly lowering his stance a little, and, as he predicted, his father fell for the opportunity to get in a blow and was met with a quick flick of the wrist, sending his sword to the side, and then a swipe across the chest. Dracula hissed in pain, but drew his sword up to defend himself from another cunning blow. The wound on his chest dripped with thick blood but quickly began healing itself over slowly. Dracula flicked the Void Sword upwards in a swooping arc and flew through the air. Again the blow was met, Alucard's arms shaking with the effort of blocking the point of the sword. The blade slid atop the Crissaegrim and sliced into the flesh of Alucard's shoulder.

Both vampires dodged backwards, blood dripping from their wounds. Alucard growled and held his sword by his side.

“Father! Come to your senses! Stop this!” Dracula growled raising the Void Sword to strike once more, but faltered. His pupils dilated as he drew closer to Alucard. His grip on his sword loosened as the image of his little son appeared before him. Trevor smiled with warm eyes, his toys in hand and held them behind his back. With a sudden flash of light, the sword vanished and Dracula took a few steps back, clenching his pale hands into fists as he turned away from his son. Alucard let out a small sigh of relief and sheathed the Crissaegrim back in his pocket dimension. He then stepped closer to his father, but the right words to say eluded him. Dracula's claws ripped into the flesh of his palms and gloopy dark coloured blood dripped from the small tears in his skin, onto the cobbles beneath them.

“Father, please, what-” Alucard's voice was sympathetic but he was cut off by a low growl.

“Don't.” His father held up a clawed, pale palm, the skin of it slowly healing over the wounds, “I don't need your pity.” Alucard was quick to move in an attempt to block his exit, but the Prince of Darkness anticipated the movement, evaporating into a cloud of mist and dodging to the other side of the room. The red and black cloud swirled and reformed into the dark image of the vampire lord, his eyes glowing red. Alucard followed his gaze to the window and moved quickly in a cloud of bats towards the glass pane. He was too late as Dracula had already evaporated into mist and moved through the bats and around him, as he reformed himself in front of the window. Alucard shivered  as the cold mist caressed his limbs and swivelled to see his father reform, the window already open wide. He frowned and watched as Dracula turned and launched himself out of the window, his dark wings flapping as he rose over the city.

The castle loomed in the distance. Dracula had made sure he'd flown as far away as possible. He needed to clear his mind, and the presence of his son amidst the endless tricks of the castle meant that was nigh on impossible to achieve. The city had recovered from the ruin and chaos caused by Satan and his acolytes that fateful evening, and a sense of normality had been achieved. The buildings had been repaired and the dead buried, and the humans beneath him bustled around in metal canisters that moved on four wheels, larger ones on up to twelve. He had learnt the names of these contraptions from Zobek and his lieutenant, also known as his son is disguise, when they had been on a mission to save the world. Apparently they were a much more efficient way to get around than questing for months on end to the other side of the globe. People roamed the streets beneath him, darkness having just fallen, with phones and bags, heading here and there, all seemingly in a hurry to get somewhere or another. His sensitive ears caught snippets of conversations from the roof top he was stood upon. Some bumped into each other, but no one apologised, they only gave each other disgusted looks as they walked away. This new, modern world was strange and so unlike the world he grew up in, killing dark forces, questing for glory, and, to fulfil his destiny and his fate. This world had no belief in the things he fought and did. It was a strange yet blissfully ignorant world. But he supposed that made his life a little easier. No one would suspect a vampire of killing people, it would just be the fault of another murderer, like the thousands already out there in the world.

Dropping down, unnoticed, into a small alleyway, he became aware that his attire in this age was not exactly inconspicuous. Tight leather and armour would probably arouse suspicion amongst the mortals wearing t-shirts and trousers. After watching a few humans walk past, with very strange and vibrant hair colours, he focused, the blood forming his clothes pulling apart and whipping around to form more reserved, and frankly, more covering garments. A dark black shirt covered his chest, fastened up a little more than half way, the lacy cuffs falling over the backs of his hands, clipped in place with small ruby cuff links. The long red coat he donned shifted shape a little, the shoulder guards disappeared and most of the gold embellishments vanished, reappearing as golden buttons down the front. His leather breaches became looser and his metal plated boots only leather, the plates became patterns near the knee. Opening his eyes he sighed and looked down at himself. It would have to do, though it meant that feeding was probably out of the question, cleaning the blood out of his shirt would probably be a little more trouble than it was worth. He walked slowly out of the alley and paused for a moment before striding into the crowds, weaving between people as he began a languid nightly stroll.

The city was extremely busy. People ran, walked and jogged in every direction, bags in hand. It was  a strange site compared to the chaos, and it had a stunning effect on him. Compared to what he knew, the small village markets and set days for every aspect of life. Church on a Sunday, markets for specific items on separate days- there were no routines like those he grew up with anymore. Dracula pondered as he walked down the black tarmac paths, and turned to peer up at a large sign for a shopping district. The enormous TV flashed vibrant colours and phrases scrolled across the screen about the various sales and the shops they were in. A large metal sign was hung a few metres over the revolving doors. 'White Wolf Centre' He rolled his eyes. Of course they still hoped to see the legendary white wolf appear on the hill top to howl at the full moon. Many claimed to have seen his son voicing his protests about Dracula's own actions against the children of God. Alucard also claimed to have done it once, when they had fought and Dracula had been, or they had thought he had been, vanquished. Unluckily for them, he was very much alive, but bided his time before his return to the world of men. The siege they had sent against him had been very fun to tear apart, but he quelled his blood lust and continued walking, past the strange rotating doors. At least when he had been a man, doors only opened and closed- why did they need to rotate?

The hustle and bustle only grew more intense as he reached the edge of the Downtown district of Castlevania City. The office blocks grew taller and taller as he strolled along. More and more men and women dressed in shirts, blouses, trousers and skirts walked along side him and passed him in the street. They paid him little attention, most looking as though they had not slept for a few days, dragging their feet as they plodded on, homeward bound. Dracula's eyes flickered from left to right, discreetly, as he watched the people pass him, wary about each and everyone of them. Humans could not be trusted, but, in hindsight, nor could he. For all they knew, he could be another axe-murderer prowling the streets for fresh meat. No one knew anyone, and the suspicious nature that everyone carried seemed to have not changed. Even when he was a man, on the road to complete a journey for glory and honour, no one had trusted anyone they met on the long roads, though few travelled the dark paths, the small amount of, non-bloodthirsty creatures he met along the way did not trust him, just as he did not trust them. He was glad that at least a few things had remained the same in the long period he had been asleep. Dracula moved to the left of the large crowds and turned the corner again, heading left towards a large intersection. Cars ambled along behind each other as the traffic lights turned from red, to amber, and finally to green, before whizzing across the open road and veering left or right, or zooming straight ahead. When the lights changed again the cars rolled to a halt once more. People then strode across the tarmac, their shoes, clicking and thumping monotonously as they moved as a herd across the road.

Dracula watched for a moment as the mortals crossed, some jogging, others walking, before he made a move, pushing himself off of the wall to join the crowd that had gathered again, waiting to cross the road. A few of the people surrounding him gave him a strange look. A woman eyed him from the corner of her eyes, fighting off a blush as she tapped at her phone, also waiting for the lights to change to red. He found himself smirking a little and his gaze slipped to the side, eyeing the young girl as she typed a message on her screen. Her bright blue eyes crawled slowly away from her typing and she peeked at him again, not realising she'd been discovered. Her eyes met his own red ones and her cheeks lit up with a bright pink blush as she gapped slightly. His smirk only widened as she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear and removed it, only to repeat the habit again, glancing from left to right, unsure where to aim her gaze. Dracula found himself chuckling despite himself and he quickly dodged through the people around him, twisting left and right quicker than the human eye could comprehend.

Eventually, the girl's eyes dragged back to the spot where he once was and she was shocked to not see him surrounded by the men and women on their phones. The girl turned her head rapidly, trying to find a glimpse of him again. She jumped, her elbows knocking into his chest as he laid a cool hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm beneath his palm and a sudden urge to rip into the flesh overwhelmed him for a moment, until he recollected himself. She turned her head, peering over her shoulder, and gave out a meek squeak as she came face to face with the handsome man she had been eyeing up through the crowd. Her heels clicked as she turned to face him, once again tucking hair behind her ear and removing it, before repeating the action. Her other hand fiddled with the strap of her bag on her shoulder. A grin curled his lips upwards as her eyes flickered and roamed over the bulges of his shirt over his chest and abdomen. His eyes dimmed, trying to take on a more steely tone, as he addressed the shy girl.

“I haven't been flattered with a lady's gaze in quite some time.” A chuckle rumbled deep in his chest and the poor girl shuffled slightly on the balls of her feet, her cheeks pink with a bright and prominent blush.

“Well ah- I didn't- I wasn't...” She quickly became even more flustered and Dracula smiled at her, his teeth a bright white, slicing through the air.

“I'm not offended, merely flattered, calm yourself.” She cocked her head to the side, but didn't question him, bowing her head low before backing away slightly.

“Well, I'm sorry sir, and well, ah, um- I'll just be going now!” A cool hand on her waist made her pause before she whirled around and shoved at him, red in the face, and made a quick escape through the crowd of closely packed bodies. He chuckled. The shy types always managed to get away from him, even as a young man. At least his age had not diminished his looks. Well, its not like he could age or wither- he was a vampire after all.

The lights quickly changed to red and he found himself moving across the street with the herd of people. His dark, ink coloured hair clung to his jaw as the breeze blew it askew. Dracula raked a hand through his hair as he walked along side the mass of humans, his coat billowing behind him as he strode forwards. A sudden wave of uncertainty took over him as he slowed his pace, walking with small steps, forwards. The people around him moved too fast for him to register faces and Dracula's eyebrows furrowed as he kept moving with a warier edge. As he reached the middle of the road he managed to pull his line of sight up from his black leather boots and locked his heavy gaze upon the woman he had dreaded to face, smack in front of him. Her dark brown, almost black hair, was looped backwards at the nape of her neck and twisted into a practical braid, a gold metal band held it in place more than half way down her back. A phone was held to her ear and the blouse, skirt, tights, blazer and small heeled shoes made it more than obvious he was some sort of office worker. As she clicked the button on her phone, her deep hazel, almost golden eyes, looked up at him for a moment before turning her attention to her bag which was clutched in her hand, the other holding a large portfolio. Dracula found himself utterly mesmerised, and unable to stop gawking at the woman, the memory, walking straight towards him. She didn't see him until her forehead met his chest.

She bounced off the solid muscle a little and pinched her eyes shut, adjusting her bags to rub at the small red mark where the skin had made contact with a golden button of his jacket. The button, embellished with a small dragon head, had left a nice mark, right in the middle of her forehead. She huffed, rubbing at the spot, and it was then that Dracula found his voice.

“Forgive me, I was not looking where I was going.” Brows still furrowed she looked up at him, cracking a small, gentle smile.

“Don't worry. It's fine. I seem to be a little bit of an airhead today anyway.” She chuckled at him before quickly dodging around his imposing figure, so much taller than her own. “Well, I'll be on my way. Sorry again.” And with that, she was gone, across the road and striding down the paths with the grace of a swan. His mouth was dry. He did not think that what he had seen could possibly have been true, but as he watched her braided hair gently sway behind her as she moved further and further away from him, he found a strange emptiness took over his heart.

It was cold and strange. The icy layers he had built many years ago seemed to have thawed in a second, and it left a gaping hole that he had plugged upon his vow of vengeance. A hole that demanded his love. The hole that sometimes drove him to the brink of madness, and made him contemplate his own demise. It was the desperation to be with his love, his true love, in the heavens...But now, he found it longing for something else. It was pulling him towards that woman. And for the moment, he didn't know why. But he was surely going to find out. And so, as the cars around him honked their horns, he turned on his heel, shooting them all snarls, and resolved to follow her.

[troyeoakdizzle]

set a match to it - Ian x Mickey

His lips were rubbery. Lukewarm and incessant. Silence crowded around them awkwardly, like the harsh bathroom light flickering above the mirror. It amplified every sticky smack of saliva and brush of jean and each squeak the sink made as they moved. It gave too much space to every fucking whine that escaped his throat. His hot breath steamed against the glass and scolded across Ian’s neck but Ian was cold. Ian wasn’t even sweating. Ian’s dick was already limp.

A pathetic sigh shivered over Ian’s spine as the guy came and threw his forehead down on Ian’s shoulder. His fingertips pressed fleeting bruises into his skin and Ian continued to thrust into him. In, out. In, out... ‘He’s turning your back into a table so he doesn’t have to eat off the floor.’ His stare hardened onto the misted glass where his eyes were concealed, the dark shape of his figure like the shadow that walked behind his body. He was growing colder. So much so his mind was drifting to picking his shirt from the tiles. Frowning to himself as he tried to find his own completion, his satisfaction, he faltered over the images that appeared like moth wings kicking at his irises. The lines in his forehead dug deeper. The wings fluttered manically – translucent skin black and white and blue, blue eyes rough gentle hands black and blue – frenzied, feverish, frantic; the skeletal wings battled against the blinks of his eyelashes until Ian raised his gaze to the artificial light and the creatures bleached to white. The fragile wings crumbled from his vision and Ian swallowed as though their sandpaper kiss settled to lay in his lungs.

“Let me,” the guy breathed, slipping to the dirty floor. Stumbling back on his heels, Ian vaguely acknowledged the guy’s lips around his cock, sucking him clean, but he didn’t even remember his name anymore. Air from the ceiling fan hummed and entered his head, weighing him down with the feeling of being hollow. 

Black and white and blue. A cold bruise, deep beneath the skin. A stubborn bitch. They were the colours in Mickey’s eyes when he’d left him at the border.

Suddenly restless, Ian pushed on the top of the boy’s head with palms like cool candle wax, and fished his puddle of a shirt from the floor. The bar was startlingly loud as he slipped through the crowd, but the echo of his footsteps down familiar streets was louder. Back at the club, the boy lifted himself to standing on shaky legs and rubbed his knees. The hum of the fan sneered at him and he slammed his foot against the wall. The pads of his thumbs worked thunderstorms into his phone as he located Ian’s name – Ian Gallagher – and pressed delete.

Smoke dissipated into the night sky above the roof of the Gallagher house. It trailed down to between Fiona’s fingers, like slender stems when held before the pretty rosebud of her lips. She retained the warmth of the summer’s day even as the evening sunk the heat to the ground and draped cool shadows onto the pulsing earth. When Ian rounded the corner, like a gust of wind, Fiona’s lips tilted and the muscles on her back tensed.

“So who was this one?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey,” Fiona sighed, tugging on Ian’s sleeve as went to skip past her on the steps. She offered her cigarette and Ian plucked it from her hand, taking a desperate drag. “I’m only teasing.”

Ian shook his head quietly. The smoke he blew out flickered and stung as the breeze spit it back in his face. Fiona shifted to hug her legs.

“Bad breakup?”

“No breakup,” Ian cut in. His voice had a muted depth, like it had been dragged from his lungs. “Not yet.” He cast the cigarette into the grass and cleared his throat.

Fiona’s cheeks pinched around her mouth as her face softened with sadness. Ian was scratching a hand up into the back of his hair, turning his eyes to the clouds. She could see the child in him. He began tapping his foot vexingly against the wood and Fiona’s gaze dropped to watch it. It was like the ground and sky were too close to him; pressing on him. 

She’d been audience to his agitation the past two months. She’d joked it was like ‘serial dating’, but the joke soon wrung of all humour. It was hope to heartbreak over and over again. And it had worn on him so he now appeared jagged and torn. Fiona wasn’t stupid. Beneath the collected scribbles of names he’d listed off – James to Toby to Mark – lay a brutal attempt to erase the engraved letters of Mickey.

Scuffing the toe of his shoe along the edge of the step, Ian turned, hands dipped into empty pockets, and sloped into the house. He ducked into the doorway and the floorboards creaked with his step. It was like they were crying. He doesn’t belong here; not anymore. The layers of childhood swamped around him. Upstairs, Liam’s toys and schoolbooks spilled into the spaces Ian and Lip had once kept. Fiona’s bed held the creases of her boyfriend, on the right, because her side was the left. The kitchen echoed with the intermittent drip of the tap. The fridge was a patchwork of notes – old photos, new reminders, old invitations, new phone numbers for Carl and Debbie and Lip – Ian had his work number pinned beneath a yellow magnet.

Frank’s old mattress sighed when Ian curled onto it. He pressed his knuckles into his eyelids and willed the guilt to go away. He wasn’t sure if it was for the harshness of his retreat tonight, or for the intoxicating memories of that damn road at the border, and that damn man waiting to cross it.

Tracing circles into her bare thigh, Fiona let her hair dress curtains around her face. 

It was never that Mickey hadn’t been good for Ian, it was that South Side had been good for neither. Maybe they’d always been the refuge for each other. She’d seen Mickey as Ian’s equivalent to her Jimmy Steve, but she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d always known it was wrong. It was never about thrill, not in the same sense; it was about the thrill of knowing you were loved. And Ian was loved. There was nothing volatile about it. What was volatile was their surroundings; from a father dripping blood as he’s handcuffed against a car, to a wedding with a pregnant wife, to the cotton walls of a psychiatric ward and the dust and dirt of a prison.

The thrill of knowing you were loved. Fiona understood that now more than she’d ever understood it before. She curled into her own bed, like the opposite crescent to Ian’s sleeping frame. She felt lonely of the arms that had folded around her just yesterday.

Mottled sunlight leaked through the window come seven-thirty-two. It crawled across the carpet like damp copper leaves, cocooning autumn into the room. Dragging his body from the bedsheets, Ian shifted the grey dust hanging in the air and dropped his legs off the bed. His skin was imprinted with wrinkles as he scratched his outer thigh. Swinging his arm to the right, he felt for the bottles of pills gathered like honeycomb on his bedside. The empty containers knocked into each other as Ian dipped his fingers in search. Valproic Acid, Quetapene...The water bottle crumpled in his fist as he pulled it to his lap. His eyes were sticky and his skin prickled and there was a distant buzzing in the back of his head. The pills dragged against his throat as he swallowed them down. He could feel each sinking behind his heart. Clumsily standing the bottles back in line, Ian pushed weight to his feet and took to standing. The sensation was like clouds colliding and disintegrating against his temples. Everything fell heavy, heaving...He scraped the nail of his index finger along the flesh of his thumb.

Another day. Brush his teeth, eat his breakfast, go to work, go out for drinks... He had come to relish the repetitive. The normality. It was heaven for the boy who’d lost all control. The boy whose day blurred with night, memories muddled like watercolours drained to rainwater. He’d felt like a paper cut-out, without the bone or muscle or brain to help himself. His strength returned once he cast off the impression of being weak, but now the control wasn’t strengthening; it was limiting. Too much one way, too much the other. Too high; too low. But what life was there in the middle?

Sliding his eyes to the side – to the pills – Ian clenched his toes. His body wavered as he sighed deeply. 

Seven-forty-five. 

Restlessness swelled and trembled against his ribcage. His heart pounded. All of a sudden it was stamping. The world crescendoed around him. He closed his eyes and could imagine the autumn leaves leaping from the floor, jerking into violent spirals that crashed against his limbs and battered the walls.

Seven-forty-six. 

‘So it’s summer, so it’s suicide.’ 

His chest lurched and he tripped to grab his bag. Phone, keys, wallet, two bottles from his bedside...They tumbled into the fabric, red like a gut. He skipped breakfast, skipped brushing his teeth. 

No one was awake when he burst into the morning heat, leaving the door to bounce on its hinges.

“Liam! Can you get the door Honey?”

The pot of pasta sizzled with steam, a cosy static mixed with the cheery cartoons playing half-volume on the TV. Draining hot water into the sink, Fiona turned her head a fraction to see the two pairs of blue legs over the top of Liam’s head. “Shit,” she cursed, dropping the sieve with a clatter of plastic and metal. Spots of scalding water crash-landed onto her thighs and lower arms but she just pressed warm palms into her hips and hurried to pull Liam behind her body, hand to shoulder.

“Tony,” Fiona breathed, eyes quickly assessing the scene; light rain on shadowed skin, a bag sagging in the grip of a hand, blue lights silently circling the street and washing over Ian’s face, tucked between the two officers, in sweeping, tired waves.

“Yours?” The second officer smiled, nudging Ian forward by the elbow. Ian stumbled over the toes of his feet and his head swayed somewhat precariously on his neck.

“Yes,” Fiona laughed, but concern bled into the lines by her mouth and eyes; age reworking youth. 

He was home. He was safe. Was he safe? He had grime beneath his fingernails. He hadn’t looked up from the steps yet.

Tony cleared his throat and his dimples deepened with the pregnant pause. Patting Liam’s head, Fiona ushered him back to the TV. Liam left dutifully, but when he reached the couch he peered back over the cushions. His brother’s eyes blinked up at him then fell to stick to the leg of a chair.

“How long has he been gone, Fiona?”

“A week.”

“A week,” Tony muttered, nodding. His expression saddened. “Look we found him at a basement rave with a guy we’ve been tracking for dealing. He was passed out in his own vomit, coked out of his mind.” Fiona’s mouth parted. The cartoons rolled on in the background. Fiona wished they’d be louder. “We’re not pressing charges, he’s clearly off his meds. Just, er, keep a closer eye on him, yeah?” Fiona nodded quickly and pressed her lips together. The blue light ticked across them, outlined Ian’s slumped shoulders in neon.

“This his bag, Miss? We’re guessing his wallet was stolen, there’s only keys and a phone in here, and clothes. You’ll want to cancel any credit cards.”

Fiona nodded again. She continued nodding and smiling until they were alone.

Ian quivered where he stood in the centre of the room, eyelids drooping; closed then open, closed then open...Liam stared at him, Fiona stared at him, biting down on her knuckles. He held his bag in two hands, arms long and limp in front of him. Fiona took a sharp breath and slammed her fists into his chest.

“Asshole,” she seethed, fighting against misty tears, wrapping arms and fists around him instead and hugging him so close he wheezed and coughed. “Motherfucker,” she whimpered quietly, shaking her head against him.

Dragging herself away, she wiped the back of her hand over her nose and pointed up the stairs.

“Shower, sleep. Back on your meds tomorrow.”

Uncomfortable silence clawed around them. Liam sunk lower on the couch.

Ian acted a heartbeat later. Shuffling over the floorboards, he slid his hand onto the banister just as Fiona’s voice called to him again, softer now.

“Is it Mickey?” She asked; a sort of defeated sigh.

Ian’s back tensed.

“Is it Mickey,” he repeated. Then he pulled himself up the stairs and the turn of the bathroom tap echoed down to where Fiona remained standing, Liam tugging on her hand.

‘To them he is a mirror, but to you he is a room.’

Empty pill bottles.

One, two...

Dropped into the trashcan.

Three, four...

Shrugging his coat on his shoulders, Ian dumped the rest in all at once. Birds tweeted lightly from the pylon wires, tattered feathers fluttering in the almost imperceptible breeze. The street was like a film roll of damaged photographs; little black windows and a few little orange ones, squares on car windshields glowing hypnotised beneath the moon.

He had been asleep. Or maybe not. Ian had never enjoyed lucid dreaming. It was like a lightbulb buzzing inside his skull, swinging left...right...left, slowly, on a single wire. He’d turn and the bulb would rattle and flicker. The cold side of the pillow would grow warm, unbearable. Why did you do it? I wanted to forget. Why did you do it? I wanted to forget. Two bottles abandoned on a shelf. Two sad eyes across the breakfast table. Two hands ticking on a clock until it was Tuesday; two hours into Tuesday. I wanted to forget.

In seven hours he would be at the clinic. Another one, or two, and he’d be home with a heavy paper bag. Then add twenty-three, laced up boots and a straightened badge, and there he’d be, finding the smile to greet his co-workers. 

Responsibility. No responsibility. 

Did you forget how scary it can be?

Staring down at his shoes – his slippers – Ian paused, trailing his eyes across gravel to a shy nestling of weeds at the corner of the trash. A dandelion, leaning its head against blue plastic. 

What blue is that? Not navy. 

The leaves sighed and sorrowfully bent with the breeze. 

Not sapphire. Not royal. 

The hush of a car passing brushed its tail into the gap in the front door, held ajar by the doormat. 

It wasn’t cornflower, definitely not indigo. 

What did Persian blue look like again? 

A crash like broken glass reverberated from across the block and Ian began to walk. He didn’t look back at the house, or answer what blue the plastic had been.

It wasn’t unusual to hear shouting like this. Or even encounter someone breaking a window. But after the swearing and echo of feet came a child’s cry and Ian quickened his steps. Past the tramp slouched in a broken deckchair; past the girl with smudged mascara holding heels in her hand. Past the dandelions wincing at the noise, retreating to their shadows between cardboard boxes or bricks. The soles of Ian’s slippers soaked up the dirt as he ran. 

On the third street sobbed a woman, speaking too fast to understand, and a young girl screaming till her throat hurt. A neighbour rushed out from across the road and Ian watched for a moment as he waved a phone at the woman. The bottom left window of the house billowed with smoke.

Ian’s feet moved before his brain, leaving it suspended in the space behind him. He hurried into the scene, slippers smacking against the floor. The woman appeared startled when she saw the boy – oversized hood and sweatpants and eager eyes. He plunged to his knees beside her and surveyed her swiftly.

“Are you having difficulty breathing?” The woman opened her mouth but shook her head. She was fraught with terror. Ian grabbed her wrist to feel for her pulse. The girl bawled louder; mummy, molly, mummy. “Breathe with me, Ma’am.”

Sirens stirred around them but Ian didn’t turn as two vehicles screeched to a halt. Behind him the neighbour was talking and machines beeped and metal clattered and a man jogged over to the girl. The kitchen swelled brighter with fire. Ian’s hands fumbled to pull up the leg of the woman’s jeans, blooming with blood.

“Gallagher!”

Thick boots stamped across the tarmac. Ian’s jaw clenched and he blinked back the echo of the voice. “What’s your name?” He asked calmly, tilting a smile at the woman as he examined the gash in her shin.

“Ian,” Sue hissed, crouching behind him. Her words spat fierce against his neck. “Ian what the fuck are you doing here?”

“We need to apply pressure to this...”

“Gallagher, listen to me.”

Sue grabbed Ian’s shoulder. Ian held still under her grip but his gaze wandered to the action surrounding them. His pupils trembled jarringly against the sickly appearance of his exhaustion, blown-out like black holes that could swallow the world whole. Sue’s heart hammered and her legs ached to run, but she lowered her face and lifted her arms to each of his shoulders and made a small, quiet space between them.

“Let us deal with this one, okay? Do you hear me?” Ian’s eyes darted bird-like to the bump of a pebble against the curb. Bold, then fragile. His fingers twitched against his ankles. Sue reached her hand to cover his and Ian jumped then jumped again as a medical box dropped beside them.

“Ian?”

Just as his eyes connected to hers, the noise dragged from the air like a great wave pulling sea from the shore; a cloth taken from a table, heavy bass or silence; something so cavernous that when the first sound to follow broke through it broke through at a piercing volume. Everyone surfaced from the depth as the young girl screamed. 

The windows of the kitchen had burst and monstrous flames engulfed the house and flung talons into the lawn. Sue stumbled back on the road in shock, eyes glassy. Ian’s ears rung with the explosion, fuzzy like the radio strapped to Sue’s hipbone. His limbs felt lighter than they had as he turned to see the fire, dancing with a twisted sense of laughter around the silhouette of the girl.

“You can’t leave her behind,” she cried.

It was a heated pain that felt too large for her body.

“You can’t leave her!”

Too large and cruel.

Adult arms came and pulled her back, cupped around her ears and hushed the sobs that tore like scissor-blades from her chest. Everything was slow...slow...light. Ian moved his head to look at his fingers, waved them one by one against the glow from the fire. Everyone was moving. Moving...moving...shouting...moving.

“Molly.”

Ian took to standing and brushed past the firefighters with liquid fluidity. He didn’t think; he didn’t feel the heat. He didn’t hear the alarmed voices or the timbers falling from the roof or the fire whipping into the wind. 

You can’t leave her behind. 

The doorway was a curtain of orange, blurry and beautiful. 

The doorway was a colour, with a welcome mat.

“Who is Molly, sweetheart?”

“She’s my friend. She lives in the walls.”

 ‘Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.’

“...Hello, ah, buenos días maricón. I’ll er, cut to the chase. I received a call early morning, from Miguel...you remember him...Had an anonymous message for you. Wanted me to tell you. Somebody home, in America, was in an accident. Bad, I think. A fire, something...The lady...She said this man wanted to see you. Ian? Ian, or...Eh, mierda. Have the day off, my friend. Good luck, if you try go home. Chao, or not...ah, joder-” 

It was only ever in glimpses. Always glimpses: over the top of the shelf, behind a shoulder...He’d dash in, dash out. The door would ring, then it would click and the cold wind would beat bitter red into his cheeks. Bittersweet. Closing his eyes to see him – the boy with red hair and smooth skin and soft fires beneath those irises, waterlily green. Opening his eyes and drowning where he stepped. Head up, stride long – the sidewalks were his. Arms tense, he drowned so much he became used to the moss and mud pulling him down. Fighting was being awake; fighting for space to breathe. 

Glimpsed from unfocused to focused eyes, he was there then gone. Beneath the frame of the car window...Ian’s hair had never looked so bright. His eyes had never looked so dark. He was reminiscent of the boy in Kash’s store, the boy he’d steal anything for, who looked at him with caution from the counter. 

He was never meant to get in the car. 

He was made to live in glimpses; never to stay, never to belong...

Not with Mickey.  

God, hell was sewn from this blanket. Scratchy and pungent with the smell of old smoke. It didn’t even cover his feet. It was a bitch of an excuse for comfort. Pulling his legs closer to his chest, Mickey rolled onto his hip and propped his head against the truck. The engine rumbled low and the exhaust coughed every three seconds. Not the most favourable of pillows, but Mickey was no stranger to slumming it. Above him domed the night sky, so all-encompassing it acted like a blanket itself, sewn with stars that burnt like cigarette holes. He’d never seen so many stars before. 

There were chickens. Crates of them quietly and not so quietly clucking; the wooden corners of splintered wood bashing into limbs as the car rattled down the highway. There wasn’t room to stretch an arm out where they lay in the open cargo area. Then again, Mickey would rather keep his arms to himself being that the guy beside him drooled spit and snot into his beard and had flies buzzing around his clothes. Mickey drew a shaky hand from the wool and tipped his small flask of liquor into his mouth. Behind the rear window the radio hummed with croaky voices and distant guitars. His stomach was hollow with hunger but his bags were as barren as the desert they were passing through. His throat was even dry like the sand. He considered wrapping his hands around the neck of a chicken but something about the image made a stone take weight in his heart. ‘Somebody home, in America’, the voice replayed. Somebody home.

Ian had looked so mature stood by the car. He was a contradiction; the boy in Kash’s store in the body of a man. Mickey knew he was a footprint in mud beside him. He felt like time dragged back from its grave, something old and dirty and out of place. He felt like a stain on a perfect page of book; the paper shredder, shredding the book. He felt guilty, even. Selfish. And then Ian had sat down next to him and when Ian stared at him like that Mickey was resigned to be selfish forever. Of course, the next time Ian was stood by the car he remained standing and Mickey didn’t look back through the frame of the window. It was time up. Again. 

The beach wasn’t the fantasy he’d thought it would be. The beach was full of crying babies and men slapping girls on the ass and it was sweaty and sand got in all his shoes. Most of all, the friends he’d go to sunbathe with had beer bellies and curly black hair on their backs. They were less of an eye-sore at work; at least their back hair was a shadow behind their netted vests. Mickey liked the yard out back, with the plastic table and chairs for card games and the large leaves that served as waxy ashtrays for their cigars. His co-worker at the pawn shop was also his roommate, Gerardo; an intimidating man with a head like a melon and limited vocabulary. (A stray cat knocks over his beer? ¡De puta madre! Said stray cat becomes his pet Patricia and pisses on Mickey’s bedsheets? ¡De puta madre, mi cielito!) Mickey would brush his teeth and comb his hair and adjust his cheap-ass tie and pause before the bathroom mirror. Would he be impressed now? He’d wonder. Would he be proud? 

Dust spiralled off the ground. Worrying his lip between his teeth, Mickey closed his eyes. 

It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Though he could break out of prison, this was harder to break. He should never have a reason for hope. Yet he was inevitably, irrevocably hopeful. Even now, Ian, Ian, was lying in hospital; burnt, bandaged...dead? But wouldn’t Mickey feel it? Wouldn’t the dust tire of dancing from old roads? Wouldn’t the stars close their eyelids and stop shining for just one fucking second? 

The space between his arms ached with emptiness. The beach had ached with it too...So did his bed. Now it ached harder. His arms, lips, the little spot at the top of his spine Ian used to nuzzle...Inevitably, irrevocably. Who was he kidding? Mickey wept with heartbreak; everything heartbreak could offer. He was selfish. Maybe his mind knew that. He was stupid. Maybe his mind knew that too. Call it surrender. Call it stealing time for the boy he’d steal anything for. He hadn’t thought when he’d grabbed his bag and called for a cab. 

The silence wheezed like a burst balloon as the man beside Mickey shot to sitting and slammed a fist to his chest, hacking blood into a handkerchief. The chickens frightened in their crates and the flies whined louder. Mickey breathed in the smoke from the blanket and dry-heaved over the side of the truck. His eyelashes dampened with tears and the wind rushed past him like a stampede. 

So empty. 

How could the earth be so empty? 

(part 2 will be posted on ao3 ‘kitkattaylor’ (in a week-something...i’m going to ireland bitch i!ii! <3) 

[therealvagabird]

Confrontation in the Faerie Court

A short story about fey folk, by C. Christiansen.

           The murmur of the great hall was like the rustling of fresh leaves—soft, smooth, though full of vigor and debauched joy. Wine, sap, the dampness of morning, and other pleasing smells flowed among the gathered fey like so many rain-fed streams, swelled with joy at the coming springtime. In the court of the deep-woods, where the spirits and elves of the Green gathered in reverie, all was painted in the fresh hues of new life. Soil rich and black, sprouting forth a soft and verdant bed of clover upon which the courtiers strode with treads lighter than dewdrops, the green of the floor blending up through new moss-growths and ivy to the hearty trunks that supported and sheltered the hall, their bark hard and their limbs stiff, as the ancient and massive arboreals shook off the last grasps of winter. Even those elements of the hall which bled no green or showed no sway seemed rich with life, as the very boulders and walls of the building stitched themselves together by the cracks with fresh creepers, and their glittering surfaces reflected back the beaming light that filtered through the canopy in a dazzling display of so many gemstone raindrops. Were one not of the woodfolk, it could be troublesome telling where the bounds of wild nature ended and the intricate architecture of the fey began. Harmony was the heart of the overgrown artistry—more ruin than building, yet more a gilded frame for their festive gathering than a necessary shelter.

           Above the mingling of tree-bloods and masked faeries, of sprites and nymphs and beastkin, sat the royal couple, on their thrones of root and horn—though such distinctions blurred amongst the green-elves, who were neither flesh nor fiber. They were two the lords of these deep woods, which they called Aill na Oltu, the king and queen of those lands and people they knew and cared for. Fresh-faced, young, radiant sat the Lady Ljos, first daughter of the King Aulberros of the northern marches. Her crown was adorned with the white blooms of spring, and her antlers grew small but sturdy, already freed of the down of late-winter, when she was but a child once more. Beside her, dwarfed on the very throne he had filled with grandeur but a season before, sat her husband, Lord Carnayn, who’s childlike form lounged in forgone resignation, so far was it from the image he had gathered in his broad Hunts. To the far south he was the Dhul-Siad, the Horned Hunter, who rode across the skies of the northern grasslands in the high summer whenever the want took him, and to the far north as the Ded Boreos, or Morozkh, who brought the chill of winter to the highlands and fields, to mont and steppe alike.

           Such titles were meaningless in truth—loans from myths of mortals that the ancients adopted with pride. Lord and Lady alike were but one facet of the Great Mother and Father—of whom the hills and dales of Aill na Oltu were but one holding amongst many.

           “M’Lady! M’Lord!” an elf-kindred strode up the stone steps to the foot of the thrones, his strides long and birdlike, an image furthered by the grand mask of feathers he wore, and the troupe of songbirds that fluttered about his mantle. “Have you no requests? The choir, the orchestra, they wish to lift the spirits of the Reborn Lord.” He bowed to Carnayn, who scratched at one of his mossy horn-stubs. Still as early in the spring as it was, the woodsie royal looked nary older than a human child of eight, as his re-coronation was but a month past.

           Ljos, who resembled more a woman of ripe marrying age, beckoned forth the maestro, past the high guard, who stood stoic amongst the party with legs of wood and pikes of jet. The lady whispered something into his ear, the feathers that grew from the point of which plucked up at the sound.

           “If that should please him. I’ll inform the hornists.” He bowed, swirling back as his cape fanned and he glided down back into the fray of the bacchanal, coasting to his parapet above the assemblage of musicians, outfitted with the bizarre and mystical instruments of the woodland coterie. Glass-stringed harps of horn; violins looking as though they’d not be carved, but plucked from a branch; cornets and flutes of ivory bone, all inlaid with amber, charcoal engravings, or hung with colorful feathers. Drums sounded, resonant and unmeasured, formed of hollow stones, fallen logs, and yet more bones—removed from their grim appearance by the sheer craftsmanship and reverence of those creatures who had provided the fate-given gifts.

           The conductor whistled like a trilling frog, gathering the attention of the band, who’d been ambling on with loose improvisation. With a flick of his baton—one of the talons on his own finger—he parted the air like water, magic rippling out through the green light about him. At the wave of his other hand, twinkling lights like swirling fish issued forth and scattered amongst the ensemble, the glowing pixies whispering in ears the next song to be played. Hornists’ chests swelled, and the branch-waifs of the choir lilted and grinned in anticipation.

           The audience looked on, aware of the sudden silence that announced the beginning of a proper song.

           “To the springtime, M’Lord!” the conductor called back to the throne, “And to the summer it will issue! May your anticipation for the Great Hunts to be held begin today!” he snapped his finger, and the booming declarations of horn-trumpets and drums reverberated in a grand opening, as the wistful, valkyrian sopranos floated out over the invigorated crowds.

Upon the hawkish wings of wind, he flies

Between the thundering rains of summer’s heat!

With bow of gleaming white he sees his prize

Upon hart-back he leads the hunters fleet!

Thunder signs the Wild Hunt!

Lightning signs the Wild Hunt!

Singing signs the Wild Hunt!

All the bonds of nature

The rains of justice of the Hornèd King

Hail to freedom! Hail to the Faerie King!

           Carnayn looked to his bride with an admission of pleasure. He continued to lounge in silent enjoyment, however, than risk any more dramatic motion coming off as childlike bouncing. The subjects of his court were happy, they were nourished and watered, and he still had the whole of spring to drink deep of the waters of new life, and prepare himself for rides and revelries to make the summer his.

           As the music swelled to its finish, in a suitable and dramatic fashion for the lord, a dissonance pierced in amongst the sopranos just before their climax, persisting onwards into the orchestral finish, howling out amongst the strings and drums. A voice, a clear vocal tone that moved forward, cutting through the air just as the figure who carried it cut through the crowd that had but now realized it was barging through them in the first place.

           “eeeEEEYAAAAA—BUM BAM—barumda baddum BAM—BAAAAAA—” his screech cut off at the song’s premature ending, the haughty musicians insulted in the highest at the disharmony. The conductor himself swirled around with all the fury of a ruffled owl, to stop—pale faced and wide-eyed—at the sight.

           Standing like a pillar of ivory amongst the much more diminutive wood-fey was as jagged and discordant a form as the note he’d held. Dwarfed only by the tree-kin, the creature’s face was the sole part of its form not encased in its bonelike coat of plates, its skin a blackened shade offset from total pitch by the faintest hint of green, while its hair—though long and formed into elegant cascades—was yellow-grey and stringy. Its eyes peered out from the void of its dark face like two pink embers. Close observation could see that lining the lids of its burning eyes seeped a burgundy liquid in place of tears—a similar liquid that seemed to be crusted amongst the joints of its armor, and ran in the occasional rivulet like thickened wine. Over his harsh and bladed mantle, he wore a robe of a black-green to match his skin, crafted of fine silk, though frayed and burnt at the very edges, just as his ivory boots were stained by a mixture of soot, and his own ichor. The creature’s scent preceded him, aroma like sweetened rot; and behind him the faint wither of his passage stained the otherwise immaculate clover.

           “You dare enter my hall?” Lord Carnayn hissed down from his dais, delicate hands clutching at the carved wolf-visages that were set into his armrests.

           “I was quite enjoying that stupid little symphony. Did you not approve of my additions?” the creature’s bemused smile was razor sharp, as its eyes traced between the conductor and the king.

           “In spring? Upon this festival?” the Lord of the Hunt spat again.

           The figure seemed to roll his eyes, casting them up to the black horns upon his own forehead. These were not the noble antlers of the royalty—but two spiral-knives protruding from his brow, ridged with bizarre spikes. “I was informed of a conjunction.” He sneered back, nose upturned, “You should know of such an event, should you not? Here? Beneath the sky, better than one who spends his days deep beneath the blackest stones?” his grin returned, foul and painful, “I understand you tree-hoppers are uncultured, but please! Look up for a change—treetops and sunlight can’t be much more boring than stalactites.”

           “What do you want, Exile? Why have you intruded upon our hall? Who do you answer to?” Ljos’ imperious gaze was ireful and stern. The Exiles, the deepest-fey, were not welcome in any court—not even those they kept themselves, such was the prevalence of their trickery and foulness. She pitied the very soil that had to support its charred boots.

           “Answer to? Why myself, first and foremost—” his eyes drifted off, wistful, “Oh, but you must mean who has told me to come here, and stain my boots with deer shit.” His look was midway between a grimace and a sneer as he looked to a pairing of fauns—clad in as immaculate a garb as any other courtier. “That would be Lord Alkhayt the Vile, the sovereign of the Spider’s Halls, Duke of the Long Wail and the Bloody Purl; and commander of the wrought fanes of many a coven.” The creature coughed for a moment, wiping the burgundy liquid from its mouth, “Other titles as well, though they cannot be spoken here.” He looked to a dwarfish sprite, who’s wide eyes were fixed on his sharp movements, “Or maybe yes? How strong is your stomach?”

           “Then who is the sycophant we’ve been sent?” Carnayn glared.

           “I am Dokk’Seqer, foremost speaker of the War-Coven of Azdahag.” His bow was high and elaborate, “Here upon the soon-eve of this grand astral event to offer you colloquy on matters most pressing.”

           “We will grant no time nor audience to the ravings of the exiles. Leave now, before you spoil the bed of undergrowth itself, and sour our guest’s wine.” Ljos commanded, her olive hands drifting out of long, mint-silk sleeves to grab for her stave—a branch of living cypress.

           “I think you’ll find things far more sour in your beds and cups if you do not heed my words!” Dokk’Seqer jabbed a blade-digit of his gauntlet forward, “Perhaps it won’t be me!” He hissed some broken laugh at his own attempted humor, looking around for any minor snicker to compliment his own. His disappointment fell on one random elf-maiden among the crowds, “I’ll bite out your heartstrings, you humorless kashir—” though his curse was left unfinished as the utterance of the word prompted another spurt of burgundy from his lips.

           Ljos just shook her head. The creature was unsettling even to look out, like all of the dark kin. It’s every adornment given over to the elegance of inflicting pain, and announcing its own superiority—its appearance straddling the line between unnatural and beautiful—a trait shared by all the fey folk, though in the case of the exiles, it was by the harsh touch demonic.

           “I need no help from deep-forged war machines or black magics upon my Hunts.” Carnayn called down from his seat, “And lest you seek the threaten me beneath the very boughs of my own court, there is no threat which the peoples of the Green cannot fight themselves. Neither you, nor your masters, have any power within my wood.”

           “Well—” Seqer chuckled, “Somewhat true. But tell me, lest I blow you away with my enlightenment prematurely: how have the last years been out on the Hunt? Many blasphemers dragged off? Defilers shot down? How often have you heard the strum of harps and the call of flutes—next to how many times you’ve heard the trundle of mills and the clang of—church bells?” he spat, the spittle sizzling upon the poor clover.

           Carnayn squinted at him, youthful face trying its hardness to match the ancient fury that lied within its golden-green eyes.

           “You’re had boy-king!” Seqer laughed, “Your forests dwindle and the realm of mortals grows like so many delicious rats swarming over the rotting corpse of a voluptuous maiden.” It drooled, “The grand empires of humanity, so taken with purity and civilization care nothing for your power. Soon they’ll be tramping through these deeplands—for good this time!—and be having you like they have their altar boys back home.”

           The arm of the spring-lord flexed with hidden muscle as he went for his greatbow, midway through nocking an arrow when Ljos, of all, put her hand up to stop her husband’s wrath.

           “What do you know of these things? Do you think the humans and their kind would be so foolish as to forget where they’ve come from? Or do your lords and ladies and—other fiends—fear for their own safety, faced with the searing light of the mortals’ faith? Tell me: how many of your ilk have been sent out to pollute the world? What of the northern forests, and the grey-fey?”

           Pointed gauntlets rested on the demon’s chest in a haughty gesture, “You’ll find many of your sap-blooded ilk agree with our attestations and plans. You think I would be so stupid as to point it out as—frankly as I have?”

           “I think you would be so arrogant.”

           “You commune with corruptive forces! Whatever aspirations the mortals harbor, they will fall in time to the balance of nature! You fall outside the Wheel, you would see us all wither, like the once-mortals in the Drained Lands! Or in the Knives of Urs!”

           “Necromancers?” the exile blew a raspberry, waving his arm in a gesture so dismissive his very elbow bent backwards upon itself—a motion he seemed to find of little discomfort, “Please, Lord Catamite, you give us too little credit. Though—” he scratched at his horned chin, “We might have heard rumors that there’s been much blood shed between them and the barbarian tribes. Mmm, to think—with the northern shamans dead, and the southern raiders gone, who would be left to carry on the reverence of the woods? Or to stem the tide of the mortal empire?”

           “Then perhaps you should go parlay with them, if you’re so hell-bent on killing humans.” Carnayn still gripped at his throne, “And then when your blackened machines attempt another crusade we can have a repeat performance of the old wars, and my trees will have bone meal aplenty to feed on, and I can carve the names of another thousand demons onto the horns within my trophy-hall!”

           “I see you are more obsessed with your own traditions than you are in survival.” Dokk’Seqer frowned as if he had smelled something fowler than himself, “You’d turn down your own soul-kin and let the pathetic feet of mortals trod all over you. A dark alignment is coming! You scoff at the power and fear you could command of the mortals, how much you could show them true nature of the world they live in, and the very stars and planets align for you! But no, you think you would just—wait? Wait while a Black Hunt could be yours? Perhaps you have even less sense than the death-mages, it’s true.”

           Ljos stood up, staff held with commanding yet languid grip.

           “I remember the times when our kinds could cavort together, unbothered by the machinations of the primitive humans.” Seqer’s sigh was overemphasized and harsh, “Orgies for weeks, Wild Hunts that actually took captives and didn’t just—parade about the sky for the sake of it, actual bloody craftsmanship.” He sneered around the palace, “And now what? You live in a ruin? The Fane of Azdahag would put this place to shame. The Spider Halls—have you been? They sing more beautifully than the sad screeching of this orchestra.”

           “Leave!” Ljos commanded, her voice darkening, “You have no place nor purpose here. I am not above killing a messenger just for insolence. Tell your lords they can wage war on their own, and expect no harbor in the forests.”

           The demon-kind threw his hands up, shaking his head, “Sad, sad fools. If you insist. But when your woods burn I will be there amongst the Blackened Host, to laugh and cavort like these were the First Days.” He spun around to kick up his cape, proceeding back the way he came, to the enchanted arch of the hall’s entrance, the crowds parting before him. “Mmm, hello.” He stopped for half a moment in front of an elf dancer, “Make my trip less disappointing? The trip to the Slave Pits is an exciting one—”

           “LEAVE!” Ljos boomed after him, sending the creature on his way, and the courtier disgusted.

           The air shimmered with a crackling snap as the dark-fey moved under the arch of the exit, dissipating back to whatever wayshrine he had come from.

           Awkward silence reigned in the court for a good few minutes, interspersed by distressed murmuring as the royal couple overserved in spirit.

           It is never a good sign when the exiles seek audience. I expect foul play. Carnayn posited.

           The only play of the demon-breeds is foul play. We will protect our lands as we always have. We’ve no other foes, and the dark ones are alone in their fight. Ljos assured her consort.

           I will be sure to raze the imperial lands that lie upon the marches. The Hunt will be a long one this year. If a dark conjunction does occur, I will take advantage of it. It is only an exile who thinks such events can only be used by fell sorcerers.

           Be cautious, my love.

           Ljos stood again, and waved her staff in conjuration of a warming light.

           “Not even the foul words of one such as that will spoil the celebrations of the Green!” Ljos smiled, and none could see what little concern flickered in her eyes, “Our power watches over you, and your love shall shield yourselves. Dance again, and cast off the worries of winter and the deep. It is spring!”

           Laughs arose as drinks were raised yet again, and the conductor smoothed out his feathers to begin a new tune. The hall of the faerie lord was alive again, as the harmony of nature once more took hold of the courtiers’ hearts, as only it could with the forest-children.

—

           With the conclusion of the chant, the roiling black subsided, and the pool within the center of the room grew glass-still once more, as the dark smoke dissipated across the floor or up into the high vaults of the ribbed ceiling. The black-cloaked forms of the Council of Seven sat back into their ebony chairs, each one unique and hideous in their own way—both the councilors and their thrones.

           “We may now begin.” The head of the horseshoe-shaped table—Lord Muvad—announced, pale hands crossed. Everything about him was sharp, from his pale and inhuman face, to his filed and dirty nails. “I believe that Councilor Krex has many things to say about progress on his Black Chariots, but first, if Councilor Vomengro would update us on the findings of his northern spies?” The figure invited another of the black-cloaks around the table, the one known as Vomengro, distinguished by hiding even more of his flesh under black, silken gloves, and a white death-mask formed as a bird-like face.

           “As you should all know; I have many eyes—especially in the lands of Urs.” The gaunt-masked councilor began, his nasal and rasping voice in opposition to the smooth baritone of the council head, “The forces of the Ancient One are entangled with the shamans of the northern tribes. With its hunger sated on the blood of barbarians, we will be free to maintain our own order until such time as we can take advantage of the imminent conjun—”

           “GENTLEMEN!” A voice rang out through the dingy assemblage, snapping the heads of the gathered necrocracy, “And—ladies?” the demon-elves, in tandem, stepped from the shadows, the one in a green cloak holding a quizzical tilt in reference to the two slighter figures among the thrones—one necromancer so old and withered as to be either crone or codger, and the other’s flesh concealed under armor of dark iron.

           “What foolish deep-dweller dares intrude upon this council?” Muvad railed.

           “You have not been permitted entry! This is against all ritual!” one of the men, with sagging white skin and black lips, spat out.

           “Oh pardon us.” One of the two fey mocked, this one marked by a red cape, “It’s just we felt there were matters at hand that were less soul-rapingly dull.” It looked around, “You do realize colors exist other than black?”

           “State your allegiances, elves! And do not commit mockery within our own domain!” the vampiric Muvad speaker ordered.

           “Why should we grant audience to such petulant demons, when there are important matters at hand?!” Vomengro hissed.

           “You can talk about idiotic schematics, and cowering from you dread father later. We bear actual news on this astral eve. News of mortals and fey-kin.” Dokk’Seqer spoke up, “That I believe would be of interest to your rotting old ears.”