#also a little aggravating at times because WHY ARE THEY SO BLURRY

[sesamenom]

six geese a-laying, FIVE GOLDEN RINGS! four calling birds, three french hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree

-

on the day 5 poll for what to do with the rings, "THROW IT AWAY" won at 30.9% as of drawing this, so great choice everybody! The authorities (manwe's pet geese) have been alerted and the rings have been disposed of.

now, for a totally unrelated question......

[justawriterofthings]

Home Safe

Requested: Can I request a Frank Castle Fanfic? Maybe something where they're together (they also live together) and one night Frank comes home brutally beaten up and the reader treats his wounds as usual but then starts crying because she's worried?

Warnings:  swearing, descriptions of injuries

Word Count: 800~

Author’s Note: Ya’ll I’m the worst and I know it.  But here’s a requested fic.  Don’t hate me too much

Frank had been gone for hours without checking in.  You watched him leave the bed with groggy eyes before the sun was even up.  Now the sun had set and there was still no word from him.  The pit in your stomach had grown exponentially bigger as the day went on, but now that the day was over and Frank still wasn’t home you were beyond worried.  “He normally says something by now.”  You whispered to yourself, pacing in the living room. The cellphone in your hand was getting warm and sweaty from the iron grip you had on it. you hadn't noticed your fingers turning white from the straining.

There was nothing you could find to relax.  Every possible scenario you came up in your head of why he hadn’t contacted you was worse than the last.  Most of them ended with him being dead, and with the way Frank operated it was entirely possible.  He never told you about his work, but you knew it wasn’t good or safe.  All you knew for sure was that he would come home beat to shit sometimes and you would have to patch, disinfect, or stich him up.  Most of the time his injuries weren’t too bad, but sometimes you thought it would be better if the hospital saw him.  Frank was vehemently against hospitals, which made you worry more. 

You decided to make a cup of tea to calm your nerves a little, since it was now four in the morning and there was still no word from Frank.  When the kettle started to whistle was when you heard the front door open.  Abandoning it completely, the pot still screaming, you rushed to the door.  There was Frank, looking like hell, using the doorway to prop himself up. 

“Jesus, Frank.”  Your voice barely came through the rush of air escaping your lungs at the sight of him. Doing a quick once over, you saw he was dripping blood from somewhere and it was starting to slowly pool at his feet.

“Shut that fucking thing off, Y/N.”  Frank’s voice was weak, but you could hear the agitation in his tone.  So, you quickly shuffled back into the kitchen and shut the burner off and removed the kettle from the heat.  Then just as quickly retreated back to Frank.  You grabbed the first aid kit you kept by the front door for situations like this one as he slowly made his way to the couch.  You could see he was in pain, and for Frank it must have been bad.  You tried to hold back the emotions that came flooding forward at the sight of him this way.  You had to be calm to stitch him up. 

“You know the drill.”  You couldn’t help but choke the words out and this got his attention.  Frank stared up at you, aggravated and tired, but you could see some concern behind his hard eyes.  He didn’t address it though.  Instead, he lifted his shirt off, struggling with his left shoulder.  You looked over at it and gasped.  “You got stabbed.”  It wasn’t a question.

“The other guy got it worse.”  His words seemed cold and that’s what sent you over the edge.  Tears flowing freely now, you tried to wipe them away but there was no use.  “Y/N…” He stated but you just placed a finger on his lips.  Nothing he said could make you feel better, not when he was sitting in front of you with god knows how many stab wounds.. or worse. What if something was punctured? How far did he have to walk? Why didn't he call?

You tried to push all the questions down and sit in silence while you patched him up. The tears slowed but your eyes stung and your vision was too blurry to be of any real help.  Sighing out a huff in frustration, you got up from your seat and headed to the bathroom, wiping the sorrow from your eyes as you padded down the hall. Once there you turned the shower and called to Frank. Silence.

“You need to clean them.”   You called, your voice annoyed he hadn’t answered you.  Frank didn’t say a word, you only heard his shuffles to the bathroom to tell you he heard you.  it was a little more silence until you finally couldn’t take it. “I want you to stop this.” Silent tears rolled down your hot cheeks.  Frank looked up at you with only sadness.  “i know.”  Was all he had said the rest of the night.  You threw different alternatives for work at him and he just shot them down with a disapproving nod. 

But you knew, knew deep down this was his life and now it was yours.  You had to play nurse on the bad nights. But after the very short conversation and all your tears, he made it up to you in the following days.  He promised he would be more careful, he started checking in with you while he was on jobs, even brought you gifts all the nights he was away for longer than a few hours.  Anything to ease your worried mind a little he tried to do; because to see you cry over him like that broke his heart and he would do anything in his power to never see you cry like that over him again. He vowed he would make it home safe to you after that night.     

[cuddlepilefics]

Too feverish to think + waking up puking

Fandom: BTS

Sickie: Yoongi

Caregivers: Jin & Namjoon

@monthofsick

TW: emeto, real person fiction

No one’s POV.:

Yoongi didn’t remember how many hours he had already spent at the studio. He had gone there right after their dance practice session, still wearing his sweaty practice clothes. That was also why he wasn’t all that surprised when he started to feel a little chilled. Putting on his hoodie, Yoongi used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his forehead. It was certainly weird to be sweating while goosebumps had spread down his arms but he didn’t think much of it. Producing didn’t come easy today either, the screen repeatedly blurring in front of his eyes. Maybe he should take a break. It had already been a long day, so it wasn’t all that shocking that he struggled to focus but Yoongi knew he had deadlines to meet, so it wasn’t all his choice.

He eventually accepted that he wouldn’t get much time for the time being, so he shakily got out of his chair and laid down on the small couch. His practice clothes stuck to his body but he couldn’t be bothered to change them. Maybe if he rested his eyes for a little while, the headache would go away and he could actually make some progress. Sure, the couch wasn’t the best option for Yoongi’s sore body but you take what you can get. A soft groan slipped from his lips when his head hit the cushion. Yeah, he really needed a nap.

When Yoongi woke up again, everything felt off. His vision was blurry and he barely managed to lift his head. There was a thumping pain behind his brow and a trickle of sweat ran from his temple. He needed water! Yoongi’s arms shook from the exertion when he pushed himself up, his vision going dark for a moment. Drawing a sharp breath, he swallowed down the nausea and got to his feet. Yoongi staggered to his desk and picked up the water bottle, only to realize he had emptied it earlier. Tears stung his eyes because his throat was so unbearably dry, he really needed a drink. He did have a few bottles in his mini fridge at the studio but goosebumps already pricked at his skin, so he knew having a cold drink would probably make him feel worse.

In the end, his thirst won and Yoongi uncapped one of the bottles, wincing at the cold condensation under his fingers. The first dew sips felt nice on his throat. So nice, in fact that he couldn’t stop himself from finishing the whole bottle despite the chill running down his spine. By the time Yoongi finished his drink, he was shivering incessantly and he could hear the water glugging in his stomach, the organ cramping painfully. He knew he shouldn’t have drank something so cold and especially not this much, the cold water not settling at all.

It didn’t take long for Yoongi to start shaking violently as the cramps morphed into nausea. The cold water had been a grave mistake and although his throat didn’t hurt anymore, it felt weird. Pushing away from the desk, he staggered to the door of his studio. For a moment, Yoongi weakly clung to the door frame in an attempt to regain his balance but with his stomach twisting angrily, he knew he had to hurry. Wincing as the bright ceiling lights aggravated his headache, he stumbled down the hallway and cursed the floor for moving under his feet. His hand trailing against the wall was barely enough to keep him upright as his ears started to ring. Yoongi felt his stomach gurgle and forced himself forward despite the ringing in his ears overtaking everything else and his vision growing fuzzy around the edges. His legs didn’t want to cooperate though and only a moment later, everything turned black.

Namjoon sighed as he exited the meeting he had had with their management. He was impressed how much people could talk about irrelevant things. Sure, he knew that a lot of work had to be done behind the scenes for their group to function and be successful but some of it felt unnecessary. Still, he wouldn’t miss it, who else would be there to advocate for his group? Namjoon was still deep in thought as he trudged to his studio and only noticed the crumpled figure in the hallway when he almost tripped over him. “Hyung?!”, the leader gasped, dropping to one knee next to Yoongi. Shaking the rapper’s arm, Namjoon eventually earned a weak groan. He startled when Yoongi shot up and tried to gently hold the older down, so he wouldn’t black out again. Harshly twisting to the side, Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat as a large wave of watery vomit gushed from his lips.

Though surprised, Namjoon wrapped his arm around Yoongi’s shoulders and steadied him as he choked up more. The rapper’s sleeve had taken the brunt of it, the soiled fabric clinging to his arm. Panting, Yoongi spat into the puddle but couldn’t get rid of the string of saliva dangling from his lips. “Hang on, I got you”, Namjoon shushed, pulling out a tissue. He carefully wiped the other’s lips and chin, humming: “You seemed okay during practice earlier. What happened since then?” The leader didn’t get any reaction and wasn’t sure Yoongi had heard him at all.

The rapper’s breath came in quick, little as his eyes filled with tears. So much was happening, yet his brain couldn’t keep up. His mind was so foggy and slow, he couldn’t comprehend why he was sitting in the hallway. All he knew was that he felt awful and his sleeve felt disgusting against his skin, which didn’t help the nausea at all. “Talk to me, hyung”, Namjoon frowned as he felt heat seep through Yoongi’s hoodie, needing increasingly more strength to keep the older upright, “What’s going on? You’re burning with fever.” Still unable to formulate a reply, Yoongi huffed a nauseous breath and forced himself to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth.

Seeing that his inquiry wouldn’t go anywhere and he probably would get Yoongi to the bathroom by himself, Namjoon pulled out his phone and called Jin. Within only a couple of minutes, the eldest jogged down the hallway, heart racing at the pitiful state his oldest dongsaeng was in. Yoongi was still too feverish to think but dizzily stumbled along when Jin and Namjoon hoisted him to his feet and pulled him to the restroom. The rapper whimpered hoarsely as Jin stripped off his soiled hoodie, his sore muscles protesting the slightest movement. “You’ll be okay, Yoongi-ah”, the older shushed, settling Yoongi on the floor with his back against the wall, afraid his legs would give out and him hurting himself if he fell.

Namjoon had gone to get Yoongi some water and alert the cleaning staff, while Jin ran some paper towels under the tap to wipe off the other’s arm. When he was satisfied that he had cleaned Yoongi’s arm to the best of his ability, Jin soaked a fresh bunch of paper towels with cold water and pressed them to the rapper’s burning forehead. Sitting there shirtless, with a cold compress pressed to his face, Yoongi shivered violently but he didn’t want Jin to pull away. The headache was more bearable today with the cold paper towels on his forehead, so when the older removed them, he breathed: “No….” His hyung didn’t seem to get it, so he reached out a trembling hand. “Let me just run them under the tap again”, Jin whispered, cupping Yoongi’s flushed cheek, “Can you tell me how you feel?” – “I… don’t know”, the younger slurred, tongue feeling thick and heavy, “Awful… slow.” – “Yeah, you’re running a bad fever, so it’s probably hard to think right now”, Jin agreed and the rapper nodded in confirmation, immediately regretting the motion as it sent his head spinning.

“I still had a spare sweater at my studio, so the chills should hopefully ease up soon”, Namjoon announced as he entered the restroom. Uncapping the water bottle, he handed it to Yoongi, who cringed but forced down a few small sips. It helped his abused throat but only for a before he pitched forward with a retch. Clamping his hands over his paling lips, Yoongi shot Jin a panicked look, the older rushing to pass him the small waste bin. He choked up a few smaller waves, his stomach not tolerating the water in the slightest, before being reduced to dry heaves.

Namjoon draped some cold paper towels across the back of Yoongi’s neck, humming: “Let’s try that again later once your stomach calmed down a little.” – “How are we going to get him home?”, Jin asked quietly, “I also don’t really want him to be alone while he’s too feverish to think. If we talk to management and can convince them that I should take the day off too, so I can watch over him, I’ll take him back to my place for the time being.” – “He’s most definitely not going to stay alone”, the leader agreed. With the way he had found Yoongi, Namjoon wouldn’t take any risks.

While Namjoon called their manager, Jin replaced the cold compresses on Yoongi’s forehead and neck to hopefully lower his fever a bit. “You’ll come with me, okay? You’ve stayed in my guest bedroom before and I’d like to keep am eye on you”, Jin whispered as he played with Yoongi’s hair, “I’ll make you some tea and if you manage to keep down at least a few bites of plain rice, I can give you something for the fever. The haziness should clear up too once your temperature is down.” The younger could barely keep up with his hyung’s words but his voice was soothing and the fact that he sounded like he had a plan reassured the sick rapper. They had been friends for long enough for Yoongi to know Jin would take good care of him, so it was easy to give up responsibility to him, at least for the time being.

Jin kept his promise and brewed a pot of tea after tucking Yoongi in under a thin sheet. When he returned, he carried not only the tea but also an icepack wrapped in a tea towel. Yoongi sighed in relief when the icepack soothed his pounding headache and relaxed further into the mattress. “The rice will be done soon, just let me know when you feel like you can stomach it”, Jin smiled before fetching a bucket for safety reasons, knowing how guilty Yoongi would feel if he ended up making a mess. Stroking the rapper’s cheek, Jin whispered: “I’ll let you sleep. You look like you need it.”

[andydrysdalerogers]

Troublemaker ~ Chapter Eight ~ Rude Awakening

He is one of the best goaltenders in the league. He's also hated by his teammates. He didn't mean to be a troublemaker but why not lean into it? There wasn't anyone to stop him.

Until he met her...

A Jeremy Swayman AU x OFC Stella Williams

Story Warnings: excessive drinking, SMUT!, an asshole Jeremy, angst

A/N: Hello and welcome to a spin-off "Cross-Checked" so plenty of characters from that story are crossing over here! If you want a more detailed story of how we ended up here, read the first store HERE Also! The taglist is open. If you want to be added or removed, please let me know!

Previous: On the Road

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. Reblogs are most welcome though!

Banners by me! Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Stella 

I woke up optimistic.  

I woke up with an ache in my chest.  

But not pain. No, it wasn’t pain.  

It is love.  

Because I’m pretty sure that I’m in love with Jeremy Swayman.  

It sucked that Smith got hurt the way he did because I had to come home with him to make sure he didn’t aggravate the injury more.  We chatted on the car ride home and Smith was so disappointed to be missing the beginning of the playoffs. I did, however, get to sleep in my bed, which was nice.  My phone dinged and reached for it.  

Jeremy: Good Morning beautiful. I miss you.  

I am not ashamed to say that I squealed like a teenaged girl and held the phone to my chest.  

Stella: Good Morning, handsome. I miss you too.   Jeremy: I’ve got morning skate but we’ll talk later ok?  Stella: ok. Have a good practice 

It took everything not to say “I love you” in that text.  Its something I think we need to do in the privacy of our bedroom.  It would change everything. It would mean coming out and telling the world that Jeremy and I are together. My heart sings at the thought.  

I get a run in first thing and make my way to “The Addicted” for a couple of coffees and cinnamon rolls for me and Leia. I want to visit with the baby while I have time because come playoffs, we would be on the road a lot.  As I wait in line, my social media starts to go off.  I have alerts set for the Bruins in case anyone had spotted Jeremy and I.  I open the app and my heart sinks. 

SWAYMAN BACK TO HIS PARTY WAYS. SPOTTED AT BAR WITH A NEW LADY 

With the headline comes a couple of pictures. Jeremy holding onto a tiny looking blonde. Her sidling up to him, her hand on his chest.  

My heart shatters.  

He was texting me while with another woman. He texted me several times last night and today. I rushed out of the coffee shop and got to my car.  My phone started to ring and I see its Jeremy calling.  I rejected the call and blocked his number. I didn’t want to hear his excuses. He did the same thing to Leia and I refuse to give him the chance.  

I drive but I don’t pay attention to where I am going. My eyes are blurry and my head hurts. I look up and see that I’m at Leia and Andy’s house. I wipe my face and compose myself a little. I get up to the door and ring the bell.  Leia comes to the door. “Stel?” 

“I need to hide out here for a while, please,” I pleaded, feeling the fat tears now rolling uncontrollably down my face. So much for trying to stay composed.  

She pulls me into her arms and I cling to her.“Of course, sweetie. What’s going on?” 

I sniffle as try to get words out.“Have you seen the headlines about the Bruins?” 

“Uh, no.” She picks up the phone and scrolls through her media apps.  As social media director, she’s more in turn with all the Bruins new. However, she just had Avery like seven weeks ago so she’s not back to work yet. He face scrunches as she reads. “What the... I don’t understand.  I thought he was cleaning up his act and doing a damn good job at it.”  

“Yeah, he was.” I sniffed again and wiped at my nose.  “Because we had been taking care of each other.”  I looked at my lap. I had never lied like this to Leia.  She has been my best friend for years, since freshman year in high school.  We knew everything about each other. I knew about her crush on Andy and how heart broken she was she he started to date Fiona. I was there when her dad died, and when her mom checked out on her and Luke.  

I knew about the feelings she was starting to have for Jeremy. When she found out about the baby and the fallout of Jeremy’s actions.  

I’m the worst friend because I fell for her ex. Her voice brings me back to the present.  “You and Jeremy? You were, what?” 

“We were in a ‘friends with benefits’ situation.” I looked up at her with sorrow and she looked surprised. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but he was there when I broke up with Kevin and then it was supposed to be one night. But we didn’t stop, and it was great. I thought we were getting serious but then this and...” I break down and I start sobbing. Leia just wraps her arms around me a cradles me.  

“It's going to be ok, Stel. You can stay here as long as you like.  I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation and when you are ready, we’ll get the truth.” 

I don’t know if I ever want to hear it.  

Because I am in love with Jeremy Swayman, and he just broke my heart.  

Kiley

I’m actually really proud of myself.  

I mean, the pictures looked great. Not blurry at all, for a camera phone. I read the article again and again, checking back to see how much more viral it went. I know Jeremy didn’t go home with anyone I watch the team walk back to the hotel. But I wasn’t going to let the Stella find happiness. Especially after what she did to me.  

Flashback – four months prior... 

“Stella, it was a mistake!” Kevin held the pillow in front of his junk as I covered myself with a sheet.  I was just caught with my boss’s boyfriend in his bed. Stella Williams used to be my hero.  She had a hot-as-fuck boyfriend, a fabulous job with the Bruins and was generally loved by everyone. I was jealous and I wanted something that was hers.  

Kevin was an easy target. He was a lawyer so he wasn’t a part of the Bruins. Which made him easier to seduce when Stella was on the road with the team.  We had hooked up a few times but he didn’t know I worked with his girlfriend.  

Until today.  

“A mistake? Sleeping with my team member is a mistake?” Stella yelled at him, red painting her face.  

“Team member?” He looked at me with anger.  “She never told me she worked with you. Baby, i swear, it was a one-time thing!” 

“More like three times, but who’s counting.” I shrugged.  Stella walked out right then and then Kevin kicked me out and told me to lose his number.  

When I got to work the next day, Jeremy was coming off the ice in a huff. God, he is gorgeous. Tall, dark and the most handsome guy I had ever seen.  I’ve flirted with him a few times and he always gave me a smile and a wink.  I went to say hi but the look on his face told me something was wrong.  I watched Andy Barber, Linus Ullmark and the head coach follow him and I decided to stay away. For now.  

I got ready for the day when I hear, “Kiley my office.” Fuck I knew this was coming. Stella sat at her desk when I entered. “Close the door.” I close it and see points her eyes to the chair. I don’t say anything. I’d be stupid to speak to my boss I just burned. “I really wish I could fire you. But firing you for fucking my boyfriend, well, ex boyfriend would cause a lot of problems. So here’s what I’m going to. You are a scrub from now on. A rookie. Whatever needs to get done you do it. I don’t give a fuck if it’s not in your job description. Feel lucky that I don’t beat your ass.”  

“You can’t do that!” I screeched. “I have seniority.” 

She stood up. “Watch me.”  

So, for months, I have been relegated to helping with watch the physical therapy tables and monitoring ice packs. I was fucking pissed. I knew I needed to get something on Stella to ruin her.  

Imagine my surprise a couple of months later to come back in during a home game after Jeremy got hurt and saw something that enraged me.  

Stella was bent over Jeremy on the gurney, stroking his face and then leaning over to kiss him. I think they thought no one would see them. He grasped her hand with a smile before he was loaded in. I screamed inside my head.  This bitch gets everything! 

I took every opportunity I could find to try and drive a wedge between them but Jeremy was dedicated and Stella never showed him affection at work again.  So I began stalking her.  I needed to find a way to break them apart. He is mine. I had dibs and I wasn’t going to allow this hussy take away what was mine.  

Getting Smith to take an injury on the promise of a good night was super easy. Whispering that Stella should go with him back just in case was a little bit harder, but the team physician agreed. I got all dolled up and went with the team to the bar after the win in New York. Jeremy wasn’t drinking but Stevens and Barber managed to get him to drink a couple. Shame that men don’t protect their drinks like women do.  I slipped just a tiny bit of something to get him loose.  

I didn’t plan on the captain to take care of him.  

I also didn’t plan on some puck bunny to try to obviously hit on him. But I was delighted to get “proof” of his old playboy ways.  

Making friends with a reporter at the Globe also helped.  

Now I just need a chance to get to Jeremy. I know he won’t resist this body.  

Fuck you, Stella Williams.  Jeremy is mine now.  

Jeremy 

Man, did my head hurt. This is why I barely drank anymore. The recovery is brutal. Luck for me it was a late travel day so I was able to sleep in.  A knock at the door got me up (slowly.) “Hey Linus.”  

“Jer, you look like shit,” he chuckles as he handed me a coffee.  

“And a fucking good morning to you too.” I clutched my temple while sipping the liquid gold in my hand. I grabbed my phone to send a text to Stella. 

Jeremy: Good Morning, Beautiful. I miss you. 

I didn’t even have to wait that long.  

Stella: Good Morning, Handsome. I miss you too  Jeremy: I’ve got morning skate but we’ll talk later ok?  Stella: ok. Have a good practice 

Damn if that didn't make me feel good. I know I was smiling at my phone but I literally gave zero fucks about it.  This is the girl I am in love with and I wouldn’t be embarrassed with how she made me feel.  

“Texting the girlfriend?" Linus asked, a shit eating grin on his face.  

“Yep,” popping that P at the end.  

“Who is she? Do I know her?” 

I hesitated for a second, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You have to swear you won’t tell anyone if I tell you.”  

“Yeah, I’m going to tell Moa,” he replied.  “I don’t keep secrets from my wife.”  

I groan because I know this. But Moa is a vault when needed to be, so I sighed.  “Fine.” I sucked in a breath. “Its Stella.”  

He looked at me confused. “Stella? Stella who?” 

“How many Stellas do you know. Stella. Williams. Our personal trainer.” Linus stopped mid-sip. He put the cup down and stared at me. “What?” 

“You are in love with Leia’s best friend?” 

“Ok, when you say it like that, it sounds bad.” I launched into the story. “When I got benched, I went to an off the beaten path bar and ran into Stella. We drank and talked. We made a drunken decision to have one night. Except it wasn’t just one night. She's been there for me man. She helped me repair my friendship with Leia and she helped me see what I was doing to myself.”  

I swallowed before I kept going. “She was there after my concussion, making sure that I took it easy and eat the right foods. I hold her and I feel completely at ease with my life. She’s it, Linus.  She’s it for me. I want to tell her that I love her so much that it hurts every minute I can’t. Because she’s not there yet.”  

He just keeps looking at me and I start to get uncomfortable.  “Say something man.”  

“I’m just in shock that the troublemaker has been tamed.” He gives me a genuine smile. “You love her?” 

“With everything I have.”  

He reaches out and hugs me. I sigh in relief because its my mission in life to make Linus proud of me. He’s been my partner, my best friend and my brother in this crazy journey. I’m not sure what I would do without him.  

We get our shit together to get to breakfast, joking and laughing as we sit with my other teammates. Its been a great morning.  

Until the phones start chirping.  

I look at my own and I can feel the blood drain from my face.  

SWAYMAN BACK TO HIS PARTY WAYS. SPOTTED AT BAR WITH A NEW LADY 

“What the fuck,” I hear from Linus beside me. I look at the pictures and it's that bunny that I tripped over. But the article says I was spotted taking her back to the hotel.  

“No, no, NO!” I yell out as I try to dial Stella.  Her phone rings and rings before going to voicemail.  “Fuck, no!” I try again but now its straight to voicemail. I try again and now it's telling me that the customer is unavailable.  

“Swayman!” I hear Coach bark. I stand up and walk over to him. “Let’s talk.”  

“Sir, please, I’m trying to reach my girlfriend and...” 

His jaw sets. “Fine. No point in pussyfooting it.  You’re benched, effective immediately.”  

My heart sinks. “What? Why?” 

“These pictures show you out of control again. I warned you that if you did it again, you would be benched.”  

“Sir, I promise, I was never out of control.  I even talked to Linus and Andy and Luke and they made sure I was ok. Please, don’t do this.”  

Coach’s face turns sympathetic. “I’m sorry Jeremy, but this is coming from management.  This isn’t a good look for the team. They are going to investigate further about keeping you with the team.”  

I bend over and clutch my knees.  This isn’t happening.  This cannot be happening. “Sir,” as I stand up straight, “please.” 

“Car will be taking you to the airport in half an hour. Don’t worry about your gear; the equipment managers will handle all of that. I’m sorry son.”  He walks away from me. Before I can get the feeling in my legs back, I feel myself start to fall.  Linus grabs me along with Andy. “Jer?” 

“They are sending me home.  I’m not allowed to go to Pittsburgh.” They sit me down and I try to call Stella again. Nothing. I look at Linus. “She blocked me.” I’m desperately trying to hold in the tears. I don’t say a word and just head back to my room to get my bag.  And then I realize that Coach is sending me home.  I race out of the room and down to the car.  

The hour long flight to Boston is excruciating. I need to get to her.  I need to tell her that the photos are a lie. Once I’m in the car, I keep trying her until I get to her apartment.  I bang on the door but there is no answer. I don’t even hear anything on. Fuck! I slam my head against the door. I sink to the floor and sit for what feels like days but is just a couple of hours. I must find a way to talk to her but it's getting late. I get up and as I turned to leave, there she is, standing at the end of the hall.  “Stella,” I breathed.  

“Go away.” She kept her head down as she passed me.  

“Baby, please, let me explain.”  

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Swayman.” I opens the door and tries to slam it shut but I stop it. “Let go of the door.” 

“Not until you give me a chance to tell you what happened. I swear, I didn’t do anything that article said.” 

I can see the pain in her eyes, the hurt these photos are causing her. “I don’t care. You said we were exclusive.  that it was just you and me.”  

“We were. We are. The photos...” 

“Are the truth that I kept telling myself was in the past.  That the playboy hot shot goalie wasn’t like that anymore.  That maybe we could have a future together.”  

“We can, baby, I want that.”  

“And yet you can’t keep your hands off another woman.” I watch as the tear falls. “I think maybe we should end this.” I shake my head, but she keeps talking. “Maybe this is a sign that we were not meant for more.”  

“No, Stella, that’s not true.  I lo...” 

“Don’t say it. Don’t, just, leave, please.”  I hear the heartache and determination in her voice.  

“Please Stella. I can’t do this without you.”  

She looks me right in the eye. “I’m sorry Jeremy.  Goodbye.”  The door closes in my face.  

And my heart shatters.  

NEXT

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[pumpkinstabs-moving]

michael myers’ body has never really belonged to himself.  before he was six,  he belonged to his mother and his step father.  he obeyed and did what they wanted him to do,  was on his best behavior.  it wasn’t a problem for him back then --  at least,  not when it came to his mother because he loved her deeply and wholly.  he still does,  even if she is no longer alive.  she’s not alive because of him.  the pressure and trauma of her six year old killing and butchering his older sister like a pig was too much for her,  and though she wanted to stay with michael and help him get better,  she couldn’t.  she took her own life and his step dad immediately dipped out of the picture.  so from six to sixteen,  he belonged to the state.  to dr.  loomis and the exhausted,  overworked nurses of pennhurst.  sixteen to eighteen,  he still belonged to the state but no longer to pennhurst.  now,  nineteen,  he belongs to something else entirely.  something far worse.

but perhaps it is a blessing that michael has never had a strong sense of individuality.  he has always been in a constant state of dissociation,  mind focusing far beyond the little stale town of hawkins.  his mind has never worked “normally”,  something that left the medical staff of pennhurst puzzled and intrigued in what went on in his brain.  the mindflayer can tell --  michael is not as terribly affected by its presence inside of his body the way others are.  the way billy hargrove is.  yes,  it is unpleasant and irritating and terrifying,  but it also feels all too much like when he was forced to take a dozen different pills at pennhurst.  at first,  he thinks it’s just that --  his body having some sort of strange relapse or craving,  but he quickly realizes it’s not the case when the voice speaking to him sounds inhuman.  he further confirms his theory about there being an other-wordly being in him when he finds himself stealing three trays of raw chicken drums from the grocery store and eating them all in one night over his kitchen counter.  then that same night,  the voice orders him to go out and find two people to bring to a warehouse he’s never seen before.  he obeys,  cannot remember knocking the couple unconscious.  they were making out in their car and didn’t notice michael’s looming figure until it was too late.  he doesn’t know what’s happened to them.  but he knows he has to go to work.

there is sweat on his brow as he mops the same spot of the food court for the third time,  unable to focus on his work.  his vision is blurry and his head is throbbing and the uniform feels too hot on him,  too tight.  his curls stick to his neck and forehead and there are a dozen voices in his brain that do not belong to him.  the thing in his body is having a busy night,  it seems.  he craves silence so much it starts to aggravate him,  violence bubbling in his stomach like bile threatening to rise up.  michael only returns to himself when he is spoken to by a voice that is actually there.  someone else at the mall even though he’s the only one who is supposed to be here.  tired baby blues glance over at the other male,  the whisper of violence only becoming louder as they make eye contact. there is a strange connection he feels,  something like a power line going off between them.  he doesn’t know why.  can’t understand why.  

“...  okay.  it has to be through the back exit,”  he says softly,  voice barely raised above a mumble.  impossible to hear if not paying attention.  he sets the mop aside and wipes at his forehead,  grabbing his many keys and motioning billy towards the dimly lit hallway nearby,  a neon “EMERGENCY EXIT” blinking on and off above the doorway.  

flayed (or something like it) — @pumpkinstabs

The cloying taste of day old blood clings to Billy’s tongue. He, it, tried washing it down with water and then with bleach but all it did was leave a harsh and burning trail down his oesophagus into his stomach and if he was well, if he was himself, he’d be driving to the hospital right about now.

Instead, it sits at the dinner table and doesn’t even flinch when Neil sneers out something or another about Billy’s bad manners.

Susan’s food tastes rotten in his mouth.

Later, when night comes, he(?) will ravage the refrigerator for the ground pork she was defrosting, thinking absentmindedly that pig is closest to eating a human.

He loses time.

And then he remembers, and it’s all bad bad bad.

—

His body is his own for a little. It’s fucking torture.

He’s so cold, so fucking cold all the time. He’s hungry, all the time. Christ, he’s so horny, he’s running through clean underwear and jeans at an embarrassing rate — he’s started doing his own laundry.

For some reason, he’s at Starcourt, it’s empty or at least, it should be, but there’s that.. kid.. he briefly remembers some classes with. Oh, he’s heard the stories, knows what he did, it used to piss him off but now he just.. knows, instinctively, that he is like him.

There’s something inside that doesn’t belong.

Still, there’s this gnawing behind his teeth, he wants to bite, because dead meat isn’t the real thing and what would have sickened him only a week ago now just makes his stomach grumble angrily. It’s like he hasn’t spent all day eating.

“Yo, chief,” Get him somewhere private, away from the cameras, “I work at The Gap and I fucking fell asleep, my coworker was supposed to wake me up but..” He motions around the empty mall. “Can you let me out?”

Christ, it’ll be so easy. What’s a little cannibalism, anyway?

[anewp0tat0]

Chapter 184

wow looks like things are about to get real sucky, anyway, what's going on rn-

I'm disappointed I can't see the names in the book, but I guess that would be too obvious heh. well, as long as yana doesn't pull us around the block, I'm pretty sure the direct message is that something is going to happen to Bard or (most likely) Ada, like in the next couple of minutes.

though it's also possible that Ronald isn't looking for Ada or Bard in his list, but rather listening into their conversation to see if they mention any aurora members or possible bizarre dolls that he may note. that's the optimistic option atleast.

I tried looking at the cover image to see if there was any common time being displayed on the watches, but they all seem to be random and artsy so no help. I can't even see the time on ronald's watch in the panel because the image is too blurry for me. but welp, the hour glass that's visable in the cover is about to run out so if that's any indication ig, nothing we don't already know.

I also tried to zoom into this person's face, all I can kinda make out is a possible blond beard? that's nothing though, so I assume it's just some random member.

this is some good character work in only short chapters that we have (and probably will :[ ) know her. Ada is just like Ryan really, too blind sighted by her desire and good will that she'll willingly be oblivious to the underlying harm and corruption. kinda reminds me of how I wondered if Ada had met Ryan since she used the Phoenix pose. but I doubt it, or doubt we'll ever know.

2 things:

1. what did he just do? at first I thought he was holding a gun, but it aggravated me that I can't see his hand. maybe it's either a surprise for the next chapter or yana just really wanted to zoom in on that sweet smexy visage. but now, especially looking at his posture, I'm thinking that he just threw something, a couple of small sharp and projectile objects. unfortunately, I have no idea what they might be. could be something for the facility or something he smuggled in.

2. what's he planning to do here exactly? not only am I a little confused about his motive(it's been too long, I can't remember why he can't just wait another day), but I'm also confused about what he's doing right now. my biggest bet is that he's already set *something*(explosion most likely, whatever kills most and efficiently) up where Ada and the rest are while bard was having his sob story, and now he's just stalling bard until the timer goes off. cause unless he has some secret martial arts skills, I don't think he's gonna best Bard in a fight. I always see him as the sly type rather than physical.

anyway, point blank, things are about to get really bad, I don't know why Lau is so eager to leave, some character traits I don't remember I guess, but I'm certain Ada and a bunch others are gonna die. dang...

I also can't imagine bard would ever agree to work with Lau again if they both come away unharmed. that would then mess up the whole phantomhive mission rn. oh god this is messy.

edit: OH MY GOD I JUST REMEMBERED WHERE'D THAT CREEPY KID GO???

[mxvladdy]

I would like to request! Can I request? Well I wish for you to consider what type of person/what kind of situation would cause the brothers to make a pact with someone. Maybe even what they would request in exchange? This can be before or after they met MC. With that out of the way, I totally binge read all of your works after my sister gushed to me about the True Form series, and just thank you??? It made me really happy reading them and it's always impressively detailed and well thought out.

Awww thank you! I’m glad it’s rave-worthy! I plan to add to it soon bc it was an absolute riot to write and research for lol

And wow this one is a toughie! I’ve actually never thought of what would make them want a pact! Hope ya like it!

Lucifer- Pact of Success

Absolutely the hardest brother to do business with, but that is probably a good thing. He is incredibly selfish with his contracts. Sure, they’ll benefit from his pact mark, but he will get the most out of it. Aside from MC he only takes requests for contracts from the human “elite”. They make wonderful feathers in his cap.

But also he takes some enjoyment in breaking them. They always get so cocky with his contracts thinking that they have him on the ropes and at their beck and call. It gives him a good chuckle, humans are so brazen considering their very short lifespan.

He destroys them slowly over time- all the little minutia he peppers in his legal bindings adds up. Not that his normal clientele ever read the fine print. But he designed it that way to make sure they don’t. All their requests are the same and so simplistic. Big boats, fancy cars, climbing the proverbial ladder faster than their friends or enemies - blah-blah-blah. At least the paperwork is easy to complete.

Very rarely does he find a contract he is excited to make. Those contracts are given to artists and craftsmen he sees potential in. He loves good art, and every artist should take pride in their work.

When it comes to the “price” of his pact it is worryingly simple. All he wants is some of their time. It sounds simple, and it is. Which is why it’s dangerous. The contract doesn’t specifically say how or the rules of it. How he takes your time is completely up to him.

Sometimes he simply comes for a drink and to ask how business is going. Or with the pacts he gives a damn about- he pops in to see progress on their artist visions or listen to their latest musings.    

Other times if he grows tired of his pact holders’ ever-growing demands or ludicrous requests he comes and takes time right out of their lifespan. His visits leave them weak and fatigued though they can’t place why. He is a slow siphon of death and they are too foolhardy to notice. If he is feeling especially cruel, or sentimental he takes memories, things that a demon generally wouldn’t want.

Time with family, the first time they met the love of their life, a child’s birthday. He takes them all and leaves them with only a blurry recollection in his wake

When MC crosses his path though he is very apprehensive. He doesn’t want a pact or anything that could jeopardize Diavolo’s upcoming plans. But they make his skin itch with want. He doesn’t want them to be another trophy on his wall. He wants a mutually beneficial pact, one that almost leans in their favor and it grates him. Should/ when a pact is made he won’t use his powers on you as then he would have to take something in return. Instead, he takes his time and coaches them to be successful by their own right, though if he has to eliminate some obstacles- well they don’t need to know that.

Mammon- Pact of Riches

I love his man with all my heart, but even when he isn’t losing bets or getting tricked into pacts he still isn’t the most selective with who he conducts business with. He is the avatar of greed, after all. I guess it comes with the territory.

He scouts for already wealthy humans or people with a good head for numbers and is money smart. Some are too smart to deal with him, knowing that whatever monetary gain they are granted from him will backfire in the end (or their mama’s taught them not to make deals with strange demons). But a sucker is born every minute, and he has nothing but time on his hands.

His pacts are pretty simple and upfront. Sign on the dotted line and they get some of his wicked gamblers’ luck and more riches than one human life span could do much with. While he gets a glorified accountant and a nice percentage of their profits. It’s a win-win… for him.

See he forgets to mention that there are two sides to every coin, and his flip side is particularly detrimental to one’s health. He just so conveniently glosses over that his luck will wear out over time depending on how frequently the pact holder uses it.

But the hunger for more doesn’t. If anything that particular sensation grows into an all-consuming fire in the pit of their pitiful guts. It forces them back into the seedy basements or griming gambling halls. One more roll, one more stack of bills, just one more time and they will hit pay dirt surly! But the losses just keep coming. If one of his pact holders ends up face down in a ditch after one too many bad hands and uncontrollable greed… well ain’t nobody’s fault but their own.

He has a softer spot for humans that seek him out and treat him like a living being instead of some tool to be tossed around at will. It’s refreshing. He will actually take some care with these pacts and tell them to temper their use of his magic so they can get the most out of it in the long run. They still might run into misfortune and he is genuinely sorry for that but there is only so much he can do in the end.

With MC he doesn’t even tell them about what his pact can do or how to use it. He doesn’t want anything bad happening to his human. If they want something tell him he will do it himself no magic or pact summoning required. He wants to keep them happy and healthy for as long as his lifespan will allow.

If MC should find how to use his pact mark he will get pissed. Not so much at them but the situation in general. He’ll be upfront about the whole thing, judge him how they want but he refuses to let greed consume them too. He focuses a lot of time and energy on learning how to reel in his magic with them so they get some of the perks but none of the major downsides. Unlike with his other pacts where he lets it all just run wild (just means they use up their contact faster and he can move on to even bigger fish).

Leviathan- Pact of Wisdom and Skill

Surprisingly, despite his antisocial tendencies with “normies”, he gets around when it comes to contracts. Perhaps it’s jealousy at his other brothers or perhaps he finds collecting contracts a bit of a game on its own.

He has a small niche of people interested in his pacts. Pacts with him give people a strategic advantage in nearly any situation. Seemingly overnight his humans turn into near tactical geniuses. Because of that, he is very popular with military leaders and humans with dangerous careers.

He also makes mini contracts with foot soldiers and humans with dangerous oceanic jobs. They just want to make it out alive and he gets that. With contracts like these, he is more lenient and doesn’t ask for much. Make an offering of fancy food to Henry 2.0 or wait in line for a rare human figuring he wants. Wam-bam thank you ma’am kinda business.

This is completely different from his larger contracts. With the military contracts, he expects them to continue with their duties until they die in the field. Simple as that, he doesn’t mince words in his contract. It’s what he would do as General so he expects it from them. Should they try to define him he will get rid of them.

He takes delight in defiant contract holders. They think they are as clever as he is now. But they forget that they are using his magic. He could take his magic away right after they defy him sure...but he won’t. He lets them stew for a bit, thinking they have had the last laugh on envy. If they wish to play games with a General then he will make sure it’s good.

With MC he plays on easy mode, granting them insight and little touches of his magic during exam week or when playing a game against his brothers. He wants nothing in return from them but some quality hangout time.

Satan- The Pact of Retribution

As the only pure-blooded demon out of the seven, he does these pacts out of necessity like most other demons. While the others do it more so out of monetary gain and an obligation to the crown. Or if you’re Belphie, sheer enjoyment.

He does it because he hungers, it a hole in his very self that he is trying to fill. He hunts for one reason only- relief from his cardinal sin. He will never feel the calm after a storm of rage naturally. Patience and tranquility are the antitheses of his very creation. So he gets it artificially through his contracts.

He looks for the downtrodden, angry, and the most bitterly despondent humans he can find and gives them the chance to seek vengeance. He is very upfront with what his pact entails. Once the vengeance is complete his rage will consume them and they will become another soul for him to consume.

He isn’t cruel about the process or tries to trick a human into a mark. Very few of the ones he approaches turn him down even after hearing the details. It is possible that humans once shot to get even and he gets to feel bliss, to feel calm. He finds out that the longer or more obscure the plan for retribution is the sweeter the outcome is for Satan.

If he is feeling super ornery he will go after people affected by the outcomes of Lucifer’s pacts. They are easy prey and almost as wrathful as Satan himself. Bonus it aggravates Lucifer to no end when he has to go out of his way to clean up the mess Satan’s contract made of his own.  Anything to piss him off makes Satan feel all the better.

With MC he doesn’t need to use his pact magic. Mostly because they are always around him in the Devildom, and no one is stupid enough to mess with someone Satan favors. If someone or something does irritate his MC he will take it out before it can fester into something his magic will try to latch onto. Keeping you calm and happy makes him feel almost tranquil as well.

Asmodeus- Pact of Gratification

Another very popular pact to try to get, and how could it not? He is fabulous~ But as much as people try to find him, he only goes for a certain type of contract. He has his perfectly manicured fingers on the pulse of the fashion and beauty industry.

His name is a whisper among the up and comers in the business. Many-while not looking for a pact - at least want to see him at least once. Many never will, they get cut from their agency or quit before they could get a foothold. It happens, and he hates to see it. Everyone deserves to feel gorgeous, or at least get a chance to be in the same room as him!

But for the ones the perceiver and climb the ranks get invited to one of his many parties. They can only get invited by someone wearing his mark. He trusts them to know who would be amenable to his contract.

His pact grants its bearer a glamor that can’t be broken by any meer mortal or mage. It makes them absolutely irresistible. How they wield that power is completely up to the user, he won’t judge or intervene.

Once they sign the contract all his holders see him frequently. He absolutely loves dropping in on their shoots or fancy dinners to say hi or get a recap on how they are fairing. Not because he is a nice demon or just super friendly (though they would like to think so). No, he just likes to watch.  

His payment is slow, methodical and no one sees it happen until it is already complete. In exchange for beauty and the graduation of getting whatever their little hearts could as for he gets their ability to love, whether that be familiar or sexual. Asmo loves the feeling of being loved; he wants it in all ways possible.

Some pact holders don’t have an issue with this. They got their looks, a successful career, and people to manipulate to their heart’s content. Not having strong contentions with anyone works in their favor. But others don’t and while they search for him to try and get that little slice of humanity back he is long gone. He got what he wanted anyway.

MC is his darling. He can and will make a special contract just for them (reviewed by Lucifer). A beautiful new contract for a beautiful soul! He wants you as unchanged as possible because this MC is the one he fell for.

Beelzebub- Pact of Prowess

His pact is a very elusive one as he isn’t keen on going and looking for one. Beel isn’t a big fan of these trades, but he needs them every once and a while. Nothing is more filling than a contracted soul.

His trade is basic, make a pact and you get his strength. He, like Satan, is upfront about what his payment is and what side effects will plague them. He sees no reason to lie about it. The more they draw on his power the more the host's body gorges itself. Their bones will collapse in on themselves from the stress of it- the magic feeds on anything in the host bodies. It will deplete the iron in the blood, go after the calcium in the bones, sink its teeth in their muscle system.  

It’s all rather gruesome and Beel does feel bad about it. He tells though who are still adamant about binding with him ways they can negate some of the side effects by taking supplements and augmenting their diets.

But it is like patching a deep cut with a bandaid, it just won’t work. His stomach is near bottomless- humans most certainly aren’t. They simply can’t eat enough to sustain their body like he can.

It surprises him that people still seek him out. To some, the pros outweigh that very huge cons. Some really do believe that they can find a loophole or find the right mix of medication to offset it.

He doesn’t get beaten up about it anymore but it gets on his nerves how obstinate humans can be about his very clear warnings. When his magic finally consumes them he takes both the body and soul back down with him and feasts on both.

With MC he keeps an eye out on them. Consistently checking in, making sure they don’t skip a meal, and join him at the gym often. He wants them to be strong and healthy enough to not ever want to use his pact. Though he does speculate that their angelic bloodline buffers both his and his brother’s magic a good bit.

Belphegor- Pact of the Visionary

Dreamers come in every shape and size and from different walks of life. But they are are all suckers to Belphie. He is known as the Lord of Decet for a reason.

He will promise them everything and anything their heart desires. That invention that will change the world? Done. A patent that is long overdue. Easy enough. A sudden rush of ingenuity to complete that nagging project. He is a devil of his word, it will be done. It- just won’t be done in the way they would want it.  

See manipulating the physical realm is hard work. Like a lot of hard work. More than he would ever do for some stupid little human. It’s a lot easier to control outcomes in his realm.

The moment the contract is signed his hosts fall under his control and he takes it from there building a perfect little dream world for them to frolic in and believe they are getting what they want. He feeds off of them here, taking little sips from their energy and exploring these new fresh dream worlds. His dreamscapes get boring every once and a while, so having a new human under his influence is always refreshing.

While his humans thrive inside their minds their bodies waste away in bed as his magic draws them further and further into an endless sleep.

He doesn’t see anything wrong with his contracts. Who would argue with him that the dream realms aren’t real in their own sense? Did his humans not accomplish their goals in the end? He doesn’t think of the outside effects of his magic and pacts. Belphie really doesn’t care about what families he broke apart or lives he inadvertently affected.  

MC is different to him though. He doesn’t keep them under his spell hardly ever (maybe if they are spending too much time with Dia or Lucifer. But he doesn’t push it with them.).He still walks into their dreams whenever he feels but he comes just to visit, not to change. He simply just enjoys keeping you company and relaxing in the little mini paradise you always seem to create in your dreams.

[rosalineandrosemary]

one final goodbye

hi! i wrote this for @maribat-angst-fluff-april with prompt 14, goodbye. you can check out my partner, @yoltastic09 ‘s fluff submission here. anyway, warnings for major character death and descriptions of blood and the fic is below the cut!

the video is blurry, filmed with shaking hands. when it focuses, they see a girl coated in red spotted spandex. she’s leaning against a wall, eyes closed and smiling softly, but their eyes are locked on the stab wound through her abdomen.

“thanks… thanks alya.” her voice is soft and raspy, and behind the camera, someone chokes on a sob.

“lb, please. just hold on a bit longer. chat... carapace. Someone will bring your lucky charm and it’ll be okay.” the voice, alya, trembles, and the spotted girl’s eyes fly open.

“i didn’t tell you, did i? alya, there’s no saving me. that’s why we’re recording this. I have his miraculous but my lucky charm can’t fix me. it’ll fix paris and i’ll still be here.” the camera falls to the ground with a clatter, and beyond the black screen they can hear alya’s sobs. 

“alya please, I need you to do this. I need to be able to tell them myself. I need to be able to tell you myself.”

“tell me what?” alya’s voice is thick and broken, and the camera is lifted off the ground. they see a girl, fox ears coming from her head and in another spandex suit, before the camera focuses on the bleeding girl again.

“hello viewers, hi alya. my name is marinette dupain-cheng, also known as ladybug. and this is my final goodbye.” 

the dark room where they sit is filled by the sound of things shattering, a mug falling to a ground, a wine glass being crushed in someone’s tight grip. 

“alya, i love you. it’s been an honor fighting alongside you as ladybug, and despite our ups and downs, and even how things were before you got your head on straight, it’s been amazing being your friend. i’m so sorry that this is how things turned out.” alya sniffles, and her soft words are easily picked up by the mic.

“mari, please. you can’t leave us, please.” marinette smiles and looks away, faltering. she takes a deep heaving breath and looks back at the camera. 

“maman, papa, i’m so sorry i couldn’t tell you about this. i’m so sorry that i can’t say goodbye properly. i’m sorry that i lied and i’m sorry that i kept this from you. i just didn’t want you getting hurt. you two are the best parents a girl could have and i’m so grateful to call you two mine. please don’t blame yourselves. i chose to keep this a secret to protect you, and you raised a pretty clever little girl. there isn’t anything you could have done to stop this.” marinette is crying at this point, tears streaking across the red of her mask and down her cheeks. “make sure they see this alya. please make sure they see this.” 

“of course, i promise girl. i’ll do anything.” alya’s voice is broken but marinette nods solemnly before continuing. 

when they see this, marinette’s parents wail and sob, the sounds echoing throughout the arrondissement. their neighbors tense, waiting for the destruction their akuma could cause, but hawkmoth is gone, and tom and sabine dupain-cheng are free to mourn their only daughter. 

“bruce, or, well, dad. i thought you might want to hear me call you that at least once, considering i’m not going to be able to meet you again for you to hear me say that legitimately. i’m sorry i didn’t tell you about this. i’m sorry that when i said goodbye, that when i said i’d see you again soon, that it turned out like this. it was nice being your daughter, at least for a little while.” the viewers turn to look at him with the mention of his name, and bruce opens his palm, glass shards falling to the floor. he stands up, staggering to the side, and walks out of the room.

when bruce had first met marinette, he thought she’d fit in with the rest of them. he wasn’t oblivious to the jokes his kids made about the black hair, blue eyes, and the way she held herself made him think she’d fit in in other ways too.

she was always cautious, always nervous, like she was expecting something to attack her out of nowhere. she was good at hiding it, beaming sunshine smiles and a charming yet genuine demeanor, and he could see the resemblance from miles away. he had seen her baking with alfred, laughing with dick and jason, drinking coffee with tim. she had found a slot in their family and fit herself there perfectly, and in the short time he knew her, he had grow to care for the daughter he was unaware he had.

the last time he saw her, she hugged him and smiled, a soft tentative thing, as she whispered goodbye. she turned to leave, but her back was too straight, her shoulders too tense. he swore to himself that he’d find out what was troubling her back in paris and that he would see if there was anything he could do about it. 

bruce never got the chance. 

“dick. you’re a great older brother. i’m sorry that i couldn’t be your younger sister for very long. it could have been fun. we might have done acrobatics together, or you could have showed me trapeze if you wanted. you try so hard to take care of people, please remember to take care of yourself.”

marinette, dick thought, was tiny. she was so much shorter than he was, and she looked up at him when she introduced herself. bruce’s other unknown child. she has the hair, and the eyes, clouded with the same world-weariness he had seen in all of them. he hadn’t been the first to meet her, as that honor had gone to bruce and alfred, and tim had been walking by when she walked in the door, but he had been the first to declare her his younger sister. he asked her questions and she responded, she asked him questions and he responded. 

he learned of her love of fashion and cooed as she bashfully showed off her outfit that she had sewed and designed herself. he told her of his gymnastics and trapeze skills, and she was wide eyed and nearly glowing when she asked if he could teach her. he had swallowed heavily, looked away and back at her, and told her that “maybe we can next time, marinette. i think b-man has an itinerary for you and everything.”

she had looked disappointed for a second before composing herself. “okay, maybe next time. but speaking of mr. wayne, i should probably go find him again, talk to you later dick!” he had heaved a sigh of relief, scared of bringing her so close to something that had already taken his family once. 

when he hugged her goodbye before she left for the airport, small hands clasped around his back, dick resolved that he would try to teach marinette the trapeze next time she came over. There would be nets and she wouldn’t get hurt and then there would be more memories of the trapeze that didn’t come with the bittersweet tinge of all his memories at haly’s circus. 

dick didn’t get that chance. 

“hi jay. i was making you something, did you know that?” marinette laughs softly, then inhales sharply as she aggravates her wound. and yet, she continues. “no, of course you didn’t. i didn’t tell you. it was almost done, just had a few finishing touches. you could still wear it though. it's a leather jacket. i saw that the one you had seemed to be getting worn out, thought you might want a new one. a new leather jacket for my big brother.” her tears quicken and she attempts to curl in on herself, even as her body lay against the wall. she looks so small. “even if your advice wasn’t the best you were still there and i was happy to be ‘pixie pop.’ i wish you were here. you’re safe, you know that? you feel safe, like if anything tried to hurt me you’d fix it. And i’m scared but at least other people are safe now. Thank you for making me feel safe.”

jason todd did not think he was a good man. there was too much blood on his hands for that. and even if the bastards had deserved it, it still didn’t make him a good person. so when he had seen the tiny slip of a girl who ran into him as she attempted to find bruce, his first instinct had been to stay away. she was so tiny, so pure, and no amount of washing would ever be able to clean his hands. 

but then she had flinched and started spewing out apologies, hands flying everywhere as she drove herself further down this spiral, and he saw in her what he had seen in so many of the other street kids. fear of retaliation, a desperation to appease him because she was afraid of what he might do.

and jason was furious. not with her, but with whoever had taught this girl (bruce’s daughter. he had warned them all about her, telling them to hide the objects that showed their “nightly pursuits.” he hadn’t told them she’d be so small.) that she had to apologize like this. whoever had traumatized her in this way. 

“hey, no need to apologize, pixie pop. no harm, no foul, right?” she had looked up at him, confused, and he grinned at her and clenched his fists, trying to dispel some of the anger festering in his chest. 

“who’s pixie pop?” she had said, eyebrows furrowed adorably.

“you are, of course. because you’re so tiny, like a little fairy. and all my siblings need nicknames, like dickie-bird, or replacement, or demon spawn. and since you’re my little sister now, you get a nickname too.” she had smiled and nodded, responding with a soft “okay,” and he swung an arm around her shoulder.

“so let me help you find bruce. but on our way there, is there anyone you’ve got any problems with? Any bullies you’d like big bro jason to deal with?” she had tensed, pursed her lips, and shook her head.

“there’s nothing you can deal with. it’ll be fine.” he hadn’t believed her, but he wasn’t going to pry.

when he hugged her goodbye, she had shook, clutching the sleeves of his jacket within her hands, but when he went to ask her what had happened, she said she’d tell him next time. he said he’d help her through anything.

jason never got the chance. 

“cass.” with this, she attempts to lift her hands from where they lay on the floor. she’s shaking with the effort, but manages to hold them up to her chest. slowly, she signs out every word with her hands. “i think that you could tell something was up. i don’t know how, and i’m not sure even you knew it would end up like this, but i think you could. thank you for trusting me, even if it ended up like this. thank you for being my friend, and i’m sorry i couldn’t improve my sign language fast enough to have a full conversation with you. i hope this is good enough.”

cass could tell that marinette was like them from the way she held herself. she had muscles curled under her clothing, and whenever she tripped she shifted her center of gravity if she didn’t catch herself first. 

cass hadn’t really spoken with her, standing as bruce introduced her to marinette. she could tell when marinette had processed bruce saying she preferred sign language, and when marinette’s shoulders sunk, she could tell it was with concern instead of malice. 

marinette turns to her with a small frown, apologizing for not knowing any sign language. marinette smiles afterwards though, and reaches out a hand. “i’d love to learn asl though! and i’d also love to be friends if you’d want to be. of course we don’t have to be, i don’t want to…” she trails off as cass takes her hand and nods. marinette’s smile grows wider and a small warmth grows in her chest. 

friends sounds nice. and marinette promises that she’ll try to learn asl and they’ll have a conversation in a way that cass is comfortable with, talking with that same smile. 

the last time cass sees marinette, she signs goodbye. marinette’s right hand goes up, thumb out, and she closes the rest of her fingers to her palm. she continues with the sign for cass’ name, and cass responds in turn, goodbye and marinette, and marinette leaves, excited at getting it right. 

marinette inhales, a wheezing breath, and the video is interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls and a man’s calling voice. “ladybug? rena?” 

alya lets out another sob and the man approaches. they can tell when he sees marinette, as he stalls before sprinting towards them. 

he’s clad in blue and snake print, teal tips at the bottom of his black hair, and he goes directly for marinette, trying to press a red and black spotted objects into her hands. 

“ladybug please, please take it you can fix all of this with the lucky charm. just do miraculous ladybug and the magic will fix it.” he begs her, voice jumping. marinette clutches the object in her hand but makes no motion to do anything with it, and he speaks again. “ladybug…” he hesitates for a second before continuing. “marinette, my melody, please don’t die on me.” her eyes widen slightly before she looks away.

“i should have known you already knew, mon coeur. but you also have to know this is the end.” she smiles at him, lifts the object in her shuddering hands and attempts to yell miraculous ladybug. she’s cut off halfway through by her own coughing, shaking her whole body and sending blood spilling from her lips.

it works regardless though, and the remaining waynes watch in awe as glowing ladybugs reverse the property damage. they fix the walls and the pavement before crowding around marinette’s body, but when they leave the wound is still there. the blood is still there. 

marinette’s eyes are drooping, and when she tries to talk, it comes out a whisper. “damn it. i thought i had more time.” she coughs again, more blood dripping out of her mouth. “tim, i was so happy to be your work buddy. steph, you are so fun and so important and it was so so lovely being your sister and your friend. damian, i wish i could have been your sister without scaring you, but that won’t be a problem anymore.” her breathing is shallow but she continues going, trying to say all the words she’s scared she wouldn’t be able to. “alfred, being your granddaughter, baking with you, all of that was such a pleasure. babs, spending time with you was so much fun and i wish we could do that again, that we could be friends for longer. duke, i know we didn’t interact much but i wish we could have.” she exhales, leans her head back against the reformed wall. her eyes flutter closed. 

“goodbye.” she says, one last word before her chest stills and marinette dupain-cheng dies.

[shingia]

Hello!!! I love ur fics sm 😭💖 This is weirdly specific and been plaguing my mind for days,,, Can I req an angsty fic where Atsumu broke up with the reader because he wants to chase his dreams and ultimately leaves but with the reader saying "I'll wait" . A few months later he seeks for the reader again and finds out the reader has terminal illness and is dying. You can decide if there's major character death or a miracle,,,, please and thank u so much!!

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐨 - 𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

aw thank youuuu <33 and also WOW this request is in-tense, i modified the ‘terminal illness’ part a little bit for plot convenience, but i rly hope you’re gonna like it ! i am : stressed. also, i’m a sucker for happy endings (just ignore my last bokuto fic) so i couldn’t go full angst on that one 😅

quick storytime : my great grandpa died from heartbreak and i always thought it was a beautiful (yet very sad) way to die, so i guess that’s where i got my inspiration from <3

⤷  atsumu x gn!reader | angst | word count : 1.7K

warnings : hospital environment, heart condition, mild description of ‘illness’ and mentions of death (a little)

your first kiss with miya atsumu had been sloppy, dizzy, with a strong scent of rum and smudged lip balm all over your lips. but there was no doubt that it had been the best kiss of your entire lives…

…just like your last had been the worst. 

two months later, atsumu still couldn’t forget the salty taste of your lips that begged him not to leave. if he focused hard enough, he could even remember the feeling of your hands desperately clinging to his jacket in a last attempt at making him stay by your side.

but he didn’t, and as much as he hated himself for putting an end - even temporary - to what had been the most beautiful chapter of his life, he had never regretted his decision ; and he knew exactly why. you had promised to wait for him, and in pure egoism, he knew and hoped that you would. because no matter the distance, he was still madly in love with you.

which is why he did not understand why osamu was so outraged when he told him that he was finally ready to come back to you. but the younger twin knew things that his brother didn’t - he had seen you let yourself waste away, like nothing else mattered without the one you loved.

but more than that, atsumu did not know about the secret his brother promised to keep. he did not know that, two weeks ago, osamu had found you unconscious in your living room with an alarmingly slow heartbeat. the poor boy had not understood everything the doctors had told him - but whatever a cardiogenic shock was, he knew that it would have carried you off if without his intervention.

however, you had been categorical : atsumu shouldn’t not know about this, under any pretext. you refused to be a burden to the pursuit of his dreams for which he had already sacrificed so much for. but now that atsumu was back, something about this promise didn’t sit right with his brother. and so he decided to tell him everything.

« …most doctors thought about a standard heart attack » he told him after explaining the situation, on the lookout for any impulsive reaction from his brother. « … but one of them talked about something else. you might want to sit down ».

but atsumu couldn’t care less about his brother’s advice. actually, he didn’t care about anything else than you right now. it was already taking a lot of effort for him to stand there listening to samu instead of being on his way to the hospital - but he stayed. for an obscure reason that he didn’t really understand, he stayed.

« did you know that people can die of heartbreak ? » osamu asked, more serious than he had ever been in his whole life. 

the blonde twin felt like the ground had suddenly swallowed him whole - although his brother was trying his best not to sound too accusating, it was more than obvious that whatever situation you were in was because of him. and only him.

« no they can’t » he tried to protest, not even believing in his own words. panic was beginning to win him over - and in a matter of seconds, he lost all his composure « WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU NOT MOVING ? LET’S GO ! » he shouted, already opening the front door. at that moment, one question burned his lips, but he knew he would never have the guts to ask it out loud. 

‘did i kill them ?’

——

the steady beeps of all the machines around you were the only thing disrupting the deafening silence of your hospital room. you were sick of spending your days alone. but you had no right to complain, osamu had offered to come and see you after work every day, but you had politely refused. well, politely was a big word… your body was so exhausted that you had trouble articulating simple phrases, and therefore exclusively communicated through nods or hand gestures.

your phone had been confiscated and the doctors kept you away from the news - or at least from the negative news, because they knew that your heart might give out at the tiniest emotional distress.

which is why you were so surprised to hear a knock on your door at about 3pm, outside of the nurses’ shift hours. knowing that you were too weak to talk, osamu let himself in, slowly closing the door behind him before coming closer to your bed.

« how are you doing ? » he asked, resting his hands on the other end of the bed. you shrugged, pointing at the IV and all the monitoring surrounding you. as long as these machines were there, it was hard to feel better than just ok. « listen, um… someone is here for you. the doctors said i could bring him in, but i wanted your authorization first… » he started before clearing his throat. « atsumu is back. do you- are you ready to see him ? ».

ready was probably not an appropriated word. but after two months spent pretending that he was still laying next to you in bed every night, still texting you good morning every day, still sending you the dumbest memes at the most random times, it would have been a huge mistake to refuse osamu’s proposition.

and so he let him in. obviously, atsumu had orders from the doctors and his brother : don’t run, don’t move too fast, don’t speak too soon, don’t touch them without warning. but nobody had asked him not to cry. and how could his eyes stay dry when you looked so fragile and so vulnerable ?

osamu quietly left the room, leaving the two of you together not without apprehension. but if there was one thing he could trust his brother on, it was taking care of you. two months could not have gotten the better of four years of relationship.

but as much as he cared about you, atsumu had always been - and still was - pretty bad with words. and the first ones that left his mouth were a great example. « are you going to die ? » he asked in a shaky voice, brows knitted.

you would have given him an answer if you had one, but you didn’t. the doctors said that you had gone through the most painful part, but the risks of aggravations were still too important to let you go home. you were not 100% safe yet.

« i told you i’d wait » you spoke in a hoarse voice, the beep of your heart monitor getting a little bit faster.

the steps atsumu took towards you were slow, like he had been told, but just one glance at his eyes was enough to know that deep down, he was dying to feel your skin against his.

« i know you probably hate me right now. and for good reasons » he started as he sat on the chair next to your bed, still painfully avoiding any contact. « but there’s something i need to tell you, in case… in case… well, if something were to happen ».

his eyes lingered on your fingertips, blue and cold, and his whole body tensed at once. the thought that everything you were going through had been caused by his own selfishness was driving him crazy. but he had one last thing to keep himself grounded, and that thing was exactly what he was about to tell you.

« i love you. but i caused you so much trouble that i think there’s only one way to prove it… » he said, taking a deep breath before finally resting a timid hand on your arm. « i want to marry you. right now. i don’t fucking care if it’s not considered official, i just want you to know that leaving you was probably the biggest mistake i ever did. and that i’m not leaving ever again. so fuck it, let’s get married ! you almost died, life’s too short to plan a stupid ceremony ».

he stopped for a few seconds, panting from his teary monologue and paying attention to any beep or other sound that might indicate that he had made things worse for you. but it seemed like you were doing ok. how could you not be ? the love of your life had just proposed to you - sure, it wasn’t how you had imagined it, but wasn’t it even more beautiful like that ?

the tears that started rolling down your cheeks were undoubtedly tears of happiness and relief to know that, finally, your life was back to normal. atsumu was your normality, and for the first time in two months, you finally felt like you had a purpose. you had no idea if soulmates existed, but what you had with atsumu seemed more than close enough.

if someone had entered the room at that moment, it’d probably have taken them several minutes to understand what was going on. two young adults, crying yet smiling, one of them laying on a hospital bed looking like they had been through hell and back, and the other tearing off two pieces of his t-shirt and looking genuinely proud of himself -  nothing about this made sense.

« my apologies, it was the easiest way to make us rings » atsumu chuckled, eyes still blurry as grabbed your hand in his with infinite tenderness. slowly, he tied the piece of cloth around your ring finger, loosely enough so that the doctors would not consider it dangerous for your blood circulation.

« i’m keeping that until you’re getting out of here. by my side. » he affirmed, pointing at his own makeshift ring before looking right into your eyes, as serious as ever. « and i’m also keeping you. forever. consider this my wedding vows »

as much as he hated to phrase it like that, you could both die in peace now.

i spent so much time on medical sites to be as accurate as i could, i felt like meredith mf grey for a few hours

@toworuu @catwithangerissues

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

all gone, all gone, all gone

part 4: well, no, i don't feel lighter

my crackfic is back, y'all!! and here to break my 3rd-chapter curse, in which every fic i've ever written ever, i've given up after exactly the 3rd chapter. hopefully the amnesia fic and the 5+1 can follow suit. i wanted to post something for thomastair week/alastair appreciation day, and this doesn't fully fit but i have too many WIPs and this was the closest thing. I've written most of part 5, which has some great thomastair action, so maybe i'll try to post that tonight as well

content warnings: suicide attempt, magical manipulation, implications of domestic violence

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Masterlist | AO3

They will never help you. Not even your sister takes your side, not in many months, years even. Do you think they would take you back now, like this? They preferred you floating dead in the Thames than fighting beside them even before I got my hands on you. They would use you and discard you in seconds. You are nothing to them, you never had been. Do you think your own mother would take you back knowing what you’ve done?

Alastair was clean again, free again. Those were the first words Belial had said to him after giving him a second chance. They repeated in his head now, deep in battle with the people he’d betrayed, the people who would betray him without hesitation. The people he should hold no loyalty towards.

But something else played in his head as well: a memory. He was 11, maybe 12, his sister slightly younger. They were playing hide and seek in the forest beyond Cirenworth. Alastair knew it was because his father was drunk and angry, and his mother had told him to get his sister out of the house. He was worried that she would get hurt attempting to calm him down, but Cordelia wasn’t. She was happy, she was laughing. She had no idea that anything could be wrong. She was elated for her brother to be playing with her. She wanted to run around and pick berries and eat them next to the lake a mile from their house.

He held tightly to the memory, as if it were a street he was sprinting down and if he made a single turn, he would never be able to find it again. It was the last thing he thought of before Belial returned to him, and it was a message he easily understood: this was the reason he was loyal to her, even when she betrayed him.

He had been so focused on his anger, his death wish, all of his own pain and heartbreak that he’d lost sight of what had sustained him all of his years: his sister. He survived on the knowledge that whatever happened to him, whatever abysmal fate was before him, his sister could have better. She deserved better. He could give it to her in whatever way possible.

He’d become distracted in his own pain, and Belial had preyed on that. Now, Alastair understood. It didn’t matter if Belial killed him or if he was sent away to the Basilias to waste away for the rest of his days or if he was stripped of his marks and never allowed to see his family again as long as Cordelia walked away in one piece.

Belial twirled Cortana in the air. “Good thing we have another Carstairs to wield it. Take care of her.” The blade flew into Alastair’s grasp. Cordelia winced and Lucie shrieked, charging towards Belial. They locked each other in a battle of magicks, but she wouldn’t last long, not against a Prince of Hell.

Alastair thought back to that memory, to the sound of her shrieks of laughter, of the flashes of deep, dark red hair between the trees as he chased her. He would rather die a thousand agonizing deaths than hurt her again. His mind told him that it was illogical, but he knew that it was correct. “You always wanted to be a hero, isn’t that what you said?” She looked hurt and confused, but more than anything, terrified. She needed to understand. There was only so much he could do; she needed to believe. “Do you believe you are a merciful hero?”

Realization flickered in her eyes of that memory from many years ago. “I try to be.”

Alastair couldn’t throw a sword and expect it to land safely in Cordelia’s grasp and without any demonic interception, nor did he wish to be within slashing distance of his sister with Belial in his head. Instead, he threw the sword upward.

Cordelia held out her hand and the blade flew into it, just as it had back in Devon. It fit firmly into Cordelia’s grasp just as Lucie collapsed.

“What-” Belial began. Alastair felt himself lifted into the air by an invisible hand around his neck. “-did you do?” Before he could answer, Cordelia started to move forward. The grip around his throat tightened and he couldn’t stop the strangled sound that followed. “Move another inch and I’ll snap his pretty little neck,” he warned. Cordelia froze.

“You should- have killed me-” Alastair choked out. “After Thomas.”

“You tricked me.”

“You wanted me- to give up. Should have known- I’m a talented- actor.” He could feel himself getting lightheaded attempting to speak, sacrificing the little air that he was still able to breathe.

“You think you’re so brilliant-”

“No. You’re- a fool. You- miscalculated.” He heard a shout down the corridor. If Cordelia was still holding Cortana when James arrived, there would be no way for Belial to win. Now was his only chance.

He heard a shriek as he flew through the air, colliding with a brick wall in a sickening crunch. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground. He opened his eyes just in time to watch Belial disintegrate at Cortana’s blade.

The world was blurry, and everything hurt. His body, but also - him. He was free. He was dying, but he was free.

Each breath hurt more and more, and he could taste blood in his mouth. He had at least several broken bones and a concussion, in addition to broken ribs and any internal injuries. He attempted to sit up but the bit of effort made his vision go black. Perhaps more than a concussion.

Suddenly, his sister's face was above him. "Stay with me," she begged. "Please, I need you. Please, hold on. Everything will be okay. We'll get you to the Institute and they will heal you and then we will figure out the rest. Please, I need you. I'm so sorry. I love you. I can't do this without you. Please, hold on, for me."

She should not be apologizing, he thought. I was the one who left her.

He tried. He tried to hold on. He had brief memories of the carriage riding, slipping in and out of consciousness.

Stay with me, she repeated.

I will, he tried to tell her, but no words came.

Then, he saw nothingness. The emptiness with which he was so familiar.

Then, he woke. He was in the infirmary. His whole body ached. He felt his stomach lurch as he remembered all that had happened the past two weeks.

Cordelia was sitting in a daze, not fully asleep, but not fully awake.

"I suppose this whole ordeal means that I am either very hard to kill or very bad at dying," he said weakly, startling her out of her stupor.

She glared at him. "Don't joke about such things! I would smack you were you not injured. I still might yet." She hurried to him and embraced him tightly. His body ached at her pull but he did not comment.

"How long has it been?"

"Three days since the fight."

"Is Lucie okay?"

She nodded. "It took her a bit to recover, but she's alright. There were other injuries, but somehow we all made it out in one piece."

"I'm so sorry, Cordelia," he said quietly.

"Shh, don't start that. It's alright. I just-" Her breath hitched for a moment. "I wish I had been able to see how much pain you were in. I wish I could have helped."

He shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have accepted it." He reached to cup her face in his hand but realized that his wrists were bound to restraints. Of course. He'd worked for Belial. He'd carried out unspeakable deeds for him. He'd kidnapped Thomas, even if he had freed him as well.

"They- they said they had to, that until you woke and they could assess the situation it would be necessary. I-"

"It's okay," he told her. "I understand."

"What are you going to tell them? About how... about what happened with Belial?"

He exhaled. "The truth. I will simply tell them the truth."

* * *

The Consul was apprehensive about allowing Alastair to take the Mortal Sword so soon after waking from his injuries, but he insisted that he would not speak without it. He only wanted to do this once. She reluctantly agreed, bringing the sword to the infirmary, along with the Inquisitor, the head of the Institute, and Sophie Lightwood as witness. He was unsure of how she’d gotten involved, but her presence somehow terrified him and soothed him at the same time. Cordelia was allowed to stay as well, as long as she did not interfere with the questioning.

The Mortal Sword burned through his body, aggravating his many wounds, but he’d felt worse. He answered their questions, explaining how Belial had held him over the Thames, threatening to drop him into the river as he brokered a deal with him. He conveniently left out the part that preceded. He attempted to describe what it was like to be under Belial’s spell, under his curse. He told them that he never wanted to hurt anyone. It was the truth, even under Belial’s influence.

“Thank you, Alastair. We’re almost finished,” Will told him. Alastair was unsure why he was asking the questions, he was sure that was meant to be the task of the Inquisitor, but whatever Will had done to earn the privilege, it seemed like he regretted it now. He was simply too empathetic. “Please allow me to clarify a few details. Belial, using Jesse Blackthorn’s body, pushed you off of Tower Bridge?”

Alastair grimaced, his answer burning in the back of his throat. He had hoped they would overlook this part. “No.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was already over the edge of the bridge.”

“I don’t understand.”

Alastair looked over to Cordelia who seemed ready to jump in on his behalf, though they both knew she was not allowed. “I- I jumped,” he confessed, relief washing over him, though he did not know if it was because of the sword. “I attempted to kill myself, but Belial stopped me.”

The Consul and Will Herondale looked at him in shock. Sophie Lightwood appeared guilty, but he had no idea what for. The Inquisitor was indifferent.

Will attempted to speak, the pain breaking through his eyes, but could not. The Consul stepped in instead. “I see. Is there any other information relevant to this ordeal?”

He was about to respond when Sophie spoke up. “What did Belial tell you about Barbara?” Ah, he realized. That was why she was here. That was why she was guilty.

“Sophie!” the Consul scolded.

“Mrs. Lightwood, that is entirely-” The Inquisitor began, but it was not a question Alastair was opposed to answering.

“Nothing,” he told her. “But I overheard him speaking to Tatiana. He called Barbara’s death his gift to her.”

Sophie’s solemn expression did not hold the surprise of the Consul’s or Will’s. Alastair was merely confirming what she already knew.

The Consul nudged Will forward to take the sword back from Alastair. “I believe we’re finished here. We will discuss the matter and return to you shortly.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as Will put away the Mortal Sword and they left the room, Sophie casting an apologetic glance back at him. The silence stayed between him and Cordelia as they waited. He believed before that if he could skirt around the truth, there was a chance he would walk free, even if he did not deserve it. Now, knowing that they knew the full truth, his stomach twisted at the thought of their decision.

Cordelia looked pale, and he knew she was thinking something similar. “I’m going to go get some water,” she said finally. It wasn’t even a convincing lie.

“Cordelia, what are you doing?”

She didn’t answer as she left the infirmary.

if any of this seems unrealistic, i don't care! i made this mess and i can deus ex machina it if i want to!!!

taglist (ask to be +/-, this is a different taglist than most of my content because of the triggers): @jem-nasium @littlx-songbxrd @fortheloveofthecarstairs @cant-think-of-anything @shadowrunner2000 @writeforjordelia @jurdan-my-beloved

Part 5

[t-o-m-hollands]

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

*

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

*

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

*

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

*

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

*

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

*

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

*

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

[lulaypp]

Alternate Ending to Chains

A/N: Originally, this was supposed to be the ending but I accidentally hurt Jason a little too much in one of my editing rounds and I be like...... hmmmm..... this might not go. But I adore this ending so here you go.

(Warnings for implied/referenced torture, mentions of injuries and hypothermia.)

-

Breathing was almost impossible as he felt a deeper darkness start to consume his mind. He probably should fight it but he was too tired and cold and... scared. Everything was numb and hurting. And dark. All encompassing darkness.

There was a sudden lace of agony firing down his back and shoulders as he let out a ragged, breathless scream. He was forcibly pressed upright against something as he struggled to curl in against the pain and cold, a moan falling past his lips. A soft warmth was wrapped around him as he vaguely felt a soft rumble by his head. It was... comfortable. And he found himself burrowing further into it with a soft whimpered whine. It was an escape from the presistent pain and cold. And he felt so tired that he could fall asleep. Something told him that he was safe now. That the danger was gone, whatever it was. He couldn't remember. Didn't really care.

Something touched his cheek and he flinched, causing his body to protest. His mind was dragged out of the sinking darkness as sounds registered in his head. Voices. Words. He wasn't sure if they were directed to him; he recalled people talking about him a lot, and not always tohim, discussions on how to best hurt him. An intimidation tactic, he's aware, but it had been unnerving.

It was when the thing he was leaning on rumbled again, did he noticed that it was a person. Panic seeped in again as he realised that an arm was holding him tight and secured. But he was stuck alone somewhere wasn't he? A coffin? No, it was a cold, dark box, freezing and blinding him. But it wasn't cold anymore, soothing warmth flowing from his right.

He opened his eyes to blurry shapes everywhere, a hazed fog obstructing his sight. He attempted to push away from whoever it was holding him, but was held tight and he whimpered when his struggles shifted his broken bones. He was suddenly aware of the pain coming from everywhere, dousing him in a fire of agony. He gasped as he tried to-

"-on! Hood!" His hand was snatched and he wanted to pull away but there were soft strokes across his aching fingers. "You're okay. Listen to me! You're going to hurt yourself. Please calm down. It's alright."

He shifted to drag himself away but a ragged scream tore through him as his back grated against something, lighting up thousands of fires, breaths coming up in hitched gasps and half-sobs. Fear started to mix with his panicked desperation and he was hurt and confused and scared and-

Something soft was pressed into his hair, followed by gentle strokes. There was the rumble from his right again, "Hood, you're safe. We found you, you're safe, alright? Shh... You're okay."

The fingers rubbing his knuckles stopped before tucking his arm into his chest and traling up to his throbbing jaw, softly touching. "You're alright, Little Wing. But you need to stop moving before you hurt yourself any further." It was followed by a whispered, "Can he- Can he hear us, B? I'm not sure if he sees us."

"Lad?"

Lad... Jaylad... Little Wing... His breath caught. They're- They're here? "Bru-" he coughed, trembling, a whine slipping out his throat as agony raged through him.

"Shh... You're hurt-"

Uncontrolable relief washed through him. "...Bruce? ...Dick?" He tried to look for them but sight was still hazed and he couldn't see them. Was he hallucinating? Dreaming? He moaned as hacks of coughs shook him again.

"Don't talk, Lad."

"You're hurt and you're going to aggravate your injuries."

He was hallucinating. Or was he not? Was this real? He frantically threw his gaze around, trying to find anything. The only things he could see were blurry blobs of colours. He couldn't even tell where he was. But there was light and that had to mean he was no longer trapped, right?

"I'm here, okay. We're here." A moving fuzzy blackness. Pointed ears. Batman.

"We've got you, Little Wing." He tried to follow the voice and saw blue against black. Nightwing.

His breath hitched as another sob bubbled up. Panic and desperation dissipated as the coursing agony crashed back into him in full force. He curled into Bruce's chest, shivering. Something was wrapped tighter around him.

"Hey hey. It's alright." The fingers resting against his jaw rubbed gently underneath his eye.

"...C-cold..." he moaned. "...Hurts..."

"I'm sorry." Another warm kiss was pressed onto his forehead and he leaned into it. "We're going to bring you back to the Cave but I will need to move you first, alright? It may hurt."

Jason whimpered but nodded tiredly. His vision went white as he was lifted, a choked scream leaving him. He screwed his eyes shut and held back the urge to scramble away. A wave of nausea brought bile up his throat but he forced it down. He tried to keep his ragged, wheezing breaths even and stayed as still as he could against the fiery agony, knowing that every movement would make it worse. It wasn't long before everything fell back into a throbbing lulled haze. Ingrained memory helped him find the crook of Bruce's neck and he buried his forehead into it, finding warmth.

"Hood? Jay?"

Jason blinked away the fog over his mind, making a sound of acknowledgement.

"I'm going to lower you into the car." This might hurt.

He bit his lip and nodded. He took a deep agonising breath through the jolting pain slicing up his leg, rattling his chest. By the time his mind cleared, he was leaning against something- someone, who was letting out a whispered string of curses. His brows furrowed as he tried to blink his vision back to clarity and attempted to turn to see who it was but was stopped by fingers brushing his forehead.

"Try to not move, Jay." Dick. It was Dick who gingerly had an arm around him and a hand sweeping bangs and radiating warmth. Wonderful soft warmth. His brother let out a small laugh. "As much as I would love a cuddle, I'm afraid you shouldn't. There are... too many injuries."

Jason did not want a cuddle, he hatedcuddling, what more with Dick. He wanted warmth and the stroking fingers in his hair to come back and the pain to go away and... maybe... a hug. He tried to voice it but could only manage a tired moan.

Dick pressed a kiss into his hair and some small part of him cheered when a hand carded through as well. He leaned into the touch, feeling his eyes sliding close.

"Jason, stay awake, alright?" A hand took his, softly rubbing the broken knuckles.

He groaned, turning his head to bury into Dick's shoulder. It wasn't really comfortable- why was Dick so short?- but it was nice nevertheless.

"Hypothermia," Dick told. "I can talk if you want. Will that keep you up?"

Jason attempted a shrug but apparently he didn't have the energy to do so. His throat felt too dry and sore. "Water..."

"Hold on." There was some scuffling before something was press to his lips and his head was gently eased back. "Carefully and slowly."

The little water that trickled in was warm and probably the best thing he had ever tasted in his entire two lives, almost leaving him lightheaded. Dick only allowed two small sips before pulling away, and Jason couldn't help the whine that left him.

"Shh... It's okay, Jay." He knew that. He just wanted water. "We cannot be sure of your condition until we get back and shouldn't risk it."

He huffed, before coughing with a wince.

He was about to drift off again when Dick suddenly started to talk, fingers still stroking his hand and hair. "Do you know that Dami is trying to convince Bruce to allow him to have a bird?"

He gave a minute shake of his head. He wouldn't be surprise if Bruce gives in. Not that Bruce had ever given in when Jason asked if they could have a pet. The old man even allowed Damian to keep a cow! In the Batcave!

"He haven't decided what kind of bird he wants to have but he was considering either chickens or ducks."

He was hit with the sad realisation that he had never seen a living chicken in all his life! Or, well lives, but point still stays. "Get 'im... chicken. Wanna see one..."

Dick chuckled. "Hear that, B? Jay also votes for giving Damian chickens."

Confusion flickered across Jason's mind? Bruce was with them? Where was he in the first place? Why was it so cold and hard to breathe? Why was he in so much pain? He groaned, trying to shift into a more comfortable and less painful position.

He hissed as his back flared up when the arms around him tightened. "Jay. Jay, stop moving."

"It- It hurts," he moaned, trying to move. There was a sudden agonising grating in his leg and a whine clawed out his throat.

"I know it does. But you need to keep still or you'll hurt yourself further." He felt Dick shifting before a hand guided his head to rest in the crook of a neck and he burrowed with a whimper, struggling to breathe properly. "Shh... Shh... It's okay. We're almost home."

Jason kept his eyes closed, tucking his aching arms closer to his chest, shivering. Why in the world was he so cold and hurting? What happened to him? He felt like he just threw himself into Gotham Harbour during winter, which happened once before when an unconscious Tim had tumbled into the water and Jason had to dive in to save his brother. It wasn't a pleasant experience and they both ended up with a worse-than-horrible pnemonia; Tim due to his lack of spleen, and Jason because he decided that he was fine and ended up nearly dying mid-patrol. "This... kinda stupid," he started, sucking in a breath, "but what... happened?" He remembered that he was chained in a room and there were some- four people torturing him. But Dick was here with him now and he recognised the rumble of the Batmobile which did not add up.

"You were caught, remember? Bruce and I got you out." Dick sounded concerned. "I'm sorry we didn't get there sooner."

"Oh." Jason screwed his eyes shut, wincing as a spasm jolted from his chest. "'s fine..."

"No, it isn't. We should have noticed that you were missing earlier. We- I kinda thought that you were just resting your arm and didn't want anyone to bother you."

And Jason honestly appreciated that because he would prefer it if his family would stop randomly popping up at his safehouses without his approval, or worse, without warning.

"But then you missed Sunday dinner and we grew worried because no one had seen you."

"Sorry for missing it," he mumbled.

"You shouldn't be sorry. Although you should have called for help. Why didn't you?"

He tried to remember how did he get caught in the first place. "Dunno. 'n't r'member." Was it an ambush? A trap? Pure luck?

There was a sigh. "It's okay. You're safe now."

A sardonic part of his mind scoffed. Safe could be really relative. Sure he was saved from his tormentors, but judging by the aches and agony inside and all over him, he doubted that he was out of danger. But he didn't voice it. "Thanks," he said instead, moving his head slightly and pressing what hoped was passable for a kiss to Dick's chin.

He could feel his brother glowing and vibrating at the gesture. And the overjoy was not fully concealed in the response, "Anytime, Little Wing."

[something-very-special]

they ran over the seals

More Replicant playthrough observations and general nonsense under the cut. For reference, up to the keystone quest; completed the Forest of Myth and Junk Heap.

This fucking game I swear to god.

A vaguely coherent ramble about sidequests An observation about sidequests in general in this game -- and I don't recall if I ever voiced this somewhere public or it was just a personal observation from my time with the original -- is that the quests in the first half of the game are all relatively easy to complete. There's that one asshat who wants 10 goat hides, but other than him, most of the sidequests are either very much based on finding characters, or gathering a sensible number of items that are either relatively common, purchasable, or given a guaranteed spawn for the duration of that quest.

The sidequests everybody remembers having to do are in the second half, where everybody is demanding and awful and I'm sorry ten MACHINE OILS do you know how goddamn rare those are? They're goddamn rare.

(We'll not discuss Life in the Sands.)

This is generally agreed to, in the technical vernacular, 'suck'. And it's always funny that the most interesting sidequests are the ones with very minimal requirements (Yonah's cooking, getting Popola drunk, the Lighthouse Ladoh my god everything's gone blurry I'm not crying you're crying who am I kidding we're both crying). That particular aspect of the design also feels intentional, not really gating your ability to progress the really meaningful or funny sidequests behind an unreasonable number of rare items. The other aspect of the design is that these quests are not meant to be completed in a single playthrough; most of them are single-stage and just absolutely unreasonable, but if you're going through the game four times you have a... reasonable chance of getting everything you need more or less naturally.

Nobody does that but I think that was the intended design. I think it's a good idea, although the execution of expectation is flawed so I don't really blame people for saying those sidequests suck. (Although I will in turn blame people for saying the sidequests suck as a blanket statement. Yeah getting that guy who burned his kitchen down a billion Broken Motors is aggravating but did you not find that old man's dog? Speak to Ursula on her death bed? Solve a murder? Then again I think tracking down that rotten son who's trying to get away from The Family Business only to learn his father is a con-artist and get literally no reward is the height of comedy so maybe I'm not the greatest point of reference.)

But that asshole in Facade can get bent. I can't exploit my garden properly, jackass! I am no longer a god of time. (I kid, of course.) (This guys sucks even when you can fix your clock.)

Forest of Myth It didn't even occur to me to wonder how they would incorporate the comprehensive voice acting into the Forest of Myth. I like how it plays out, although I wish the voices maybe had a fade as you went deeper into the dream instead of just cutting out at some point, especially for the lines where the characters are being ascribed actions by the narrator that they themselves aren't doing near the start of the Deathdream. But it's just delightful to go back to it. The second half of the game really sticks in your mind both for emotional reasons and because you play it at least three times per full playthrough of the game, but the first half is just so much fun.

Protip: Talk to everybody after you've finished the dream sidequest. Weiss tries to dissuade you. Don't let him dissuade you. I'm still delighted by the Mayor; "We're building a statue of you, made of solid gold. I know you don't own a horse, but we're going to put you on a horse."

I forgot about Yonah being a disaster chef Papa Nier's reaction to the stew is better. Brother is still funny but Papa Nier just expecting to die is comedy gold.

For anybody curious, the joke about the cakes is that Yonah made 'fruit cake' using some of the worst possible fruits for cake-making. If only she'd thrown a tomato into the mix, too.

Lighthouse Lady Every time. what the fuck is a canal I'm aware of the addition of the new-old content but it didn't occur to me until Popola suddenly starts nattering on about fixing the canal when I'm expecting Yonah to talk about a penpal that oh, yeah, I guess Seafront would have had something going on the first half that would play into the second half? (I assume it does. Be weird to introduce these characters just to have groundwork for an added sidequest. ...but it was a cute sidequest.) But look Popola my boy is supposed to be in the next area I visit could we-- I mean he's on the way could we just-- no-- fiiiiiiiiiine. (It was short and sweet, though, and I appreciate that the couple's love is exemplified by them both calling Weiss a floating magazine in tandem.) On a related note but was I the only person suddenly concerned when the sidequest completion maxed out at 50% and not 51%? I had to double-check with a guide just to make sure, since I've spent the last decade telling people to make sure you hit 51% before going on to Part II.

MY BOY I love that nowadays, Emil is everybody's son. But I really wish I could go find somebody only familiar with Automata and just watch their reaction. (I'm guessing there are streams out there that fulfill this but man I'd love to get it in-person.) If you're only familiar with him from Automata this has to be a mindfuck.

Personal anecdote, but I've had the privilege of playing NIER with somebody else almost every time I've gone through it. I had a wonderful experience of doing a replay some years back with somebody who had experienced it with me before but didn't have the most solid memory of the beginning (and had actually missed the entire weapon's lab the first time through). I get to the boy at the piano introducing himself and the 'Wait, what?' was a thing of beauty.

MY ANDROID This was a welcome mindfuck for me; finding Sebastian and having him 'reactivate' in such an unnatural, mechanical way. I don't recall if it was ever officially confirmed that Sebastian is an android (I know that it's just understood that this is the case but I'm not I can't recall a specific one) but the little flair they added to his animation caught me completely off guard. I liked it!

Destroying the food source A lot of people will cite a major inciting incident for the game as being when the protagonist heading back into the village and killing the child Shades just outside the entrance. This moment is such a great bit of subtle foreshadowing that's so easy to miss... but kind of joining that, just before the Knave of Hearts attacks, I realized that the Shades out on the Northern Plains are clearly ramping up for an assault of their own by murdering the sheep. The sheep population at this point is decimated (which is great when you realize you haven't gotten the Sheepslayer trophy and you're about to enter Part II and you don't know if the boar drifting minigame got carried forward with the inclusion of 15 Nightmares). You go out onto the Plains and you will find not only small clusters of sheep left behind instead of the vast, terrifying herds from the start of the game, but until you get their attention the Shades are prioritizing killing the sheep. (Also annoying because that doesn't count toward my sheep murder number.) The Shades will be out there also killing sheep earlier on, but since the whole map is in Overcast mode after talking to Yonah it's especially prevalent to go out to the Northern Plains and seeing the slaughter. And I realized-- they're cutting the Village off from a primary food source. Shades don't eat and they don't have any beef with the local ungulates (at least, no more so than anybody else does), so why are they hunting down the sheep? To deprive their enemies of resources. Sheep are extinct by the timeskip. It's actually really clever of them, and a really clever indication of their sentience and intelligence before it's fully verified.

"Let's get these shit-hogs!" Everything about the way Kaine and Emil interact across the entire game is perfect I will brook no argument this is objective fact.

Emotive Rectangles I wrote an essay about this before but it really bears repeating that the job the original animators did with this scene is just phenomenal. The way Weiss drifts, flits, flips, fans his pages, drunkenly swerves, shoots around the room in defiance... He's a goddamn rectangle, but there is so much emotion and personality in this scene just based on the movements conveyed through a what is effectively just a box. Ten years later and triple-A titles with full facial capture don't have this much seething personality. I really have to give props to the cavia animators, wherever they wound up. That studio could really put some subtle love and care into their titles, utterly unnecessary and easy to miss but you can tell that whoever was working on it was giving it their all. The books are probably the exemplification of this, but every time I go into Seafront and visit the seals I can tell that the guy on seal duty was having just the best day. They made Emil so pretty There's an FMV cutscene right smack in the middle of the original game after the battle against Noir. I understand why it was a necessity on a technical level, but it always looked pretty out of place and a little uncanny valley compared to the rest of the graphical fidelity. That's no longer a necessity so this cutscene is rendered in-engine. I admit I was actually curious to see it redone this way and it looks fantastic. I single out Emil since he is the focal point of cutscene and because his particular high-poly model had some pretty weird difference from his in-engine model, but he and Kaine both look great. But, like, it's almost mean how pretty he is.

They made Brother Nier so pretty Yeah okay you got me he's kind of hot. Kaine's expression when she wakes up and looks him over is... significantly easier to read now. Good voice, too. (Ancient rumors tell that one of the issues with international releases of RepliCant was that they couldn't find an English VA with a voice that 'fit' Brother Nier. He sounded good out the gate but hearing him growl "Let's go TAKE CARE of those KIDS" during the thief sidequest-- I got chills. It sounds so silly but there's a kind of percolating fury to that delivery. Papa Nier was like frustrated but mostly disappointed dad; I felt like Brother was going to take care of those kids, and nobody was going to find the bodies. Younger Brother Nier just never stops looking goofy to me but Older Brother just looks great in motion, between the alterations they made to the movement and just the entire weaponry system. The distinction between the two halves of the game was always a little odd in the Gestalt version-- not odd enough to really raise eyebrows if you didn't know about RepliCant, but of course you can tell that this age gape between the optimistic doe-eyed dogooder and a man largely ruled by his fury and calloused by tragedy is what the timeskip was going for. Swab me down and call me Ishmael, it works. Younger Brother wasn't quite clicking with me-- not because of any writing or voicework issues, but I've got Papa Nier on the back of my mind and it's impossible not to compare and contrast the delivery and dialogue between the two. I know that this is intentional, too; Younger Brother is supposed to be that happy-go-lucky video game protagonist, always doing the right thing and helping people, in order to contrast against the man he becomes. Even just edging into Part II the effect is dramatic and it recontextualizes Younger Brother into a much more effective overall character. And let me reiterate, I enjoyed my time with Younger Brother just fine, I have no issues with him. But he's up against Well Meaning Big Dummy Part I Papa Nier. No contest. And I'm excited to see where Older Brother goes from here.

Speaking of voices I mentioned this before but the delivery on the character's lines is different. The entire game was re-recorded and quite a few lines are still pretty similar to the original, but there are some that are... definitely different. Part of this is a difference in the relationship between characters based on their life experience and ages-- Weiss is much more of an ass to Younger Brother but has a much more even respect for Older Brother (neither of which are like the rapport he established with Father). Some of Kaine's lines feel more aloof, dismissive, and almost tired in the front half of the game. I haven't really gotten to a point to dig into Emil's rapport with the other characters, but the delivery feels more hesitant and uncertain (which I think is more in line with his Japanese VO, but I'm prefacing that on an untrained ear and a presumption rather than recent memory). It's been interesting to see not just where hey adjusted dialogue (and how-- there are some lines that didn't need to be rewritten), but also how they adjust tone and delivery. Dealing with Younger Brother is one thing, but as I said, I'm very excited to see what's different in the second half, especially being much more familiar with that part of the game. Speaking of Voices! Halua got dialogue! I... preferred when it was inferred (and the implications of "I'll always be watching over you" are borderline malicious given the results of their fusion dance, yeah THANK YOU HALUA this is GREAT). Halua's delivery also felt a little too innocent and upbeat both for the situation and when compared to her narrative voice in The Stone Flower, where she comes across as much more cynical and cold. But given what she's been through and the nightmare she's finally escaping I guess she's allowed express happiness. She's certainly earned the right to having a spoken line. No matter what. Every fuckin' time.

"Here we go." This was always a great line to kind of ease in to the officially-official start of Part II-- every time you start up a New Game+ you're greeted with Emil musing about his conflation of Halua to Kaine, and then the phrase "Here we go". There's a lot in that one line. On a personal level he's grounding his thoughts in the moment and steeling himself for what comes next and pushing through his pain and sadness and fear. Whatever Nier told him in the facility he's still terrified, desperately terrified, that Kaine -- who was the one who told him his life had meaning -- is going to reject him. And why wouldn't she? Ultimately they don't know each other, not really. He understands at that moment that his relationship with Kaine is based on confused memories of his sister, that maybe the bond he thought they established isn't actually real. As soon as he frees Kaine he's going to have to confront her, like this, and how could she ever-- she won't-- but he can't just leave her. Whatever happens next. Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter. (God it matters.) "Here we go." On a meta level, that's our introduction into the second half of the game. The first half is all prologue. This is where we'll be spending the rest of our time, even to the point that 'New Game+' skips straight ahead to this moment. Now that we've finished the establishment, this is where it all builds and where it all matters. Here we go, audience. The ride starts now. You get up to this point now in Replicant. You get the same lead-in. My dumb ass even whispered "Here we go", because I can't help myself. And he says, of course he says--! "Anyway." ... ...a-anyway? What the hell kind of line is that? "Here's some deeply personal musings that are also an indication of my own discomfort as I babble to myself just to fill the void so I can stave off thinking for just a few more seconds. ANYWAY." What a... bizarre decision. Just bizarre.

Upgraded melee combat The introduction to the armored Shades always feel kind of rough-- the defenses on those Shades are significantly higher than anything you've faced and the new weapons you're given to combat them just aren't that good. (If you got lucky you could have a fully-upgraded Faith by now, which is nearly three times as powerful as the 'heavy' two-handed sword you're given; if you downloaded the 4 YoRHa pack for Replicant you've probably been able to upgrade one of those weapons once, which are also a really nice strength boost that leaves the freebie heavy swords and spears in the dust). As an introduction to the new weapon types it always feels like rough going. But then you get a chance to get decent weapons and the combat system truly opens up, and compared to the first game you really feel it. At this juncture I would always just bustle off to Facade and grab the Phoenix Spear and never look back-- the raw power compared to the rest of your arsenal coupled with the triangle dash is basically the bread and butter of the rest of the game. It's not exciting, but it's effective. No more triangle dashing, which was deeply disappointing... but both weapons definitely feel good. I am also somewhat ashamed to admit that it wasn't until now that I realized attacks weren't just about rhythmic input-- you can hold the attacks down to do different charged hits and combos depending on when you execute them in your combo, similar to Automata. I, uh... I felt a bit dumb. But hey, wow, it's a welcome adjustment and it makes all of the weapon types feel equally valuable for different purposes. I never liked using the heavy blades in the original release because they just felt too slow for the damage output they did, even if their 'point' was mostly to sheer off armor (and they definitely felt too slow for use in crowd control). Now they're still heavy and slower, but not to the point that you're basically leaving yourself open just trying to attack. Spears now do crazy sweeping combos and multi-hits. Both of these properties were borrowed from Automata and I find myself prioritizing melee combat and almost forgetting I have magic because honestly it just feels intuitive and fun. I feel like Kaine and Emil might have gotten a power boost as well? Not that I can really confirm this but going into some of the Junk Heap rooms I'd focus on killing a few robots in the corner and then turn around and just see a field of item drops and no more robots. Don't take my word on that, of course, but they felt a little more effective, and a placebo effect is still an effect. "You're staging a protest? That's fun!" Emil. Rebel without a cause. Will not hesitate to kill you if you trespass on his property. (Might explain the statues in the courtyard, actually.) I'll have to double-check this dialogue because I definitely remember more of a melancholia before we get to roasting marshmallows. I think Papa Nier actually offers to talk to/implicitly threaten the villagers to let them in the Village whereas Brother offers to sleep outside with them... which is actually kind of funny. In the former it comes off as Emil and Kaine maybe kinda-sorta not wanting to be allowed in the Village for their own reasons (they're not happy reasons but they're reasons nonetheless) and reassuring Father that no, it's okay, it's fun! The latter is almost telling Brother to stay inside because he'll ruin their sleepover.

(They're absolutely having giggly girl talk about him outside the gates, 100%.) they ran over the seals All I want in Seafront is to enjoy the music and run out to the big beach and hang out with the last living seals and they put a fucking pirate ship on top of them. Oh, wow. Gideon. Wow. OG Nier featured a Gideon that tried to keep himself together and then had fits of mania. You'd be concerned about him during some of the dialogue but generally speaking he came across as... functional. The delivery on all of his lines is now so insanely murder bonkers, like every line he's addressing you like you're already chained to the wall of his serial killer dungeon and it's glorious. I don't know if the distinction between the games is deliberate (in that Gideon in Gestalt was just more even-keeled between his 'rip 'em apart' snarlings and was always just totally nutso in RepliCant) but I do appreciate it. It's a good mirror to Brother Nier's own anger, which only ever seems to be mollified when he's talking to his friends (even kindly accepting sidequests there's a pretty consistent -- not universal, but consistent -- air of barely-bridled frustration). The other characters that Brother encounters are various reflections of himself if things had just been a little different-- Gideon was a representation of the kind of obsessive madness that would have eaten Brother alive if he hadn't had his network of support. Gideon's constant fury and bloodlust even bleeds into him just saying "What can I do for you?" He has no anchor to keep himself sane, nobody to stay human for; he's all mania, all anger, and he only takes any real interest in Brother on his return because he sees an opportunity to act out his vengeance. After defeating Beepy and Kalil he even goes so far as to not only blame Beepy for killing Jakob, but for also killing their mother, which is patently insane but really speaks to how far his justifications and fury have taken him. Papa Nier responds to his anger toward Beepy by basically backing away slowly and saying "Oookay then". Brother, however, actually commiserates; "That's enough. [...] We get it. We really do." This is definitely one of those moments where Brother's context works better than Father's; he absolutely sees himself in Gideon. He completely understands him and sympathizes. He recognizes the madness of his own quest, he sees where it could take him, and there's a resignation when he speaks to Weiss: "Revenge is a fool's errand." "...yeah." Papa Nier has a similar delivery and similarly implies that he understands how terrible his quest is, but there's something decidedly haunting in Brother's sympathy. Also just verifying something on the wiki and this bit of 'Trivia' really jumped at me:

Gideon is the only character to only cause the deaths of other characters. In his case, he caused a platform to crush Jakob and ordered the deaths of P-33 and Kalil, with P-33 surviving.

Metal AF.

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 83 - Respite

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 2,245

Summary: The aftermath of their escape leads to an answer.

Also available on Yatorihell AO3

The salty sea air pushed Yato’s hair back from his eyes. He stood with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the stone he had dragged from the beach’s outcrop up a short distance away from the cottage. Carved into its jagged surface were a few words: Ebisu, a free elf.

Yato dropped his gaze to his shoes and then tilted his head back with a sigh. Thin beams of sunlight filtered through the cloud, but the wind was still biting enough to numb his cheeks.

When will it end? Yato thought. First Suzuha, then Sakura, now Ebisu. His friends, his family, all risking their lives to stop what he could. If he just knew where to look, to know where to find and destroy the horcruxes.

There’s no way to destroy them now, anyway, Yato had thought to himself. The Sword of Gryffindor was gone now, possibly already on its way back to Oshi’s vault in Gringotts or kept hidden so the Sorcerer would never know it was gone.

Yato tilted his head forward and stared out at the choppy waves for a second before heading back inside. They didn’t know where Ebisu had brought them, but they found refuge in a deserted cottage that sat on the edge of the shoreline. The white painted exterior had peeled away, and weeds sprung up from the seagrass and sand surrounding it. The sign nailed beside the door read ‘Shell Cottage’, but the absence of shells in the décor and the lack of nautical themes inside made the name’s whimsical appeal ring hollow.

The stairs creaked under Yato’s weight as he made his way upstairs. Kazuma and Bishamon were already asleep, having left Yato after Ebisu’s burial for a moment’s privacy. Yukine, on the other hand, was still awake.

The bedroom door was cracked open, and Yato gently pushed it open. Grey sunlight filtered in through the flimsy mess curtain, sending shadows across the bedspread. Dust had accumulated on the surfaces and drifts of sand had worked their way in through the cracks in the window frame.

Yukine looked up from his chair at the movement, and seeing Yato’s cautious approach, nodded.

Yato stepped into the room, eyes fixed on Hiyori. She was still asleep, hair messed up and her arm across her chest which rose and fell steadily. Spots of blood had seeped through the bandages already, marking the points of some letters of the ‘Mudblood’ wound Oshi had inflicted.

“How is she?” Yato said gently, taking a seat on the other side of the bed. A brief memory crossed his mind, of how he had sat like this with her in the infirmary at Hogwarts, hands intertwined, but he dared not touch her.

“Still asleep,” Yukine replied.

Yato nodded. Part of him felt guilty for not staying by her side despite his grieving for Ebisu, but a larger part of him couldn’t bring himself to face her after what happened. There was a pause of silence broken by gull cries over the bay.

Yukine looked at Hiyori for a moment, face soft, before he looked down at his own lap. “I… I don’t think her wound will ever fully heal…”

Yato stiffened, eyes flickering to the bandages. Just like what Oshi did to Yukine…

No. This was worse. No dark object had seared Hiyori’s skin like Yukine’s; this was caused by pure hatred.

Yato's fingernails dug into his palms, hands calmly as he tried to fight the guilt rising in his chest that threatened to claim him again. His vision was blurry. Why would he cry when nothing happened to him? When they did everything to... When he didn't...

"I did nothing."

The hoarse whisper clogged his throat like smoke. The one phrase that had become trapped in his mind since last night, like a butterfly in a jar, its wings becoming more damaged each time it hurled itself at the glass in the hopes of freedom.

“It’s not your fault Yato,” Yukine said softly. “Oshi is mad, and she wouldn’t have believed a word any of us said. We would all be dead if it weren’t for Ebisu.”

Yato took a shuddering breath, a warm tear splashing on his wrist. He wiped his eyes, throat burning and breath quivering. Yukine was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to block out those images. Those memories would stay with him forever.

Hiyori stirred slightly and they stilled. Her head rolled to the side, brow furrowed. Silence blanketed the room – for how long neither of them knew – before Yato spoke.

“You should get some sleep,” Yato said, not taking his eyes off Hiyori.

Yukine nodded. They had been awake all night, and Yato knew he should sleep too, but his mind was wired with grief and guilt. He didn’t want to leave Hiyori like this, and Yukine knew as much.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Yato allowed the tears to fall.

~

The first time Hiyori woke up was screaming.

Yato jerked awake, dull pain in his back from being slumped over, eyes wide and mind racing with the nightmare of the previous day fresh in his dreams. Hiyori was sat bolt upright, her hand wrenching away from Yato’s grip. The sheets had tangled her legs, trapping her and adding fuel to her panic as she screamed again.

“Hiyori, it’s ok, you’re safe!” Yato shushed, his hands pulling away from her and held up in the darkness.

Hiyori breathed hard, her eyes adjusting, ears attuned to the sound of his voice. She looked at him, the unfamiliar room, and the dark, curtained window. Her arm throbbed, fresh spots of blood blossoming from the sudden aggravation. Her mouth hung open, tears on her cheeks as she realised she was no longer a prisoner under torture.

“It’s ok,” Yato soothed, reaching for Hiyori’s hand. His skin grazed her fingers. “We’re safe.”

Hiyori flinched. Yato froze, and after a second, withdrew his hand back into his lap.

The house remained silent. None of the others had woken up from the outburst – probably too tired and out of it to hear the brief night terror screams to be roused. There was only the beating of their hearts and a silent understanding of what they had been through, of what they had survived.

Yato couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a beat of silence that hung in the air between them. Another apology for something he caused. Another apology for the hurt he brought those around him.

“It’s not your fault, Yato,” Hiyori tried to whisper, but it came out as a croak.

Yato shot her a sideways look, grief, and pain etched in his features. No matter how many times he heard those words, he would never believe them, not truly.

With a nod, Yato stood on weak legs and slipped out of the door.

Hiyori’s composure lasted long enough for Yato to leave the room. Once his footsteps faded, the first shuddering breath racked through her chest. Any remaining strength slipped from Hiyori's control as her breaths turned to cries that she muffled against her hand.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes when she squeezed them shut, trying to erase the memories that are scarred into her mind. Her fingers drifted to her arm, to the bandages. To the reminder of what she is.

Dirty blood.

~

Yato came downstairs with dark circles under his eyes, having been unable to sleep following Hiyori flinching at his touch and the new reoccurring nightmare that would seemingly plague his dreams. Yukine, Bishamon, and Kazuma were already in the sitting room, arranged on the dusty sofas and armchairs and ravaging the kitchen for what little food the cottages' owners had left.

Hiyori joined them not too long after, and a brief glance told Yato that she hadn’t slept well either. Bishamon set out a packet of half-eaten, stale biscuits on the low table that no one made a move to touch.

“What’s the plan now?” Yukine asked, resting his arms on his knees. “The sword is gone, and we don’t know where the next horcrux is.”

“We do know,” Yato said. All eyes turned on him.

“How can you know where it is? It’s been lost for decades,” Bishamon leaned forward in the armchair, hand straying to Kazuma’s hair as he sat on the floor in front of her.

“It has, but I’ve seen it,” Yato explained. He briefly described the vision he had of the goblet loaded with jewels and pearls, resting alongside the Sword of Gryffindor and the sound of a door grating shut.

“Oshi sent the sword to her vault in Gringotts,” Yato summarised. “But why was she so fixated on not letting the S-.”

“Don’t say that!” Kazuma and Bishamon said quickly, cutting Yato off. He, Yukine, and Hiyori looked at them.

“There’s a taboo jinx on that word,” Kazuma explained. “It reveals the speaker’s location. It’s how they found out about us since we said it so much on the radio.”

It suddenly dawned on Yato, Yukine and Hiyori: that was how the Deatheater’s had found them so quickly after the wedding attack. That’s how Nagini was able to ambush them, knowing they were going to Godric’s Hollow to look for the sword.

Yato nodded. “But why was she so fixated on not letting him know that we got into the vault?”

“Because Gringotts is impenetrable?” Kazuma offered.

“Yes, but what if there was something more important in there?”

The question hung in the air for a dramatic moment.

“What if,” Yato said slowly. “The horcrux is in the vault?”

The air stilled. The vision which showed the sword – which Oshi confirmed was in her vault in Gringotts – along with the goblet, spilling precious gems and glittering jewels. The heavy grate of a door – a vault door – slamming shut.

“Then we’re screwed,” Yukine said, flopping back on the sofa next to Hiyori. “As Kazuma said, Gringotts is impenetrable. And even if you did get past the goblins, the security, and the dragon, you would get lost and starve to death before you even found the right vault.”

“I don’t think there’s actually a dragon,” Hiyori said.

Yato looked at her. She had been quiet the entire time; a ghost in the corner watching them talk. He noticed her fiddling with a stray end of the bandage on her arm and looked away.

“Leave the dragon to me,” Yato said. “We just need to get in the front door without getting stopped.”

There was a momentary lull in the conversation as if they were contemplating whether Yato had too many knocks to the head or was getting desperate. To Yato, it felt like a mix of the two, but it was the only option.

Yato looked to Kazuma, questions brimming that he’d wanted to ask before they got Snatched, something that had been revealed to him in a vision. “We think another horcrux is Ravenclaw’s Diadem.”

Kazuma’s head snapped up at this, eyes reproachful behind his frames.

“We think it may be in Hogwarts. Is it kept in a vault, the common room…?” Yato ventured, but Kazuma was already shaking his head.

“The Diadem has been missing for centuries after Rowena’s own daughter stole it,” Kazuma said. “No one alive has seen it.”

Another silence washed over them. ‘No one alive who has seen it'. Yato sighed. It looked like it would be up to him to track down the Diadem too.

“Also,” Yato continued, arms crossed. “That newspaper in your house, about Professor Tenjin’s grave being disturbed, what happened?”

It seemed strange that someone would go to such lengths to tomb-raid a man of little extravagance, but it seemed that not even the Daily Prophet would report what was taken, which was suspicious.

Kazuma looked at Yato with a slightly surprised expression before he realised they had no way of knowing anything about it. “Someone – ‘persons unknown’ –, broke into his tomb and took the Elder Wand.”

Yato stared at him along with Hiyori, Yukine, and Bishamon.

“Are you serious? The Elder Wand exists?” Yukine said.

“All the Deathly Hallows exist.”

“What do you mean, Tenjin owned the Elder Wand?” Yato interrupted.

Kazuma shrugged. “Well, he didn’t go advertising it. You know what happens to its owners.”

Owners… Yato thought. A wand was either matched to a wizard at Ollivanders, inherited, or won. He didn’t know enough about the lore of the Elder Wand to know who possessed the wand before Tenjin, but he knew that winning a wand could be done by killing its owner. That meant…

“Kugaha owns the Elder Wand,” Yato said quietly, running a hand through his hair. “He killed Tenjin. He’s the owner.”

Yukine swore under his breath. The most powerful wand in the world was in a Dark Wizard’s hands. All he would have to do was lose a duel to the Sorcerer and it would be his. A chilling thought crossed their minds: Did the Sorcerer already possess the Elder Wand?

Time was of the essence. If the Sorcerer did own the Elder Wand, then he may also possess the Philosopher’s Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility. He would become the Master of Death; unstoppable.

“We need to destroy the rest of the horcruxes,” Yato said.

He looked at Kazuma, Bishamon, Yukine, and finally, Hiyori. It would be near impossible – a suicide mission – but it had to be done.

“We have to break into Gringotts.”

[spideyspeaches]

Christmas Chaos

This idea came from this post - @dizzydancingdreamer​ I could not fit Benny and Beth under the mistletoe and this ended up being chaotic but I hope you like my shitty writing anyway :)

WC: 1k

Beth had never imagined that she would ever live a domestic life.

The thought of living such a life as they showed in the television felt unreal, fictional to her. Something that she would never be able to achieve because of the ghost of her past life lingering in her entire being, hanging above her head like a sword on the verge of falling.

Her years at Methuen had been a fevered dream, a blurry view she saw from the windows of a running train. Just when she thought she would also, just like her mother, go insane while in the throes of addiction, Mrs. Wheatley adopted her. She had felt a semblance of normalcy that night as she flopped down on her bed, watching the stars from her bedroom’s window.

It had felt nice, comfortable and cozy, a warm feeling taking residence in her chest. But even then, she hadn’t felt as normal as any other adolescent girls her age would. She had been told that she was extraordinary, and extraordinary people didn't fit in with the ordinary. Girls and boys alike would stray far away from her. 

So she found her own place on a chessboard.

The small, black and white world of pawns and knights, Kings and Queens had become her place. A comfort zone she could dominate and manipulate as she willed. Her life became her chess board- two steps forwards, half a step right. One step forward and a kill. She felt powerful, in control of her life.

On her way to her mastery of chess, she met new people, fell in love and explored. For the first time in a long time, she had started to feel normal again, and then Mrs. Wheatley- her mother in everything but blood- left her alone. Just like her biological mother had. She had never felt such great loss in her life before- not when her biological mother died, not when she found out the government had banned the tranquilizers.

“What are you thinking about cracker?” Jolene said, startling from her position on the doorjamb, her hands unfolding as she smiles at her friend. 

“Nothing, nothing important.” Beth answered, carefully gauging her words as she saw the scene unfold in front of her. She suppressed a chuckle as she saw Matt smear some whipped cream on his brother’s nose, creating a mess in the kitchen as they fought over the cookies.

“Well that sounds dangerous, Beth Harmon not thinking, unfathomable.” Jolene smirks, a smirk appearing on Beth’s face as well.

“It was nothing important.” She dismissed, shaking her head as she fixed her dress.

“It doesn’t look like nothing, you look solemn.” 

“I always look solemn, that’s how I win my matches.”

“Oh no no cracker, you look like you’re just about a second away from killing the person in front of you when you play. I’ve seen it.”

“Look it’s.. It’s nothing okay?” She smiled, blushing under her friend’s gaze.

“Whatever you say sister,” Her friend drawls, “I’m gonna take advantage of your extensive liquor cabinet.”

“Be my guest.” Beth gestured, slyly smirking as she saw her make her way, picking up the most expensive bottle of wine as if to aggravate her. Contrary to popular belief, not many things angered Beth (except chess, a very demeaning and confusing emotion, seeing as she loved to play chess).

“Elizabeth! Oh my you look so fucking gorgeous!” Cleo said loudly, a bottle of Jack Daniels held in her hand as she not so discreetly checked her out, sighing dreamily. 

“Doesn’t she?” Jolene intervened.

“Oh who am I kidding? She always looks gorgeous, remember that time when we were at the hotel in Paris, the day before Borgov’s match-”

“Yes Cleo, I have a photographic memory remember?” Beth cut her off, dragging her and Jolene by their shoulders, sitting them down in front of the closet. She smiled when she saw them both jump happily, Cleo enthusiastically matching pairs of dresses and shoes that Jolene could wear.

Walking down the staircase, a clang from the kitchen and some muffled cursing startled her enough to make her jump, the loud noises of Benny and Harry singing christmas songs made her wince.

Yet,she didn’t feel the annoyance that would usually creep up her brain, instead, she felt the strange warmth return in her chest.

“What the fuck is going on here?” She said, raising an eyebrow as she saw Benny clinging on to Harry under the mistletoe, Matt and Mike- their faces now smudged with cream and Townes, who was attempting to arrange the table all stop in their tracks. And then all at once, everyone started talking.

“Uh, you know the tradition? If you’re caught under the mistletoe-”

“- Beth I don’t think the turkey cooked well, I’m going to have to bake it once again-”

“-Mike ate the last cookie, we were supposed to share!”

“-the gingerbread looks a little disfigured”

“-Benny stop trying to kiss my cheek Christ!”

“All of you! Hey, hey calm down everyone! Benny get off Harry, Matt I’ll get you more cookies all right? Oh fuck, Townes wear gloves for fuck’s sake it’s hot!” She said all in one breath, looking at everyone’s wide eyes as they all stopped to look at her as she folded her arms, a stern look on her face. An awkward silence filled the air, no one daring to move as Beth glared at them all.

Moments of silence passed, only to be interrupted as Cleo stumbled out of the dressing room, loudly clanking her chunky boots on the floor.

“Why is everyone so quiet?” She said, looking around in confusion, leaning on Jolene- who was now wearing one of Beth’s dresses.

And once more the commotion ensued. 

Sitting on the couch with her legs folded under her, a glass of whatever whiskey held in her hand, she laughed at some anecdote Matt had been reciting as he sat criss cross applesauce under the christmas tree, her laughter drowned by the others as they goofed around. Sitting back, she took a sip of her whiskey, nudging her foot so it met the foot of the couch.

She never thought she would lead a domestic life, but here she was. She liked it.

Tagging some people who might be interested: @the-panwitch​ @jen27ny​ @jazzkaurtheglorious​ 

[creepy-spooghetti]

A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 8 - Welcome to Our Freakshow

_____

Stirring awake, she tries opening her eyes, finding that it's exceptionally difficult due to her drowsy state. She waits a moment, collecting her bearings and slowly coming to the realization that, instead of leaning against a wall like she remembers doing, that she's laying on her back, on a seemingly cushioned surface. Like a bed. That's strange... did she sleepwalk? Or get up and get back in her bed? But she doesn't recall such a thing. Maybe she was just too tired to pay attention.

That dream though... This time, the dream was a bit... different than usual. There wasn't any static, there weren't any dead bodies, she wasn't in a completely different setting. All she remembers is feeling a rush of adrenaline, a moment of panic, then blackness. It was definitely odd, not that she's complaining any. If she had dreams like that all the time instead of whatever she's been experiencing recently, she'd be a lot more at ease. She can faintly remember seeing someone, or something, in front of her, trying to keep her quiet. It looked a little familiar, but she can't seem to figure out why. 

This dream was a lot more up-close and personal, though. And it felt so... so real. Realer than her others have been, which is pretty baffling. What did the figure look like? Mostly black, with some dark blue? And a type of inky liquid? The whole incident is blurry to her, though she assumes it's because her mind wanted to make it all unnerving. 

That voice, though. She knows she's heard that voice, before. Where? That's a total mystery to her, but maybe with some thought about the matter, she'll be able to place it. Or maybe it's all just in her head and she's never heard that voice in her life. She brings her hands up to rub her face, attempting to wake herself up a bit more so she can actually open her eyes and finally gathers the energy to sit up, if only slightly. As her eyes adjust to the moderate amount of sunlight spilling through the crack of the currently shut curtains right beside her, the first thing she discovers is that the scenery is... well, completely different from the bedroom she was in previously.

It's much smaller, being only big enough to hold an average-sized mahogany dresser to her left, a bedside desk to her immediate right crafted of the same wood, and sitting atop that desk is a lamp with a candlestick shade, a glass of room temperature water, and an unopened small pack of crackers; the kind one would receive from a restaurant. A window with simple brown and red drapes sits directly beside the desk, and across from her, on the other side of the room, is a shut door. She's unsure if it leads outside or to a closet of some kind.

The wallpaper in the room is white with occasional, tiny flowers colored a delicate shade of blue printed onto it, and the floor is made of hickory hardwood, part of it is covered by a thin, maroon rug of oval shape. The musty smell that the room itself puts off gives her the idea that it hasn't quite been used in a while, though the small cobweb dangling in the corner of the ceiling proves that theory. Either that, or it just hasn't had a proper cleaning. 

Her heart skips a beat and she doesn't even try to slow her breathing for the time being. This isn't her bedroom, nor is it any other room in her Nana and Pops' house, at least not one that she can remember. As far as she can tell, she's in a whole other household completely. But why? Who brought her here? Her gaze travels down to her body, almost instantly seeing a bandaid stuck to the inward area of her elbow. What the heck...?

Instantly, she peels it away in one quick motion, tossing it aside and not giving the very brief discomfort it causes any thought, instead focusing solely on the barely-noticeable pinprick still very present in her skin. She knows what that is. That's where somebody stuck a needle into her arm. But who? And why? What did they inject her with?

This thought sends her mind into a frenzy as she fully comprehends the startling, unexplained situation, and she throws the blanket that had been apparently placed over her prior to her awakening away, and jumps to her feet, almost instantly being hit with a wave of dizziness once she does so. Shaking her head to rid herself of the disorienting feeling, she uses one hand to prop her body against the wall to ensure she doesn't fall down, and with the other, she pulls back the drapes hung in front of the window, sticking her head through the widened crack and squinting her eyes at the minor change in illumination.

She can barely see through the thick greenery grown in front of the glass and obscuring most of the outside world, though she manages to see the trees that surround, she assumes, the whole house. Her grandparents live in a heavily wooded area, yes. But she knows for a fact that the lawn around the length of their house is almost completely free of trees. She isn't in her grandparents' house anymore. So where is she? And how did she get here?

Without a stroke of hesitation, she curls her fingers beneath the bottom rim of the window, and with one swift tug, attempts to open it, trying again when it doesn't work. She doesn't know why she's here, and she refuses to stay long enough to get that information. If it weren't for this being totally unfamiliar territory to her, sure, she may have stuck around until someone explains it to her. But not only does she get a bad feeling from this room, this place, but she also has plenty of reasons to want to escape. 

It's very apparent to her that she was drugged and brought here against her will. How? Beats her, although she isn't going to stop long enough to question it for too long. With wide, frantic eyes, she searches for a lever to unlock the window, seeing two of them on opposite sides of the frame and instantly pulling them toward her. Hopefully, this will actually work this time. She spends the next two minutes yanking upward on the window, hoping to the highest heavens that it will eventually fly open so she can get out. Her grandparents must be worried sick if they've been calling for her, and looking for her, and she isn't even in the house. She doesn't know where she is.

How long has she been gone? There isn't a clock in the room so she can't actively check, but she assumes it has to be around nine o'clock in the morning, given the angle of sunshine flooding in through the trees. It's only a guess, though. "Come on, just open, you stupid thing..." she mutters, really not wanting to use the door as her escape route. But if it has to be done...

Finally giving up on the window with an aggravated slap against the glass, she twists around, searching desperately for a weapon of sorts. If she has to wander out of this room in an unknown, likely dangerous house, then she sure as heck doesn't want to go out unprepared. Quietly, yet hurriedly, she opens the drawers to the dresser, then the one attached to the small desk, but to her misfortune, finds nothing. Everything is empty. 

She looks beneath the bed, under the rug, behind a door that she discovers leads to the closet, though still sees nothing whatsoever that could be of use to her. It's almost comical how utterly defenseless she is right now, and she would laugh if she wasn't so terrified. Chewing on her bottom lip nervously, she feels worried tears prick at her eyes as she hesitantly walks toward the still-closed door, the one she is now confident leads to the rest of the house, and reaches out, wrapping her fingers around the knob.

With a deep breath and a mental pep-talk, she tries to twist it, her heart dropping when it, too, doesn't move. She tries again, after all, maybe it's just stuck? Nope. Whoever brought her here has locked her in and now she has no way of possible escape. What should she do now? The window obviously isn't going to budge, but should she keep trying? Or just wait until somebody eventually comes inside and attack them? It doesn't look like she has another option. 

Her gaze shifts back over to the desk, then to the water still sitting untouched on its surface. Of course it's untouched. What is she going to do? Drink it? Only an idiot would do such a thing. But... that does look like a rather heavy glass. Heavy enough to lob at someone's head and hope they get knocked cold? Guess there's only one way to find out. 

She snatches it up, not caring about the drops of water that fall to the floor from the action, and stands only a couple of feet in front of the door, drawing her arm back and getting ready to throw her only defense mechanism at the first thing she sees come into the room. Maybe she'll catch them off-guard, at least long enough that it will enable her to get out, for the most part, unharmed. Fortunately, she doesn't have to wait for very long, for soon she hears footsteps outside before the knob turns and the door slowly swings open.

Not taking time to pay attention to many details of the person entering the room, she launches the glass at them though only manages to strike them in the shoulder, the water from inside splashing out and either soaking that area of their clothes or hitting the floor, the glass following closely behind and breaking into several different pieces. The person releases a grunt of surprise, flinching back slightly and looking down at the makeshift weapon hurled at him, then shifting his gaze back up to the h\c-haired girl standing warily ahead.

She would have used that as a distraction and booked it past him and out of the room, and that's what she originally intended, had it not been for the unusually tall figure still standing in front of the door, blocking her path and making it impossible without a struggle. Dang, I should've waited until he was farther inside to actually throw it...

Once he tilts his head back up in her direction, she sucks in a sudden breath and hurriedly backs away in a mixture of fear and shock, trying to comprehend the sight before her but having quite a bit of trouble. That's what he looked like. That's what the figure in her dream looked like. Seeing him now, in real life rather than just her mind, she can remember that. This is why she felt so afraid. He's terrifying...

But it was just a dream. It should have just been a dream. Is he the one who brought her here, wherever 'here' is? She backs away so fast that she runs into the foot of the bed, nearly tripping though able to catch herself before she actually falls, and continues until her back hits the wall. He stands in the same place, staring at her through the black, empty pits replacing his eyes and realizing how alarmed she clearly is. Not that he can blame her for that.

He raises his hands in a non-threatening manner, keeping his posture mellow and speaking, voice deep. "Y\n... I know what you're thinking."

It knows my name? It knows my freaking name?? Her breathing quickens and her eyes frantically avert around the room, trying to find something, anything, to use as a potential weapon, but her luck runs dry. She stays silent, waiting to see what move he'll make, if he'll even make a move. 

"...But you're okay. No one's gonna hurt you." He takes a small step forward, keeping his hands up to show her he isn't holding anything. She only backs farther up into the wall, narrowing her eyes up at him and remaining silent. "You were brought here so we could protect you."

'We'? There's more of them? She parts her lips, nervousness coursing through her veins as she contains the tears trying to spill over and onto her cheeks. "Wh...who are you?" She tries to make it sound like a fearless demand, but it comes out as a meek whisper. No, stop it! He can smell fear!

He hesitates a moment. "You... don't recognize me, but I'm Jack." Her eyebrows furrow incredulously as she stares at him, gaze unwavering. "What I told you about moving here with my mom, that was a lie. I do live here, but... I'm with a group of people. Not my mom."

"I don't believe you," she manages to spit out, tone venomous and looking past him, through the door, into what seems to be a hallway. This... this seemingly eyeless freak is Jack? No, Jack was normal. This person isn't. But she has to admit, his voice does ring some bells in her mind. 

"You don't have to. Point is, you're here for protection. Nobody here is going to hurt you in any way, you don't need to be scared." 

Right, and I should trust the guy who drugged, kidnapped, and brought me here to his 'group' against my will for what reason? "Let me go," she says, voice hardening and muscles tense. He shakes his head, taking another step forward.

"That's something I can't do."

"I don't want to be here. Let. Me. Go." Her hands clench into anxious fists, heart pounding what feels like a thousand miles an hour as he takes yet another cautious step forward. Maybe I can incapacitate him then run like a madwoman through the door. 

"You need to stay here. Somebody dangerous is after you, and this is the only place you'll be safe."

"Says the one who shoved a needle into my arm and pumped me full of whatever-the-heck it was you used to knock me out with," she retorts, fiery attitude returning in full form due to the alarming and unexpected circumstances. She hears him let out a sigh, muffled by his navy blue mask. 

"I only did that because I knew you wouldn't come with me willingly."

"Oh gee, I wonder why." She scoffs, eyeing the door now a couple of feet behind him and contemplating her chances. Just come a little closer, buddy. I dare you. 

"Look... I know you're scared and don't know what's going on. I can explain it to you, you just... need to pay attention." He steps even closer. "We don't want to hurt you."

"Yeah...?" Her timid, soft tone is very intentional, and he tilts his head slightly at the sudden shift in expression and eases even nearer. 

"Yes, Y\n. I promise." She uses the wall to brace herself as she lines her foot up with her target, mentally preparing herself for what she's about to do. 

"Wish I could say the same." Before he has time to react, she brings her knee up and forcefully rams her foot between his legs, causing him to double over in pain and give her enough time to dart past him and through the door, grabbing the knob as she does so and slamming it shut behind her to spare herself as much opportunity as she can. Briefly, she checks for a lock, only seeing a keyhole and figuring out he must have the key, so she glances to the right, thankfully spotting what she guesses is a door to the outside world. 

She rushes down the hallway, past another door across from the room she was just trapped inside, and directly into a small living room with nothing but a maroon sofa slid in front of a covered window, an armchair at a 90-degree angle, and a coffee table in front of both with a few meaningless items scattered on top of it that she could care less about. Heading straight for the door, she turns the brass lock up and yanks the door open, blinded by her motivation to escape and be as fast as humanly possible. 

Yep, just as she suspected. She's surrounded by forest, overgrown grass, and overall a poorly maintained lawn. She can only hope that she doesn't trip over any of the obstacles between her and freedom. What's most hazardous is the fallen branches and rocks hidden by foliage, so hidden in fact, that she wouldn't know that they were there until she was eating dirt. The sun's light is mildly obscured by the large number of trees looming over her, but she can see her surroundings clear enough that it shouldn't cause a problem, at least not one too big. 

She leaps off of the small, wooden porch and into the lengthy grass, using it as momentum to gain more speed and hurrying in-between the many trees. She has no idea where she is, but the trees seem to be, overall, the same kind that grows around her grandparents' house, so she has hope that she's at least in the same general area. Could she have been hauled off to a whole other state? Surely she wasn't asleep for that long, right? ...Right?

She sticks her hands out and swipes the brush and low-hanging branches out of her way so she doesn't get stabbed in the eye and have her vision rendered. That would be a very bad thing, so of course, she wants to avoid it. Occasionally, she feels the sharp impact of various plants scratch up her arms, twigs getting caught in her hair, and briars sticking through the thin material of her socks since she didn't have any shoes on while sleeping, though ignores it, for the most part, focusing on finding a trail, a road, something other than pure forest. Something to lead her back to civilization so she can get hold of the police, and in hindsight, contact her grandparents. They must be so worried about her. How long has she been gone?

The temperature isn't extremely hot yet, but she suspects it will be steadily rising the later into the day it gets. Adrenaline pumps through her body, her mind not fully able to comprehend what just happened. Did she really just escape her kidnapper? How often does that happen? Maybe she does have a chance of survival, after all. Well... she does as long as she doesn't get caught, again. If he wasn't intending to hurt her before, he for sure will after being kicked in the nuts. She's no dude, but she can imagine that getting hit in such a... sensitive area, can't feel very good.

Not that she cares about that right now, anyway. He had it coming. Past the erratic beating of her heart, she can hear the crunching of greenery beneath her feet as her speed gradually increases. The farther away she gets from that house, the more of a chance she has to escape. But then he'd track her down, again. He knows where she's staying. He took her from her own temporary home. But then does that mean... what did he do to her grandparents?

She's shaken from her thoughts when she hears the faint bark of a dog, the sound drawing closer and closer no matter how fast she runs. Oh no... They have a freaking dog, too? Now I'm dead for sure! Quickening her pace does nothing whatsoever, and not even a minute later the barking is so close by she swears the dog itself has to only be a few feet away. Oh no, oh no, oh no, please don't—

A sudden blunt force takes hold of her ankle and tugs her back, causing her to lose her balance and fall forward with a pained grunt as the force becomes firmer. She isn't stupid, she knows that the dog just bit her, and she likely isn't going to coax it into letting her go. After all, if that guy and his friends regularly kidnap random people then they probably have a lot of runaways. This is nothing new to the dog. 

She can hear the dog's low, threatening growls from behind her as its teeth sink through her pants and into the flesh on her leg, hard enough to leave indents but she doubts it will draw blood. She could be wrong, though. Her breathing is quick as she attempts to collect her bearings, wanting desperately to get away before whoever owns the dog comes to collect her and send her to the inevitable... whatever they do to the people they forcefully take here. 

She swallows a cry of fear, keeping her eyes planted down to the dirt that broke her fall and meekly trying to pull her leg out of the dog's mouth. It becomes apparent to her that it isn't going to let go when it shakes its head and drags her a couple of inches backward, heightening the volume of its snarl. It sends another bolt of pain up through her ankle, and she winces, wracking her brain for solutions to this particular situation. If only she had watched more National Geographic then maybe she'd know what do to when a potentially rabid dog attacks...

Maybe... it plays fetch. Yeah, she mentally scoffs, 'fetch the human'. Unfortunately, she doesn't see any stray sticks around that could be thrown, not that she could reach very far even if there were. Hesitantly, she twists her head around to look at her captor, eyes widening when she meets the narrowed ones of an unusually large Husky, its gaze boring into hers and sending another twinge of pain through her leg when it bites down harder. 

Her eyes travel down to the inflicted ankle, seeing not pointed, regular canines, but instead flat, human-like teeth, greatly catching her off-guard and making her gulp. What has she been thrown into? First some guy without eyes leaking some black, runny goop from his sockets, now a dog with human teeth? What's next, cyborg zombies from space? How does this even exist? It should be impossible.

But here she is, and here it is, latching onto her leg without mercy and being very real. "H-hi, doggy..." she starts, voice shaky and soft as to not alarm it and send it into full-on attack mode instead of just catch-and-keep mode. It releases another unfriendly growl, its eyes holding aggression. It's obvious this animal—if you could even call it that—isn't trustful of her in the least. Something she considers very hapless. "Let me go, please..."

She's so distracted by the freakish-looking dog that she doesn't hear somebody else steadily approaching, not until they're standing directly above her, their shadow blocking the sunlight and casting shade over her body. She doesn't even want to look up for fear of seeing something even stranger than a dog with actual human teeth but also doesn't want to seem weak in front of a possible deranged psychopath. What's the worse it could be though?

Don't jinx it, Y\n. Giving into both temptation and her strong urge to remain as bold as possible, she cranes her neck and her eyes trail up, taking notice of his converse shoes, ripped jeans, white hoodie with... questionable red stains, and shoulder-length black hair. Interesting style. His eyes are a bright, icy shade of blue, and the bottom portion of his face is covered with a black bandana being used as a makeshift mask. Why would he need a mask? Ya know what, I don't wanna know.

"Well, hello, girlie," he says, voice low and gruff as he stands in a casual-looking demeanor and gazes down at her. "Ya know, it's rude to leave without saying goodbye." She sends him a glare, her tone mundane and holding a sense of obviousness.

"We never even met." He raises an eyebrow in response, bending his knees and squatting down closer to her level.

"And whose fault is that?" She doesn't answer, instead continues mildly struggling against the dog's grasp and glancing at him expectantly. He looks at her with the same expression. 

"Call it off." She assumes that this canine belongs to him, either that or he's used to its presence because he isn't freaking out about it. He stares down at her, unblinking, and the dog bites down harder, making her intake a sharp breath of discomfort. "Please. It hurts."

"Oh, it hurts, does it?" He takes his hand and pulls his 'mask' down around his neck, revealing the very noticeable scars that look to have been messily carved into his cheeks, forming a crooked, permanent smile. She withdraws slightly, a bit alarmed by his disfigured face. Sure, it's definitely freaky and raises inquiries, but it's not as unnerving as random men showing up with featureless masks and no eyes who kidnap you in the middle of the night. "I do believe that's the point."

She stays silent, taking in his odd attributes. Those cuts, no matter how healed they may be, look like they could burst open any second. Did he do that to himself? What kind of sick freak would carve a smile into their face? Then again, who would own a dog with human teeth? He smirks—at least, she thinks it's a smirk—and leans in closer, causing her to scoot farther away. Well, as far away as she can get, considering her current restraint. 

"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?" He's probably well aware of the thoughts racing through her mind and is taking pleasure in making her uncomfortable, but her expression hardens, not willing to show him that he's getting to her. 

"No." She takes a glimpse at the dog still holding onto her tightly, refusing to let her go. "Dog got my ankle." He snorts in what she takes as amusement, his gaze shifting down to the dog briefly as well before he meets her eyes again. 

"Fair enough." He snaps his fingers, rising to his full height and pulling the bandana back up over his mouth and the bridge of his nose, once again hiding his slightly disturbing facial features. "Smile, let go." As soon as the command leaves his mouth, the dog, who she now knows is called 'Smile' for fitting reasons, immediately releases her ankle and takes a step away from her, attention on the male of average height. 

Once the action is completed, she flips on her back and sits up, bending her knee and examining the affected area. The bottom leg of her pants is not only soaked with saliva but also ripped in various places, and worse, she can see blood coming to the surface of the torn skin beneath. So I was wrong... Scowling at Smile, she rubs at her ankle, not even considering fleeing the scene again. Smile would most certainly catch her, and a failed attempt at escape isn't worth an injury, especially one disabling her to walk. 

"Good boy, Smile," he says, patting the dog affectionately on the head and earning an excited bark in response. "You have a fat, juicy steak in your near future." She rolls her eyes when Smile wags his tail, grumbling in protest and wincing when she hits a particularly raw area on her ankle. The man nudges her leg with his shoe, hard enough that it'll likely leave a bruise later, and she narrows her eyes up at him. "Hey, if you didn't want to be dog chow maybe you shouldn't have tried to run away."

"Well, maybe your buddy shouldn't have kidnapped me." 

"You kiddin'? Jack isn't my buddy. And I didn't even want you here, but the others thought it was the 'best call'." Before she has time to process it, she feels his hand wrap around her arm before she's effortlessly pulled to her feet, stumbling a bit and having to lean against a nearby tree for support since he let go as soon as she was up. "Trust me dollface; if it were up to me, you wouldn't even be here."

Her nose scrunches up in disgust at the abrupt and very much unwanted nickname, watching as he starts walking back in the direction she originally came from while he pulls out a phone, scrolling through something unknown with his thumb and looking back up at her as if waiting for her to do something. 

"Well? I don't have all day, ya know. I've got things to do." He signals ahead of him with his head, implying what he expects of her. She is currently zoned in on the small device in his hand, though. If she can get her hands on that, she'll be able to call the cops and get out of here. Back to her grandparents... if something hasn't been done to them. She will kill every person here if she finds out one of them killed or hurt her Nana and Pops, even if she dies in the process.

He continues staring at her for several more seconds, almost seeming confused as to what she's looking at so intently until he follows her gaze and it leads him to the phone. Raising his eyebrows knowingly, he grins from behind his mask, holding the device between his thumb and index finger and waving it in front of her face. 

"Oh, I see. You want this, don't cha?" She presses her lips together into a firm line, shifting her e\c eyes back up to his mostly-covered face and giving him an indignant glare. "What, you gonna call the police? Get us arrested?" A dark chuckle escapes his mouth, and he takes a step closer to her when she doesn't answer. "Lemme let you in on a little secret, girlie." She leans her head back as he gets way past her personal boundaries, staring her directly in the eyes as his entire aura grows dangerous and whispering. "Cops don't scare me. I've dealt with way, way worse than guns and tasers."

The mere tone his voice holds is enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up from unease, though she doesn't break eye-contact, no matter how much he may be trying to intimidate her right now. What the heck is wrong with this person! His words almost sound like a threat, and she has to hold her breath to stop it from shaking. 

"Keep that in mind next time you try and get out, k?" He brings his hand down onto her shoulder, giving it a rough pat before spinning around and continuing to walk ahead of her with Smile by his side, and she doesn't miss the way he discreetly pulls the shiny blade of his knife out of his hoodie pocket, in clear view of her, before putting it back and acting as if nothing happened. She gulps, quickly figuring out that this dude is not to be messed with. Not without proper defenses, at least. 

She tries to slow down her accelerated heartbeat, remaining completely still until he looks back at her with an evil glint in his icy-blue orbs, once again silently telling her to get a move on, to which she hesitantly obeys. If she were to try and run, she'd surely be caught. She doesn't want to get on this guy's bad side, not until she has a weapon of her own so maybe she'll have a fighting chance. Limping a few feet behind him, sharp pains zip up her leg each time she puts weight on the injury, and she stares at the man's back, watching as he presses the phone to his ear.

"I got her, don't send the others out to look." An incoherent voice erupts from the opposite line, and she tries to listen in on what's being said, though fails. "Well, call them back. It isn't that hard." What sounds like a scoff can be heard from the phone before he takes it away from his ear and shoves it back into his jeans pocket, seemingly done with the short conversation. "You better pick up the pace back there. I'm not gonna frickin' carry you if that's what you expect."

"Over my dead body," she retorts, though makes an effort to walk a bit faster to avoid making him mad, even at her disadvantage and the pain it causes. 

"That can be arranged. Smile." She eyes the dog warily as it raises its head in attention, subconsciously shifting closer to the male in front just so maybe she can use him as a sort of shield before she's completely mauled to death. "Shall we teach her not to say such a thing without actually meaning it?" Smile whines, she can't figure out if it's in agreement or confusion, but for her sake, she hopes it's the latter. 

"I do mean it." Her words are strong, a lot stronger than she expected considering the nerves jumping in her throat, but she's satisfied nonetheless. He's quiet a moment before clicking his tongue, glancing back at her with crinkled eyes, and shaking his head. 

"Heh. Ya know, maybe you won't be as annoying as I thought."

"Oh really? Gee, thanks," she mutters, biting the inside of her cheek and dreading what's to happen when she gets back to...Jack's house. He certainly won't react well to her reappearance considering what she did to him. Was he telling the truth? Is he actually the Jack that she met just a couple of days prior? But... she doesn't see how that could be possible. Jack looked like an actual human being, but this person looked completely different... He is wearing the same attire, though, and his voice is undeniably similar.

If that is the case, why would he bring her here, to a place full of weirdos, Jack himself being one of them? As far as she knows, they seemed to hit it off pretty well. So why would he kidnap and put her in danger? Cause he's a psycho. Just like Joker wannabe over here. 

"Now, I think we both know what happens if you try and get away, again." She stares at the back of his head, unimpressed, as she wraps her arms loosely around her torso to soothe herself a minuscule amount. "Not that I care, of course. Frowny face just wants you alive, I could give less of a crap whether you become Smile's dinner or not if I'm being honest."

"Yeah, you already established that. I appreciate the concern, really." Sarcasm practically drips from her voice, as she tries to form some kind of escape plan in her mind. 

"Hey, what else am I here for?" Rolling her eyes and releasing a small huff, she looks down at her ankle as it steadily leaks blood, knowing she'll have to doctor it soon before it gets infected. Who knows what that... thing is carrying? Considering her no doubt unfortunate situation, she shakes her head in disbelief.

My God... what is going on? And why am I involved with it?