#also first-time ive been unnerved by one of my own drawings in a while.... and it was all for turbo...

[swamp-gremlin]

RoadBlasters Incident 1987

[firewoodfigs]

Hi!! Could you do "It was a hospital bed, and A slipped in carefully to lie beside B all night" for a Royai fic from that prompt list? Thank you!! ❤️❤️

hello anon!! thanks for the prompt aaaah I had a lot of fun toying with it in between work and the other shenanigans that have been cropping up this week <3 I hope you don't mind the somewhat unusual ending ahaha I dimly recall writing a few other fics indirectly responding to this prompt (here and here!) so I wanted to try something slightly different from my usual fare 👉🏻👈🏻 part of this was also originally from a two-shot I'm working on, tweaked to fit the prompt hehe. I hope you enjoy!!! 🥰

                                       +++++

Riza can think of a million reasons why hospitals are awful.

First, the food. She’s not sure if it’s as nutritious as they make it out to be; there are times when she wonders if it’s even edible. She’s had worse, of course - hospital food isn’t as bad as ration bars - but she’s quickly getting tired of eating plain yoghurt and bland porridge every day, for every single meal.

Second, the stench. Riza hates that every inch of the place smells like a victim of obsessive cleanliness; she has to resist the urge to upchuck every time the door opens and the smell of chemicals and antiseptic filters in like an unwanted guest.

Third, the fact that she’s sharing a room with a man who, at this point, is behaving more like a cat on hot bricks than a disciplined soldier is quickly driving her insane. She’d readily agreed to be his caretaker, of course; Riza doubts there’s anyone else capable of dealing with his antics and ever-growing anxiety. But after hearing him sigh and toss and turn in his bed for the fifty-eighth time that night (she’d counted, because she was bored out of her wits, and there was nothing else she could do other than sleep or stare at the ceiling, per doctor’s orders), Riza decides she’s just about had enough.

She looks at him from her bed. He’s presently engaged with twiddling his thumbs, thinking out loud.

Riza sighs and rises from her bed quietly. She brings the IV stand along with her - an unnecessary inconvenience - and carefully slips into his bed once she’s made sure that the tubes and wires connected to them are tangle-free.

“I never pegged you as an opportunist, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, despite her best efforts to be discreet. “Sleeping with your commanding officer while he’s blind?”

“You could always court martial me later, sir,” Riza deadpans. “Now scoot over.”

Luckily, he obliges without much retort. 

“Your wish is my command.”

Riza huffs. She adjusts the thin, scraggly piece of linen that the hospital justifies as a blanket - another downside of this shitty place - and makes sure he’s probably covered, warm.

“Three words,” she mutters.

“Eight letters?”

“Twelve, actually.”

Roy raises a brow. “What could it be?”

“Would you like to wager a guess, sir?”

“Not really.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. Roy laughs, and it’s a tiny little sound that is so discordant with his current mood, but it’s at least genuine. “Now go to sleep.”

“Alright, alright.”

He stops fidgeting, for a while. Riza closes her eyes and attempts to fall asleep - and she actually does, for a while - at least until she hears the sheets rustling again, the movement and tension coming from beside her. She groans softly.

“You should sleep, sir.”

She feels him stiffen. Roy smiles sheepishly, looking right through her like she’s not there. It still unnerves her how this is probably going to be their new normal: him without his sight. Her as his eyes.

“Sorry.”

Riza frowns. An apology is not the answer she wants. What she wants is for him - or them both, actually - to sleep and rest and properly recuperate so that they can have a speedy recovery, so that they can get out of here as soon as possible.

“Bad dreams?” she asks, because it’s the exact same thing that’s been haunting her. (She’s lucky her throat makes it impossible for her to scream or kick up a fuss; she’d hate for Roy to stumble blindly through the room in what he probably thinks is an act of chivalry and/or heroism.)

He shrugs.

“Then and now,” he offers. His smile fades, and he lapses into an unexpected moment of vulnerability. “Hard to differentiate between day and night nowadays, too.”

And because Riza doesn’t know what to say, she simply brushes her knuckles against his.

Roy returns the gesture, drawing indiscernible patterns on the back of her hand with his bandaged one.

“Well, it’s almost midnight now, sir.”

He lets out a small laugh, but it’s painfully hollow.

Riza shifts slightly. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze - hospital beds are clearly not meant for two persons (or anything inappropriate) - but it doesn’t bother her all that much. She just wishes there’s more she can do, to comfort him. Make him feel a little less gloomy.

“It feels like I’ve been sleeping for years.”

“If it helps reduce the incidents of you falling asleep during office hours, then you should get more sleep now, while you can.”

Roy turns, like he’s searching for her, even though there’s not much closer she can be at this point. He exhales shakily. She feels his hand trembling against hers, and responds with a gentle caress. (She knows he’s still feeling guilty, probably berating himself internally about their predicament, about what transpired beforehand. And to be fair, there’s a part of her that’s still angry about all that's happened underground. They’ll probably have to talk about it, at some point, but probably not now — not when they’re both still drugged up and only half-lucid.)

“Humour me, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep,” he confesses. Dimly, Riza notes that his voice has taken on a somewhat petulant edge — like a child complaining about their bedtime, but she doesn’t comment on it. Being nearly bedridden for a week is enough to drive her nuts, too. “I’ve tried counting sheep and all that shit, and it’s just — it’s not working.”

Riza sighs. She’s tired, yes, but she’s also aware that she’s probably not going to get any sleep at this rate. She tries to think of ways to stave off his restlessness. Reading is one — she can probably bore him into sleep with a Xingese recitation (she’s gotten pretty good at that lately), but she’s technically not supposed to be talking much. Alcohol is another, but neither of them are supposed to be drinking (and besides, the only form of alcohol available in hospitals isn’t meant for human consumption). Maybe chess, then. She’s not particularly keen on playing a game of chess, now (because she just wants to sleep), but she thinks it’ll help exhaust some of his boundless energy.

“We could play a game of chess, if you want. Breda was kind enough to drop a vinyl board here in the afternoon.”

“I can’t see —“

“I’ll tell you where I move my pieces.”

He frowns, clearly not liking the idea. “You’re not supposed to be talking much, Lieutenant.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, turning to pour a cup of water for herself before continuing. “I won’t have to speak much — unless you’re being a nuisance or a cheat or a fraud.”

He laughs. “I’ll be none of those things, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

She sets up the board on his bed and helps him sit up. Riza lets him play white.

“It’s your move, sir.”

“You’ve made yours?”

“No. You’re playing white.”

“Tough. It’ll be more embarrassing if I end up losing.”

Riza smiles. “Well, we don’t know that yet, sir.”

He opens with pawn to e4. She helps him move his pieces and parrots her movements back to him. Pawn to e4, too. Pawn to d4. Same here. A closed game, not quite like his usual aggressive style of playing.

Riza watches as he frowns with intensity. It’s probably more a test of memory than strategy for him at this point. She wonders if there’s a way he can adapt to chess, to the military’s utilitarian (and frankly unsympathetic) demands now that his sight’s impaired.

(Life is so unlike chess, Riza thinks, in spite of Roy’s silly metaphors that postulate otherwise. The rules are never fixed, and the universe is always rife with uncertainty. It’s not like chess, where you can predict your opponents’ moves if you get good enough. Neither of them had expected that he’d be here right now, losing sleep and contemplating life over a chessboard while blind.)

He clucks his tongue, reciting a series of movements from memory. The Blackmar-Diemer. Riza smiles indulgently.

Still as aggressive as ever, sir.

Of course.

The game quickly becomes a round of blitz, and though he manages to open his lines and mount a rather decent attack, it’s clear that he has trouble recalling after the eighteenth move. It's still an impressive feat, though. Better than the average layperson.

“Check,” Riza announces, conversationally. Technically, she’d had the advantage, both on the board (and in real life). It shouldn’t really count, and besides, checkmate isn’t her objective — it’s to get her commanding office to sleep.

“Well-played,” Roy hums. He’s strangely still in his bed as he closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples — presumably to ease off an oncoming migraine. It happens a lot, when he’s in deep thought, when he’s over thinking. Thinking too much for his own good. “I need to work on my recall, I think.”

“I think so too, sir.”

He laughs, but the sound is again empty, foreign. It is so at odds with his usual smirks and unbridled laughter (when he’s laughing at someone else, or a joke made at somebody’s expense), like there’s an ache beneath the surface that she cannot reach.

Roy turns slightly, bumping into his dethroned king as he adjusts himself on the bed.

She blames the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to cry on her drugged-up system.

(Riza doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how uncommunicative his eyes are. He’s always regarded each and every one of his subordinates with respect and meaning and gratitude, but he’d simply looked over the unit as if taking inventory when they had come by earlier.

But she’ll make do, Riza thinks. She has to. She’s always known him in a way nobody else has, in a deeply intimate way, like a book she’s memorised by heart.)

They fall silent for a few minutes. His lips part a little - she knows  he’s about to say something - but it snaps shut again, like he can’t bring himself to say the words.

Riza simply waits for him, like she always has; holding onto his held breath like it's the last thread of hope. She leans into his touch a little closer than necessary.

I’m right here, even if you can’t see me.

Roy smiles.

“I hope I won’t forget your face, Riza.”

[blookmallow]

im starting to realize there’s a bunch of connections going on between tma episodes.. i dont know what it Means yet and dont tell me!!!!! ill get there!! but. hmmm. im going through the transcripts after i listen to them to make sure i didnt miss things/checking the details and i just. Keep Finding More Shit, it’s all connected, i feel like there’s something huge going on behind all these and i Do Not Know what it is yet 

this is. very long and disjointed i went through all the transcripts for every episode ive listened to so far and kept noticing more things 

like Don’t Tell Me if im right or wrong ill find out im just gathering thoughts. setting up my little conspiracy board. red strings everywhere

- firstly theres an obvious running thread going about the cursed jurgen leitner books, gerard keay, the. worms. and jane prentiss 

- carlos vittery in Arachnophobia mentions offhand that his complex had an infestation of “small, silvery worms” which passed right over my head the first time but looking at it again thATS THE FUCKIGN WORMS!!!! and martin found. Probably Jane in the basement of that same complex. so. well, (that also means like Who Knows how many people in that building might have gotten infected) (i also wonder whether the spiders might actually be Good, if the worms are hideous parasites maybe the spiders are showing up to eat them/get rid of them, martin says he likes spiders, the spiders almost definitely killed vittery but he was violently trying to wipe them out so maybe it was a greater good kind of thing) (or they’re just spiders and dont have that level of comprehension and like the nasty silver worms. either way) 

- there’s also a lot of Foretelling Of Death but i dont want to go through and list all of those rn

- in Anglerfish, there was some kind of. shadowy hand thing beckoning people into the darkness. Amy Patel in Across The Street describes seeing a similar shadowy hand thing reaching into Graham’s apartment before his. replacement. both of these are described as “folding” in on themselves/moving in a really unnatural way. smoking was also mentioned in both but i havent really been following that as a symbol very closely. possible link with Fire? i dont know

- Repetition. Graham was obsessively filling hundreds of notebooks with the words “Keep Watching,” mary keay’s skin was completely covered in unreadable script tattoos, the paper found by the garbage men was the Lord’s prayer written in latin over and over again, ivo lensik’s father became completely obsessed with fractals and couldn’t stop drawing them. the unnamed burned man in First Aid repeats an unclear phrase over and over again. gerard keay is also covered in tattoos of eyes in First Aid, which was not mentioned before (though probably wouldn’t have been visible before) 

- Graham was convinced he was being watched/followed by Something, harriet was concerned about being followed after she was attacked by prentiss (which. matches with martin’s experience too, though he was much more fortunate), vittery was followed by The Spider, lensik’s father also believed Something was coming for him (and “all the bones are in his hands” sounds very. leitner), and there was. whatever approaching darkness was coming after robert montauk, as well 

- Graham has a weirdly hypnotic table, the first Leitner book found by dominic swain had oddly vertigo-inducing woodcuttings, gerard keay’s eye painting is similarly hypnotic, lensik finds a box in the old tree with the same hypnotic carvings on it 

- not sure if the Spider Apple has any relation to the Arachnophobia episode, but, there’s that, also 

- swain’s book had an image of the sky, which he described felt like you would “fall into it” if you looked at it for too long, and robert kelly sort of “fell into the sky” in Freefall. laura popham describes a sense of being swallowed up by the earth in Lost Johns’ Cave, as well 

- same theme of becoming “lost” in Lost Johns’ Cave and in Alone, similar concepts of being consumed by the earth 

- i dont think its necessarily related to anything else as far as i know but just wanted to mention also i didn’t process the... extra audio recording in Lost Johns’ Cave correctly, i thought she was saying “help me, help me, please help me” which was unnerving, but didn’t really seem all that critical to add, until looking at the transcripts i realized it was “take her, not me” which was a HUGE punch to the gut when i discovered it lmao. dont ask how i managed to mishear that badly but i am very very bad at auditory processing which is why im reading all these scripts to make sure i didnt process them wrong

- Graham mentions he’s gay, and the man who had the dream about gertrude mentions having broken up with his boyfriend, Graham. jon doesn’t comment on this and it’s not necessarily the same graham, and im not sure what the significance is if it is, but it seems like an odd coincidence if it isn’t. “antonio” doesn’t go into detail about why they broke up, but mentions they had been living together 

- the name Joshua Gillespie stands out to me for some reason, like I’ve heard “gillespie” somewhere before, but I haven’t noticed it coming up again in any of the transcripts unless I just missed it. could just be that my brain decided to Remember that name for no reason though. he’s the guy with the coffin 

- jon mentions this, but Breekon and Hope deliveries were responsible both for the weird coffin and the yellow stole from the incident with father burroughs 

- there’s a major ongoing theme of Fire and Burning, both just in general, and a more specific Fire With No Apparent Source thing continuously happening. the prayer paper in the trash had been burned, timothy hodge burned his apartment after the Worms Incident (and martin mentions noticing one of the worms looked slightly burnt - maybe it survived the fire and returned to jane?), sgt. berry was “distinctively marked” by an incident with a flamethrower, the vampires are supposedly very very vulnerable to fire, raymond fielding’s house burned down and his. ghost? disappears with a burning smell and a burnt spot on the floor, lensik experiences an intense, unbearable heat with no clear cause soon after the encounter with raymond, which father burroughs also experiences in his account. the mysterious coffin in Do Not Open had an unnatural heat to it. gerard keay burns the leitner book and picks up the still-smoldering ashes but isn’t concerned with the heat, and then appears again as one of the burned men in First Aid, having apparently experienced second-degree burns on every inch of his skin, but had completely undamaged clothes. the nurse describes feeling a burning sensation when the chanting starts, but dismisses it as a nervous reaction, then experiences the. boiling drink bottles and the burning hot door handles. she says she could feel a burning heat from gerard’s hand. the burned man’s body immediately self-cremates when gerard kills him. lee rentoul also gives specifically a lighter to angela for her Piecemeal curse, though that might be coincidental. he does burn the first box after he discovers it, though

- the garbage man describes the last Weird Trash as “tied off with a dark green ribbon, arranged in a bow like an old-fashioned Christmas present” - which contained a copper heart, possibly symbolizing alan’s real heart, with the rest of his body never being found. this matches both with robert montauk’s killings and the cursed boxes from angela’s curse- “brown paper and string, like an old-fashioned Christmas present.” there was also the weird thing with raymond’s hand, but im not sure that’s related 

the vampires’ victims bodies also seemed to disappear, not sure that’s related either 

- jon confirms that the pendant julia describes (the one belonging to her mother and also her father’s last victim) is a symbol of the People’s Church of the Divine Host cult. wondering if this is related to what father burroughs experienced. gerard keay is searching for a lost pendant in First Aid, but its design is unclear, and he describes it as brass. unsure if related. the fact that gerard’s tattoos/etc were of eyes, and the other pendant is of a closed eye, while one is made of brass and the other of silver seems like there might be some connection though even if it isn’t the same one. there didn’t seem to be any burning involved with the montauk case, anyway 

then there’s. this entire thing im just gonna paste it here, from sebastian adekoya in the Boneturner’s Tale: 

“Books are amazing, aren’t they? I mean, when you think about what they really are. People don’t give the actuality of language the weight it deserves, I feel. Words are a way of taking your thoughts, the very make-up of yourself, and giving them to another. Putting your thoughts in the mind of someone else. They are not a perfect method, of course, as there’s plenty of scope for mutation and corruption between your mind and that of the listener, but that doesn’t change the essence of what language is.

Spoken aloud, though, the thought dies quickly if not picked up. Simple vibrations that vanish almost as soon as they are created, though if they find a host, then they can lodge there, proliferate, and maybe spread further. Still, it is not a reliable method in terms of a thought’s endurance, as humans are fragile creatures, and rarely last a century.” 

this definitely seems relevant to jurgen leitner (and this is. one of the episodes about a leitner book, so) it definitely seems likely that he’s spreading some kind of.... Belief or Self or Power or Something through his books, possibly even his own consciousness is within them somehow, or at least the consciousness of Something or Someone. the man with all the bones in his hands. taking bones and warping them. bones appearing in the pages but Wrong. might be related to the bag of teeth, too, hundreds of All The Same Tooth

definitely something to the... immortalization of thoughts/memories/Consciousness through written word, especially when we consider the words literally tattooed into mary keay’s skin/the book possibly bound in her skin. i cant put a coherent thought together on this but its definitely... important, i think 

sebastian also for some reason specifically mentions he was holding a copy of Stephen King’s Misery in the confrontation with Jared’s mother, which is a story about an author being forced to write something against his will/words that aren’t really his own, to appease someone else, which. seems like it might be relevant somehow too, maybe. the fact that it was named specifically when it wasn’t apparently relevant to the story seems interesting 

[survivingthejungle]

soft; jerome x reader

ive never written anything this fluffy in my god damn life... hopefully its not a complete flop? idk

You hadn’t committed a crime.

Regardless of whatever conclusion the jury had come to, you would always maintain that you hadn’t committed a crime. Because, what crime is there in justice?

One of the men who had tried to assault you had just been a little too lazy with his knife, and in a moment of instinctual self-defence, you had pushed it back in on himself.

Unfortunately for you, the other man—the one who hadn’t been stabbed—had managed to pay off the jury to convict you of first degree murder, and the only way you would avoid going to straight-up prison would be taking the insanity plea.

You fought it—oh, how you fought it, tooth-and-nail— but in the end, you and your family didn’t have the resources, and the corrupt rich of Gotham once again won the day. The playout of your hearing had caused outrage throughout the city, and no one believed that you deserved to go to an asylum, but the public backlash surrounding your conviction still was not enough to get the decision overturned.

Some of the staff at Arkham were sympathetic to your case and did all they could to treat you like the normal girl you were, not like one of the truly mentally-ill patients who were there for good reason. Of course, not every staff member was this accommodating— Dr. Strange had been wanting to use you as an guinea pig for a while now. The only thing keeping him from doing so was your family’s constant visits and the fact that he couldn’t be sure that the nurses and guards who knew you and your story wouldn’t rebel against him.

About a month into your incarceration— one down, two to go— there was a change in atmosphere. An unusual burst of activity came about one morning; while you were in your cell, brushing your teeth and washing your face, a handful of guards all stormed past, seemingly guiding someone along with them. You peeked out of the small window on your door, but couldn’t see much aside from the guards and a quick flash of a tuft of bright red hair.

-

To ensure that your safety was never compromised and that all of the staff knew you were no real threat, it had been decided within the Asylum that you were not to wear the same black-and-white striped garments as all of the other inmates. Instead, you had been given a handful of simple, white cotton slips, and you had been allowed to bring some of your own sweaters, shoes, and socks from home. You had been allowed your own pajamas from home, so you decided to bring two pairs of basketball shots, two t-shirts, and a big sweatshirt to sleep in. In addition, yo also brought a handful of your favorite scrunchies and hair clips, and a notebook and pen to keep track of your thoughts and write letters while you were away. To say you stood out like a sore thumb would be an understatement; you didn’t look exactly like an inmate, you certainly didn’t look like staff, and you didn’t look like a normal teenage girl either. You just looked different, and you were okay with that. You were content just keeping to yourself, minding your own business, writing and reading when you had the opportunity, and getting the hell out of this asylum.

Until recently. A new inmate had recently been admitted; around your age, tall, vivid red hair, an unnerving laugh, and arrested on a count of matricide. When they brought him in, he was strapped up in a straight jacket and being wheeled around. He caught sight of you in the rec room and winked, and you, being caught in a trance-like daze, had simply lifted your hand and waved with a straight face. It didn’t help that he was an objectively attractive guy; if you had seen him anywhere outside of an asylum, you probably would’ve heart-eyed him with your friends. But you were in an asylum, the both of you, so you decided to maintain your earlier resolve of keeping to yourself and not interacting with anyone else.

-

The next day, you saw him come into the rec room. You were sitting in an old, worn-out bean bag reading one of the old hand-me-down books from a shelf in the corner. It was Madame Bovary, a title you’d heard repeated many times but never really looked into until now. You were halfway through and so engrossed with the tragic story that you didn’t notice a presence seat itself beside you until you heard a voice speaking.

“Hi gorgeous, I’m Jerome.” It was the redhead from yesterday, grinning at you.

“Hi. That’s not my name,” you responded, pulling your eyes away from him and back to your book.

“Well then, by all means, spill! What can I call you?” His voice was deep but had a childlike lilt, like everything he said was purposefully over-theatrical. He placed his chin on his fist, staring intently at you.

“My name is (Y/N). I don’t really wanna talk to anyone right now, so can you just leave me alone?”

“Jeez, just trying to be polite… Y’know, a girl could really use some friends in a place like this.”

“No, not really. I’m fine how I am. Thanks, though.”

He paused and looked at you quizzically as though he had just noticed something that he hadn’t before. “Hey, how come you don’t wear stripes like the rest of us, huh?”

“Because I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not supposed to be in here.”

“Ugh, believe me, babe, I tried that line too. Didn’t work. C’mon, what’d you do to get in here? Now I’m curious,” he prodded.

You were silent for a moment. Some people had no problem admitting that they had done something like that; in fact, some reveled in it. But you were not the kind of girl who could just openly declare that I killed a man. “...It was self defense.”

“Oh yeah,” he lightly scoffed, “Then how’d you end up here, and not scot-free out there?”

“This is Gotham,” you shot back, “There’s no justice in this city. If a rich man wants a girl locked up, she gets locked up. End of story.”

“Ain’t that the truth, sister.” He let out a sigh and leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Tell me something, though,” he started, staring at you. “Are you being serious?”

“You tell me… I’m already in an asylum. If I was really guilty, I would’ve admitted it by now, right?”

“Huh.” He shook his head, looking away from you. “Huh. You got me there. Well… that sucks for you, doesn’t it?”

“You’re telling me; I’m the one wrongly incarcerated.”

“Hey! That’s perfect! So you really do need a friend in this place, otherwise all the rest of these crazies are gonna eat you up…” he got closer to you before continuing. “Y’know, it’s really not safe for you here if you’re the only sane person. I think we should be friends.”

“If it gets you off my case, then sure, I guess.” A grin lit up his face and he leaned back out of your personal space; he did not, however, show any signs of leaving you alone anytime soon. “Will you leave me alone now, please?” you asked.

“What kind of a friend would I be, leaving you alone out here to fend for yourself? Nah, see, these other guys in here, they’ll do bad things to a pretty girl if she’s all alone. I’m just looking out for you.”

You considered his words for a moment. Although no one had truly tried to harm you yet, you hadn’t been here long. And some of the creepier inmates had been staring you down recently, now that you thought about it… “I’m not gonna, like… talk to you, a lot. I just read a lot. And write. And draw, sometimes. But I’m not a big conversationalist. So if that’s what you wanted from me, you got the wrong girl.”

“Hey, that’s fine by me,” he responded. “You just sit there and look pretty till you get to go home. I’ll be your silent protector.”

Not very silent, you thought. “Why… why do you even wanna be my friend, then? If you’re not looking for someone to talk to… You just wanna ‘help me out’? You’re a wannabe serial killer, you don’t really seem like the kind of guy who tries to help a girl out of the goodness of his heart.”

“What can I say?” he asked you. “I can be unpredictable. And you seemed kinda… Sad. Lonely. I dunno. But a pretty, innocent girl locked up in here shouldn’t have to fend for herself. I may be bad, alright, but I’m not completely souless!” He snickered to himself. “Heh, get it? ‘Cause I’m a ginger.” You let out a soft, breathy laugh at that; one you couldn’t contain. “Hey,” he reached out and nudged your cheek, “There’s that smile. Go on, I’m sorry, read your book. I’ll just chill here… Hangin’ out.”

-

The asylum was particularly chilly today, so you slipped an oversized, washed-out pastel sweater over your dress, as well as a pair of mismatched thick socks. You slid into a pair of plain brown ankle boots with loose laces and clipped two red barrettes into your hair, a yellow scrunchie on your wrist. According to the little red antique clock in your cell, it was nearly eight A.M.— breakfast, which Jerome would always walk down to with you. He always delayed the guards as much as possible before passing your cell, so that you could be escorted down with him.

It had been about two weeks since your first encounter, and while you were initially wary of the prospect of being chummy with a convicted murderer, there was something about him that drew you in. Maybe it was how charming he could be, or how protective he acted of you or how he definitely wasn’t the most unattractive person you’d ever seen, but you weren’t as opposed as you used to be towards being his friend. You heard the sound of struggling increase as it got closer and closer to your door, and you knew it was Jerome come to “pick you up” for the day. You waited at your door, looking out the barred slot as the guards got closer and closer.

“Excuse me? Could I be taken down to breakfast as well?” you asked them, and one with a key ring unlocked your door and let you step outside into the hall.

“Mornin’, (Y/N).” It was Anthony, a guard that you felt you had a good standing with. He was always respectful to you because he had been keeping up with your trial while it was in the news, and he firmly believed that you had done nothing to end up in this place.

“Good morning. How are you?”

“I’m just well, thanks! Did you sleep alright?”

“Yeah, I did! Do you know what variation of gruel they’re feeding us today?” Jerome snorted at this. “Hey, Jerome. What’s up?”

“Oh, y’know, not much.”

“Sounds fun.”

-

Breakfast was, in fact, another variation of gruel. You had been given a choice between cinnamon and apple oatmeal, lazily slopped onto a tray before being shoved into your arms with a spoon.

You took a seat at an unoccupied table and began to eat and read— you were rereading Gatsby, now—until Jerome joined you.

“Hey, J,” you greeted him, not looking up from your book.

“Hey there, girlie,” he greets, nudging you when he sits down beside you.  “What’s the plan today?”

“They have me in group today. Something about having to ‘act like we’re making progress’,” you slightly mocked.

Jerome gasped. “Well, hey! Whadaya know? I’m in group today, too!” The possibility that you were not in the same group was slim to none; your proximity in age and the fact that both of your cells were on the same floor meant that in any group setting, you were bound to end up together.

“Have they put you in it before?” you wondered.

“Oh, yeah, once or twice,” he told you, taking another spoonful of oatmeal before continuing. “Don’t be nervous about it. All they do is sit you in a circle and give you pens and paper and have you talk about your feelings and why you killed people.” That was still a touchy subject. You’d never verbally say that you ‘killed’ a person; there was a difference between murder and self-defense, and there was absolutely no way in hell you’d ever be convinced they were the same. Jerome noticed a shift in your attitude. “Well, I mean, you never killed anyone. So I guess you won’t have to participate too much.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you agreed. A burly looking man the approached Jerome, eyeing you all the while.

“Jerome.” He looked up and rolled his eyes at the man.

“Can I help you with something, Greenwood?”

“Yeah. Just wondering when you’re gonna share your little lady friend with the rest of us.” He sat down opposite both of you. “She looks tasty.”

In shock, you couldn’t properly formulate a response to the man’s lewd comments, so while you sat there, eyes fixated on your oatmeal, Jerome took the liberty of speaking up on your behalf. “She’s off limits, pal. Don’t touch her,” he told him, grinning all the while. “Or I’ll flay you and feed you to the rats.”

“Oh, little J’s got himself a girlfriend now, huh? What, you gonna chop her up just like you chopped up your mommy?” Greenwood inched closer and closer to Jerome while taunting him, and your friend was getting visibly aggravated.

His fist clenched and he slammed it on the table. You put your hand over his forearm to draw his attention over to you instead. “Jerome. Stop,” you requested.

“What?” he asked you. “Why me? What about him?”

“Because I know you can be rational,” you told him, maintaining eye contact. “It’s not worth it. Don’t give him the reaction he wants.”

He let out a short breath and turned his attention back to Greenwood. “You know what? She’s right. You’re not worth my foot. Go back to playing with your little dolls, Greenwood,” he taunted, gesturing with his free hand. Greenwood snarled, but got up and walked away anyways. Jerome looked back to you. “Y’know, you’re starting to rub off on me. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll be a goody two-shoes just like you!” he joked, snickering. You just rolled your eyes, the ghost of a soft smile on your face.

“Hey,” you warned, “Don’t start getting soft. That’s my thing,” you shot back.

“Yeah, I know,” he smirked at you, catching your hand—the one that was on his forearm—in his. “Jeez, (Y/N), why are you so cold?” he asked you. His hands were exponentially warmer than yours, and you appreciated the heat warming up your own.

“It’s the middle of January and I have terrible circulation. Plus, no one in this place cares enough to turn the heat up.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he laughed. Then he was putting his head on top of yours, so you leaned your head onto his shoulder.

“What time is it?” You yawned. He told you that it was roughly eight-thirty. “Gross.” Jerome chuckled and gave a murmur of assent. He took his hand out of yours and put his arm around your shoulders instead.

“I’ll wake you up when they make us leave,” he assured you as you closed your eyes, thanking him. Then you were off to sleep again, catching up on all of the hours you had missed since you had been incarcerated. He grabbed your book off of the table and began reading it for himself. He kept one hand lightly trailing through your hand while the other was used to flip the pages until, at 9:20, the nurses came to inform the both of you that it was time for therapy.

-

If someone would’ve asked you what had been discussed in that session, you wouldn’t’ve had a clue. You sat next to your only friend in the place, of course, latching onto the only person you’d truly felt comfortable with since you’d been brought in. The two of you had passed notes back and forth the whole time, decorated with goofy little doodles and cartoons to entertain one another. When Jerome had cracked a joke to you following one of the other inmates’ comments, you could barely suppress your giggle, and you both had ended up making a bit of a scene.

“Jerome. (Y/N). Cut it out,” the therapist had reprimanded you. Jerome just gave her a nod, but you had verbally apologized and promised that it wouldn’t happen again.

A few seconds later, another note was passed onto your lap. SORRY FOR BEING A BAD INFLUENCE, it had read. You flipped it over to respond on the other side.

we balance each other out

like a negative and a positive

-

Two months later, and you were finally free to return to the rest of the world. You were overjoyed; you couldn’t wait to get back to your friends and family. You couldn’t wait to get back to school, something you never thought you’d say to yourself. You were also surprised at how well Jerome had responded when you’d told him that you were finally going home.

“You’ll write to me, right?” he asked you.

“Of course,” you verified.

“And visit?”

“I’ll try my damndest,” you promised.

He had seemed like he was making so much progress when you were around. At least, that’s what the nurses and therapists had all noted. For his own sake, they all secretly wished that you would keep coming back to help him out.

-

After another month, the whole city was erupted into chaos.

There had been some sort of gas leak at Arkham, followed by a breakout; your friend among the escapees. The next time you saw him had been on the T.V. in the midst of attempting to blow up a school bus full of cheerleaders from Gotham High.

You felt your heart break in your chest as you sat on your bed that morning watching the news. You’d really, truly let yourself believe that he wasn’t as bad of a person as the media had portrayed him, especially during his trial. You knew him firsthand! He was such a good friend to you, and was always watching your back. It was hard for you to believe that the boy who passed you notes in therapy and made you laugh all day was the same boy who had just kidnapped and murdered seven dock workers and attempted to blow up a bus full of cheerleaders the same age as him.

But, sadly, this was the reality that you lived in. I guess he really fooled me, huh, you thought to yourself.

Around noon that same day, while watching some documentary on Netflix and sending texts back and forth with one of your best friends, you heard a loud knocking outside of your window. “Holy shit!” you exclaimed, heart nearly leaping out of your chest. When your adrenaline rush finally slowed, you looked to see what had caused the noise, and—

“Holy shit!” Lo and behold; it was none other than Jerome Valeska. He grinned at you, waving emphatically.

“Open up, wouldya?” He spoke through the window. “Let’s catch up!”

You walked over to your windowsill but didn’t open the window, instead choosing to lock it. “Why should I let you into my house, Jerome? I’d be harboring a fugitive. That’s a crime. Just like kidnapping, murder, and arson,” you glared at him. “Why would you do that, J?” you asked, hurt evident in your eyes, even through the glass separating you.

“Let me in, (Y/N), I really wanna talk. You know I’d never hurt you.” You immediately believed him, having to consciously remind yourself that you might’ve been being led into a trap. That was, until he held up a fist and extended his pinky. “I pinky swear.” Damn, the boy knows I love me a good pinky swear. You gave up your resolve and cracked the window just enough to reach your own hand through, locking your fingers together before opening it the rest of the way.

“Okay. Talk,” you told him as he climbed through and stepped into your room. You took a seat on the edge of your bed, and he followed suit.

“This guy, Theo… he’s the one who broke us all out,” Jerome began to explain. “Kinda boring dude. But also kinda cool. He’s like the weird, rich uncle I never had,” he joked, making you crack a small smile. He smiled himself at that, nudging you playfully. “Anyways, he gives this whole speech about how we all have ‘vision’ and ‘talent’ and yada yada yada… So I know he gets me.

“Says he wants us to just go crazy, right? ‘Paint the town red’, other junk like that,” he continued. “The last guy who tried to leave, Sionis… He had him stabbed to death. Right in front of us all.” Your eyes shot up to his, shocked. “I can’t very well follow in his footsteps,” he told you.

“Oh, Jerome… That’s awful. I’m sorry.” You wrapped an arm around his side, implying that you’d mostly forgiven him for what he’d been doing recently. It’s not his fault, you reasoned, he’s scared for his life. “What if I call the cops so they can keep you safe from him? You don’t have to keep hurting people,” you offered.

“No, (Y/N), please don’t,” he begged. “They’ll just send me straight back to Arkham, I don’t wanna go back there, I hate that place—”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I understand. I won’t call anyone. Be safe, though? I mean… try as much as you can to not hurt anyone if you can help it.”

“I will. You were right, y’know. About balancing each other out. I think we make a good pair,” he told you, a smile that looked genuine on his face.

“Best friends,” you offered back. Then you gave him a solid hug, burying your face in his chest.

And you’d never have seen it, but that genuine smile suddenly became cunning and devious once more.  Gotcha...

[transhawks]

Hawks of course! (Or Shiggy if you've already done him!)

oooh. Okay time to perhaps lose some followers?

HAWKS

I like: I like his dedication, his ability to see the thing needs to be done. I love how driven he is and yet he’s not driven by fame or prestige. He’s heroic but he doesn’t exactly enshrine the ideological naivety that many heroes seem to have. I like that despite all the fronts he presents, he seems to be a genuinely good person struggling with himself and his desire for freedom and to make his own choices.

I dislike: His inability to let others help, to slow down, his ‘do it myself’ nature. It does read as dismissal/ego to others, but it’s far more complex, borne of old wounds. He’s a perfectionist and I think this might be what might end him. Also, his inability to say no to a task when it comes to his life, to his freedom, his willingness to let himself be a sacrificial pawn (and for what? Why him is what I want to know? What allows a man to be okay with being used as such? What happened to him that his self-worth is in the hands of others?).

“A society where heroes have more free time than they know what to do with. I will make it a reality, as fast as I can.” - My favorite quote

Tokoyami&Hawks, Natsuo&Hawks, Mirko&Hawks, Fat Gum&Hawks are brOTPs, and I might ship him with Fat and Natsuo. 

DabiHawks, ShigaHawks has grown so fast on me, ShigaDabiHawks as an ultimate OT3

For NOtps, anything with the kids, even if they’re aged up to 18 because I’m currently an RA with a six year difference myself and that’s a huge gap in maturity and generally experience. I don’t care for En//awks (but I don’t wish to bother fans in the tag so)

Random Headcanon: Hawks has a nictitating membrane! That’s the thin membrane birds and reptiles have that protects their eyes, especially for birds during flight. I think his goggles are probably better protection but also shield people from noticing the fact his eyes just got covered by a semi-transparent film. I’m sure it’d be unnerving for a lot of people, a not so ‘cute’ mutation, and not work in favor of his image so he hides it.

I don’t think he’s anywhere near as sexually active as the Hawks standom seems to think he is due to his workload. My unpopular opinion is that he’s probably had several sexual experiences with mostly strangers, and probably never been in an actual relationship. but he sad and lonely thirsty tho. Also I don’t think he’s actual best buds with Miruko. I don’t think he’s allowed himself to have many friends tbh.

Domesticated Animals by Queens of the Stone Age is another song I associate with him.

favorite picture of them - I have too many! But here’s this one I made my background:

SHIGARAKI

I like the fact he has shown so much character development. I know there are people who seem to think that he hasn’t, or he’s very much being cunning for his members, but I strongly feel that Shigaraki is growing in emotional intelligence - I’m excited to see what sort of villain he’ll be by the end. I also do find the man-child thing hilarious and watching him throw tantrums is wonderful. Also the scratching thing - but I’ll get to that in Headcanons.

Yet I didn’t care for him when I got into the manga in May. I thought he was immature, lacking conviction and ideology (which he did and still somewhat does), and that annoyed me - not the type of villains I generally cared for. But he’s grown on me. I guess I dislike the perceived lack of self-reflection when it comes to his own upbringing (or what we can gather given AFO).

“I’m angry at this world that categorizes the same violent acts as heroic or villainous, deciding what’s good and what’s bad. “symbol of peace?” Ha. you’re just a device to repress violence. violence only breeds violence.” - My fave quote

brOTP - shigaraki x LoV!!!!!!

OTP - Shigadabihawks!! and the pairings that make it up : 3

nOTP - I feel like ShigaHaul would be a bit too much neurosis in one pairing lmfao, it’s not for me. Any ships with the kids or Toga. I think he’s in his late teens/20 but he clearly differentiates between himself and the children when he talks about them, so even if there’s a three or four year difference, I’m very ‘no’.

My head-canon is more an explanation of canon behavior: Shigaraki clearly has Dermatillomania, a type of Body-focused Repetitive Behavior. BFRBs are not exactly OCDs but appear like them and there’s no conclusive cause - I have several BFRBs and I’ve heard the theories go from genetic components/neurological disorders to links with PTSD and Anxiety and back to neurological reasons. Seems to be a mix of both, lol, and we’re given antideps for treatment. But yeah, his skin picking/scratching is named Dermatillomania and I wouldn’t be surprised if he made his face scarring worse with it. But it’s like the first time I’ve seen BFRBs in anime, so I find this cool!!!! (should I make this a separate post??)

Not sure if this is unpopular, but here’s an opinion:. While I don’t think he’s exactly the nerdy loser, no matter how much I want to joke about basement-dwelling, I do think he’s never had sex?? i have no opinion on him being a top or bottom, I just think the closest he’s gotten to any sex is 2-D and on the screen, so far.

Vicarious by Tool

Okay, every time Hori draws him in detail is magnificent. Hori should have been a horror mangaka. But also this:

[unproduciblesmackdown]

3 am’s a crazy time for it but it occurs to me i may as well give a heads up that i am like, for real at the present assuming that i’m gonna like, sometime in the very near future here be going offline again, in that sort of my ~plan~ (my one-step plan) is seeing if i can get myself on a bus (hopefully) and see if that can get me to the west coast. and from there i’ll just be like, well here i am in a place i’ve never been before, being unhoused for the second time but this time not living in my car, which is a bit different than living right out in the open, which i’ve never done. this, for example, is why i was looking up how to do makeshift stp devices. way easier to be able to pee wherever you are than have to find a place you can drop your whole pants, or an actual bathroom. apparently cutting the end off one of those plastic liquid medicine measuring things with the sorta spoon at its mouth works. anyways

i suppose it hasn’t necessarily showed but for a few weeks now i’ve def been feeling The Impending Pressure and it was getting down to the wire there not knowing if the Last Day Online would spring itself on me suddenly. but i can at least say i think i’ll have a days warning now and be able to say something with at least a matter of hours forewarning and not like, a matter of minutes. its been sorta wild though like, sorta assuming its like a Two Days Remain situation and in the midst of the unpredictability of depression, trying to just enjoy things as they’re happening, the simple stuff like chatting with people and being able to put my bullshit thoughts online...cranking out a fic chapter because it’s at least a better place to leave it hanging than it wouldve been otherwise.....just consuming this content that’s enjoyable and chill af.......i tell ya what—both in terms of being Fun and Anxiety-Reducing and Good Distractions and also, a great opportunity just to be talking to people on the daily which has been and continues to be absolutely fantastic—having been On that deh/etc will roland train for the past couple months has been a total gift. it was some great luck stumbling into that, seriously

anyways it’s weird! it’s weird thinking just like, i’ll suddenly do this thing and be on the other coast and just step out and be somewhere i don’t know and with no particular destination and maybe the lgbt center i looked up will at least tell me whats the best area to be in, sometimes they’re in the know abt that re: where’s a better spot to be homeless in than others. and from there, y’know, all i’ve been doing for years and all i can continue to do is absolutely wing it. and it’s funny that this all seems slightly less intimidating to me than it wouldve like, a year or two ago (even tho two yrs ago i was technically homeless lol but living in my car so like i said its different from living Right on the street) but honestly, obviously, it’s still very intimidating because how could it not be. i’m maybe not AS anxious but i’m still anxious and even though i know i could do it, i’d be stressed tf out and anxious as hell and shit while i was doing it. i mean, a crosscountry bus ride alone—i’ve never done that!! what if i mess up switching over to a different connecting ride between stations. bus and train bathrooms unnerve me, god forbid i have to get past someone to get to the aisle to GO to the bathroom. and, yknow, just a really long bus ride—how do you manage to sleep, how do i manage not to fall asleep at the wrong time cuz i doubt there’s an attendant telling you to get off at the right stop. though god knows it’s somewhat arbitrary where i’m deciding to go, i have no especial connection in one particular place over another, i think i have an uncle and cousin in CA but i don’t have the first idea where and i don’t know them at all

ugh. like there’s no actual way to feel good about it but if i’m gonna go somewhere it might as well be in a completely different place and i could try the west coast and i’m not one for making careful plans or thinking that making careful plans about your life works unless you’ve already got a lot of control about your situation, which i don’t. and it’s always been p inevitable that i wind up “properly” homeless, and it happens, and i don’t pretend it doesn’t scare me, but what are you gonna do? c’est ca que c’est / la vie. this way there’s a chance that A Big Change might lead the way for something better, and like hey if i die or some shit i die, which has always been a possibility anyways for the past like 6-7 years especially, what with how shitty i’ve felt lol. but i have no attachment where i’m at now and just. it’s hard to explain i guess if you’re not in the kind of place where i’m at but there’s not a lot of choices in the first place so, if i can choose the location, if it can be somewhere new where i MIGHT like to be for once, that’s better than not. and somehow so far i’ve managed to go with the flow surrounding big changes and sometimes wild situations, even if i’ve felt like crap and been super worried sometimes too. i don’t know for how many years now i’ve been Not assuming i’d be alive by the next year, but here i am having gotten this far, at least. it’s fairly impressive even if i don’t have any amazing achievements. believe it or not i’m pretty satisfied with my Achievements as just like, dumbass blog posts and fic/art and occasionally contributing something someone enjoys and getting to talk to people sometimes. it’s how i’ve been able to enjoy myself in the midst of some really awful times for the past like 6 yrs and i’ve appreciated it every day i’ve gotten to surf the net

like i guess it’s like haha, nerd, that half of what i’m worried about is being offline. but it’s a big deal being able to connect w the world beyond your immediate reach and distract yourself and say things and maybe even Enjoy yourself and also actually get to talk to people. but hey sometimes even people who live on the street manage to snag wifi connections somehow. i’d have to ask them how, lol. but, yknow, like i said, for a couple weeks especially it’s been like , Not Assuming I’ll NOT Lose Internet Connection and thus really trying to bear down on appreciating it. not like being offline for 5 months or so didn’t also make me appreciate it extra already. i was gonna say i survived it but i did get wildly depressed throughout like, august? september? probably both lol. anyways. what i’m trying to say i guess is that i’m not actually assuming i’ll be okay, but that only means so much because like, not to sound dramatic but i’ve pretty much never been okay on account of ive been just a half step away from living on the streets ever since leaving my parents house where i’d previously lived my whole life, which was an abusive situation. and also the depression and the years of really wanting to die which, at least 2018 didn’t have TOO much of that, in terms of feeling like it might be impending. now i can’t really be bothered, i’m just floating along and if i die i die, right. what i’m trying to say is, there’s not really any Good Proper option to choose where i’m definitely okay, so it’s basically about choosing between bad options, and with this choice i might at least like the location a little better, change of scenery, not as cold as here, i dunno. there’s not a way to just choose my way into being okay. it’s all a roll of the dice anyhow

also it’s weird but one thing about being on my own is it takes the pressure off me in certain ways and it’s a bit easier for me to Do things. if there’s anyone else to answer to in any way, i tend to just not ever decide anything and definitely don’t pursue anything. i’m one of those ppl who either has to live alone or with ppl they’re really really really comfortable with, and since i don’t have the latter around and nobody especially me can afford the former, it’s like, well, how is not everybody homeless anyway, right? and people do it. because yknow, you have to do it, it’s suddenly just your situation and somehow people get through every day. idk. learn as you go. what can ya do. it’s choosing between various bad options, i could also just wander into the mountains and die, but i’d rather not, and offing myself is Way a hassle, and also would be difficult, same as dying of exposure/dehydration in this middle of nowhere patch of mtns. i might as well try my luck at being in a place where you COULD maybe survive or something, and where i could at least feel like, if i do manage to have any good things happen, i would even possibly want to be in that area and be more comfortable living there. i have no roots anywhere and only have a No Zone (near my parents house) and so its sorta like, pick a random place to be!! lol. ahhhh

what can i say. it also sucks having to think “boy, in addition to not dying, hope i don’t get physically/sexually assaulted—also, how do people get water??” but......such is the way that it is. i don’t know. i don’t think anybody looks at impending homelessness and goes “i’m okay about this and not at all afraid.” and it’s strange to talk about how this is sort of ~by choice~ but it’s not exactly, in that i didn’t choose to only have abusive family and how even though i was working while living in my car it would never have been enough for rent probably even if i had someone to split it with and i also didn’t choose to not be rich in the first place and *the economy...... .png*

sigh. i dunno, it’s hard because i can’t talk about it a right way or long enough and get to a point i don’t feel intimidated or upset that once i Go Offline i’ll for real just be on my own unless and until i manage to get online for a moment again, in which case i’ll still be on my own, but i’ll feel a bit less alone, ha ha

anyways. speaking of trying to appreciate the simple pleasures of talking about whatever weird shit i wanna talk about and pushing myself to draw/write as it feels like it gets even more down to the wire—time to do that! 4 am and time to draw this weird meme & hopefully crank out the rest of this oneshot & maybe even draw again, and maybe again—it’s cool cuz i slept weird the other night and then got again weirdly tired in the afternoon and took a long depression nap w sorta fun, sorta bizarre dreams. augh. so at least i figure i’m just cruisin now, Not Sleeping-wise

i might have to ask a favor eventually in that there’s something really super simple i ought to look up, but i’d have a ton of trouble making myself do so because of anxiety, yknow how it is. but i’ll ask that if and when i ask it

[botanistlester]

Sweet Pea (5/?)

Summary: A nickname that goes bitter in your mouth. Cries for help that no one listens to. Gentle hands that make you quake on the ground you’re standing on. When Phil first met Nico, he thought he was a gift from the heavens. But behind the mask lies something daunting, something unnerving, that Phil never foresaw. Through his journey, he finds solace in Dan, the regular at his workplace, who seems to be the only one who sees through Nico’s mask to the darkness underneath. Warnings: Abusive relationship, violence A/N: The lyrics at the beginning are from the song Such Small Hands by La Dispute! This chapter contains light violence (grabbing), drinking, and mentions of throwing up, so please be safe. As always, thank you to @littlelionsloves and @snowbunnylester for editing this for me. I couldn't have done this without them. And thank you to you lovely people for reading this! It means the world to me that so many people look forward to this story. i love you all. xoxo Previous | Masterlist

Read it on AO3 Read it on Wattpad

-

Chapter Five

I think you saw me confronting my fear, it went up with the bottle and went down with the beer. And I think you ought to stay away from here. There are ghosts in the walls and they crawl in your head through your ear.

-

A month into their relationship, it was just like any other ordinary Tuesday. Phil woke up, went to class, and forgot to eat breakfast. He got shaky due to low blood sugar, and had to buy some McDonald’s to stop himself from shaking. His classes were filled with friendly chatter among friends, and sweet text messages from Nico.

Nico x - 12:53 pm

Hi sweet pea. Ill bet you look gorgeous today

Nico x - 1:07pm

You know youre the most beautiful man ive ever seen?

Nico x - 1:08pm

Cant wait to see you later <3

It was enough to glue a grin onto Phil’s face, so bright that he was sure it was going to blind every living person.

Tuesdays were one of Phil’s least favourite days of the week. He hated how it wasn’t the start of the week, and also wasn’t the end of the week. Tuesdays made Fridays seem so much further away. They were the day that nobody talked about, the day that Phil had a three hour long class to attend.

But this Tuesday turned out to be one of the best he’d ever had.

Phil and Nico had plans to hang out. It wasn’t anything special, at least it wasn’t supposed to be. But to be honest, Phil thought anything to do with Nico was pretty special. They were supposed to just hang out and watch movies, maybe even play a little Rock Band even though Phil was horrible at it.

That was just what they did. They went out to eat after class at a nice tamale place right off of campus. Phil had never had a tamale before, didn’t really know what it was, but Nico was gracious as he explained how to eat it, his feet gently playing with Phil’s under the table. After eating, they headed back to Nico’s apartment, where they first watched some Gravity Falls and then moved onto Over the Garden Wall when they got tired of it.

Then came the Rock Band. It was just as horrible as Phil had thought it was going to be. His voice cracked as he sung, unable to hit the high notes, and Nico was cracking up at him as he played the guitar. Phil didn’t understand why he had to be the one to use the microphone, but Nico only claimed it was because he sounded cute, and they continued playing.

It was Nico who said it first.

Phil was singing a horrendous version of Through the Fire and the Flames, failing horribly and making a fool out of himself. The crowd was going wild, booing him, getting angry at all of the notes he missed. He sounded like a dying goose and he was fully aware of it from the giggles that left Nico’s mouth as he hit nearly every note on the guitar.

Eventually, Phil’s crowd booed him so hard that he ended up being kicked off, and he pouted as he set the microphone down, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.

“That’s not fair!” he whined, glaring at Nico as he quit to the main menu, snickering all the while.

“And why isn’t it?” Nico asked, clearly amused. He brought a slender hand to Phil’s fringe and pushed a stray piece back into place.

“It’s unfair that they judge you by how your singing sounds! As long as you hit the notes, it shouldn’t matter how you sound!” Phil crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the offending game. Perhaps he was over exaggerating, but he didn’t particularly care at that moment.

Nico laughed and leaned over to press a kiss to Phil’s cheeks. His lips were cold against his warm face, and it cooled him down only slightly. “That’s just it, sweet pea,” Nico said gently, and ran a hand through Phil’s hair, ruffling it into more of a quiff. “You weren’t hitting the notes.”

Phil gasped aloud and glared at his boyfriend, slapping him on the chest. How dare his own significant other make fun of him for such a thing! “You take that back!” Nico snickered and shook his head. “I hate you!” Phil whined because Nico was evil and he definitely hated him.

“Well it’s a good thing I love you, then,” Nico told him softly, and Phil’s heart stopped. Stuttered. Accelerated.

His shock must have been evident on his face because Nico reached out and smoothed the lines on Phil’s face with such a soft expression that it made Phil’s chest hurt. He couldn’t believe that Nico had said something like that, especially so casually, as if it was obvious in the first place. Of course, Phil had been thinking about terms like ‘love’ often the past few weeks, but he hadn’t expected Nico to say it so soon. Not like he was complaining though. He could feel the pull in his bones that made him fall into Nico’s arms, making him kiss along Nico’s cheekbones, along his jawline.

He breathed into Nico’s skin, breathed in his cologne, tried to imprint it into his memory.

At the time, he believed he could stay there forever and be completely and utterly content. With that thought in mind, he closed the gap between their lips and kissed Nico deeply, trying to convey how he felt through the touch. They kissed passionately, nipping and licking into each other’s mouths, until Phil was sitting in Nico’s lap.

When he pulled away for air, he leaned in close, kissing the shell of Nico’s ear. He wondered if his voice shook when he spoke, if it showed just how nervous and excited he was. “I love you too,” he whispered. “Forever and always.”

Nico smiled against his lips. “To death do us part,” he replied quietly, and they sealed it with a kiss, a promise to continue loving each other until their hearts give out. And when the kiss got more passionate, more daring, Phil didn’t really mind.

That night, they made love for the first time, and Phil couldn’t help but shed a few tears because he felt so completely and utterly loved beneath Nico’s fingertips. He gasped and moaned and sobbed, and Nico held him close all the while, whispering how much Phil meant to him, how he’d die if Phil ever left him, into the skin of his thighs and the nape of his neck.

Phil didn’t know why they hadn’t done this sooner, but he wasn’t one to complain when he felt so amazing that he could barely formulate the words. So instead, he stayed quiet and basked in the feeling of Nico loving him to the fullest.

When it was all over and done with, Phil decided that perhaps Tuesdays couldn’t be that bad after all.

-

“Come to a party with me.”

Phil sighed and grimaced, shaking his head. He didn’t look up from where he was writing lecture notes in his cactus-themed notebook. “Nico, you know I don’t like parties,” he said flatly.

Nico pouted at him, and when Phil still didn’t pay him any mind, he leaned forward across Phil’s desk, making Phil draw a line through his originally beautiful page of notes. Phil scowled and tried to shove Nico off, but it didn’t do anything for him.

“Please? We always do the things you wanna do together. Can’t we just go to a party for once?”

At just the mention of parties, Phil could already feel himself breaking out in a nervous sweat.

He hated parties with a burning passion, hated them more than anybody could ever understand. Alcohol, drugs, loud music, and large crowds never made for a comfortable Phil.

“I dunno, Nico. Parties make me really nervous.”

“Please, please, please?” Nico whined, refusing to move even as Phil tried to shove him off again. He was lucky they were in a large lecture hall, otherwise Nico would have been in trouble with the professor. Now, he was only getting glares from the students surrounding him. “We never do anything I want to do.”

“If you get off my notes and shut up, I’ll go to the dumb party with you,” Phil hissed, poking Nico in the face.

Nico nodded happily and backed off, giving Phil a little sideways smirk that never failed to make Phil swoon. Damn it, even when Phil was mad at Nico, he can’t seem to stay mad.

-

The party arrived far before Phil was ready for it.

It was a Thursday night, which made Phil whine a lot. Partying on a Thursday? He was going to be absolutely wrecked tomorrow. But Nico scoffed and told him it was ‘Thirsty Thursday’ and that if he didn’t party today then that automatically make Phil lame. Phil wasn’t lame, damn it.

A little bit before the party started, Phil couldn’t help but start freaking out, just because that’s what he did best. He didn’t know what to wear to something like this, much less how to act, so he complained a little bit as he went through each individual item of clothing. Button down? No, too fancy. Band tee? Too casual. Tank top? Phil might be able to get away with it.

He put the shirt on, combining it with a pair of whitewashed shorts. The tank was just a superhero shirt with a bunch of different DC characters on it, and he always liked it because it was nerdy but flattering. Just like him (minus the flattery).

When he walked out of the room to show Nico, he struck a pose. “Do I look okay?” he asked nervously, wringing his hands to stop himself from tearing his hair out.

Nico stood up and made his way over to him. He groaned, putting his arms around Phil’s neck and pulling him down to connect their lips in a less-than-innocent way. “You’re so sexy, sweet pea,” Nico growled, sounding a bit overprotective. He ran his hands all over Phil’s chest until they were skirting up Phil’s shirt, caressing the pale skin underneath.

Despite the nervous energy going haywire throughout Phil, he somehow felt himself getting turned on. Maybe it was because he was so nervous that every touch made his body feel electrified, that he found himself kissing Nico with more vigour until they were undressing Phil once more.

Nico kissed him all over, made marks over his collarbones, made sure to claim Phil as his. Phil couldn’t exactly complain, not when it was feeling so amazing that he temporarily forgot about his anxiety. They had sex and each of Nico’s moans were like music to Phil’s ears. He wished they could just stay inside and do this the whole night, but he knew his wishes wouldn’t be granted. Not that night at least.

When they finished, they took a moment cleaning themselves back up before Phil started to get dressed again in his previous clothes. Nico stopped him before he could pull the tank top on. “Wear a different shirt,” he told Phil, seemingly nonchalant.

Phil was confused and he cocked his head a bit, furrowing his eyebrows. Hadn’t Nico said he liked this shirt? Or was he lying? “Why? I thought you said I looked sexy.”

“That’s the problem,” Nico whined, kissing Phil’s naked shoulder and pouting at him. His green eyes were big and wide and he batted his eyelashes to make himself look prettier than he already was. “You’re too good looking! I may just have to ravish you again as soon as you put it back on. Besides, I don’t want anyone to take you tonight.”

Phil cooed and pecked Nico on the lips, unable to help himself from smiling. His boyfriend was far too sweet, always looking out for him no matter the circumstance. “Fine. But you have to decide what I’m wearing. I don’t want to spend another twenty minutes looking through my clothes.

It took approximately twelve seconds for Nico to pull out a shirt, a purple v-neck that Phil hardly ever wore anymore because it showed some of the hair on his chest. But Nico convinced him in a soft tone that he would look amazing, so he didn’t argue and just put it on. They had to leave anyway.

The walk over was filled with complete and utter anxiety from Phil. He couldn’t stop himself from fidgeting with everything he possibly could. A thread from his shirt, his hair, the choker dangling from around his neck. He fiddled with everything.

“Stop fretting so much,” Nico told him softly. He was texting on his phone, not even needing to look over at Phil to know that he was freaking out. Phil envied him for being so composed, even in moments like these.

Phil bit his lip and words came out of his mouth before he could tell the words to stop. “Can I hold your hand?”

Just like the first time Phil had asked about PDA, Nico seemed to turn to ice. His lips pressed together and he gave Phil a once-over that made him wondering if he had something disgusting on his shirt. “You know I have anxiety, sweet pea,” Nico told him carefully, in a warning tone almost.

“But I do too, Nico,” Phil pleaded. He held his hand out, trying to catch Nico’s hand in his own, but it was snatched away before he could fully grasp it. “Please? Just this once?”

Nico was shaking his head, and he put his hands in his pockets, out of Phil’s reach. His eyes were focused on everything but Phil, it seemed, and Phil could feel himself start to shrink in on himself, already accepting that his idea was an unfair one. He should never have asked Nico to go out of his comfort zone. “Stop asking me. The answer’s no, Phil.”

Not ‘sweet pea’. Not ‘love’. Not even ‘sweetheart’. Just Phil. That was probably what struck Phil in the heart most of all. He didn’t even reply, just went completely silent and refused to speak for the rest of the walk.

But that’s okay, because Nico didn’t try to talk to him either.

Soon enough, they came to the house. “Don’t lose me, okay?” Phil asked fretfully as they entered the house. The music was already so loud that it swallowed up his voice, and the only reason he knew Nico had heard at all was because of the tiny nod sent his way.

Their hands weren’t entwined like Phil desperately wanted, but he’d long since accepted that Nico wouldn’t want to hold his hand in front of their peers, so it didn’t surprise him too much. Instead, Phil found himself gently clasping the back of Nico’s shirt as he followed him through the crowd, trying desperately not to lose his boyfriend.

They found themselves in the kitchen soon enough, drinks being shoved into their hands. It got Phil to loosen up a bit, his head feeling a bit light and his shoulders less tense. Nico was speaking to a group of his other classmates, Phil standing behind him listening. He didn’t speak because he didn’t know if he would be capable, the alcohol sitting heavy on his tongue and making his eyes droop slightly. He watched with a slight smile as Nico threw his head back and laughed, that smile that Phil loved so much making an appearance.

He wanted to kiss those lips so bad, but he stayed firmly in place. He didn’t want to make Nico uncomfortable with his public displays of affection.

“I gotta piss,” Nico said to the group, pointing his thumbs in the opposite direction down the hall. “I’ll be right back.”

Phil stood up straighter, taking a few steps forward to follow Nico. Just as he did, a shoulder knocked into his own and sent him flying backwards, his head smashing into the wall and his beer spilling all over his shirt. He cringed in pain, his head spinning, as he tried to regain his balance. But then, disoriented, he looked around, expecting to see Nico, only to be greeted with a blank space next to him. In a panic, he looked around the room, trying to find that familiar head of curly hair, and found him at the end of the hall, nearly out of sight.

“Nico, wait up!” he called over the crowd, watching with growing panic as the brunette disappeared down the hallway.

Phil cursed, wiping off his soiled shirt with his hands and not caring that they got all sticky with beer. He started to stumble after his boyfriend, the room swaying around him, and he found himself falling to his knees puking into a potted plant instead. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and he could hardly believe he’d lost his own boyfriend.

Who the fuck does that?

He puked once more, gagging on the taste, and sat back on his feet when he was done, wiping his mouth off with distaste. He couldn’t believe he’d just puked in a potted plant.

“Hey man, you okay?” A voice asked behind him, a hand appearing on his shoulder.

Phil jumped out of his skin, whirling around to find a familiar looking guy with a curly brown fringe and brown eyes filled with worry. Phil didn’t know why he was familiar and he gaped for a moment, trying to figure it out.

It was when the man’s eyes widened and he gasped out a, “Phil?” that Phil realised this was Dan. The Dan who was Phil’s regular at work.

“Dan!” Phil slurred, standing up to his full height and, before Dan could protest, he brought him into a large hug. Dan was warm and stiff with shock, but Phil was too out of it to notice, pulling away after a moment to grin at him. “What’s up, mate?”

“Er-,” Dan stuttered, his cheeks turning red with a blush and his eyes flitting around the room. “What are you doing here? Do you need help?” He gestured to Phil’s shirt and Phil laughed, waving him off.

“‘S nothin’,” Phil told him. “Have you seen Nico?”

“Nico?” Dan echoed, confused.

Phil nodded and he furrowed his brow. “My boyfriend. He disappeared and I can’t find him.”

Dan shook his head and watched with growing concern as Phil stumbled forward, catching himself on Dan’s arm for support. “Do you, uh, need some help finding him?”

“Yes! You’re an angel!” Phil exclaimed excitedly, nodding his head until there was black hair in his eyes. He blinked it out of the way with frustration.

They started searching then, with Dan supporting a much-too-drunk Phil on his arm. Phil didn’t even have the right mind to be embarrassed that his own customer was seeing him in such a state. He didn’t really care about anything other than his lost boyfriend and the spinning room at the moment. Dan was quiet as well, a strange feat in itself as Dan was usually weirdly loud and flirtatious whenever Phil served him.

Once again, Phil didn’t pay any mind to it. But Dan did, leading Phil to a sofa in the corner of the room, and forcing Phil to sit down.

“Let’s just sit for a bit until you feel better, okay? Then we can find Nico.” Dan sat beside Phil, a tiny bit too close, but Phil didn’t mind. Dan was warm, and he liked warm. He melted into the touch.

“Oh Nico,” Phil sighed dramatically, resting his head on the back of the couch. He smiled, that same warmth emanating from Dan making a home in Phil’s belly at the thought of Nico. “He’s wonderful isn’t he? He always takes such good care of me.”

Dan shuffled a bit next to him, and he was probably uncomfortable, but he was listening to Phil anyway. What a great man. Phil was glad to know someone as nice as Dan. “Is that right? Tell me about Nico, then.”

“He’s just… I love him!” Phil exclaimed, pushing himself up from the couch in his excitement. A friendly and gentle hand on his wrist kept him from standing up, instead forcing him to sit back down. Phil slapped his hands on his lap to show just how much he loved Nico. “He’s so wonderful, Dan. I don’t think you understand, okay? He has these nice freckles that are like constellations and these pretty green eyes. He kisses like a God. We’ve only been dating for like a month and a half, but I could probably marry the guy.” Turning to face Dan, he stared into his soft brown eyes as seriously as he could muster. “Get you a man like that, Dan.”

The comment made Dan chuckle and rest his head in his hand, staring at Phil with amusement in his gaze. “Sounds like I definitely need a Nico in my life, then. I’ll make a note of it.”

This admittance caused Phil to rant a little bit longer about how wonderful Nico is and about how lucky Phil was to have him in his life. He knew that there was no way he could live without Nico by his side anymore, as a best friend and a lover. He’d become codependent on him already.

But halfway through his speech, Phil stopped. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around the room, looking for the man of his affections. “Where is Nico anyway?” he asked Dan as if Dan knew the answer.

Dan frowned, seemingly concerned. “I’m not really sure, tbh.”

Phil began to panic, tugging at his hair. His hands began to shake. “Where did he go? He promised not to leave me here. He promised!” He started to get irrationally angry, flames building in his chest until he couldn’t contain them anymore. He put his hands on Dan’s shoulders and shook him, a noise almost like a wail coming from his throat. “Why did he leave me by myself?! He knows I don’t like crowds!”

Panic flitted across Dan’s face and he gently removed Phil’s hands from his shoulders, petting them. “We’ll find him,” Dan promised, squeezing Phil’s hands gently. “For the meantime, I’ll stay with you. I won’t leave you alone.”

There was an actual halo on Dan’s head, a light surrounding him, Phil was absolutely sure. He was an angel God sent from heaven, made specifically to bless Phil in all of his endeavors. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was in this moment to have someone like Dan looking out for him. He was so glad, in fact, that he started to tear up and had to wipe his eyes with his palm. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Phil said emotionally.

“Hey now, don’t cry,” Dan laughed, patting Phil on the back.

“You’re just… too good to be real.” Phil gasped, putting his hand to his mouth, eyes wide as saucers. “Are you real?”

“I can confirm I’m real,” Dan assured him, and Phil let out a disappointed ‘damn it’ because he kind of wanted Dan to be a ghost. That’d be cool.

Suddenly, a hand appeared on Phil’s wrist, gripping so hard that Phil let out a confused whine. He was yanked from the couch, out of Dan’s grip, and turned to look at his attacker with squinted eyes. It took him a moment for his eyes to focus, but when they did, his face lit up. “Nico!” Phil squealed, ignoring the twinging pain in his wrist from where Nico was holding onto him. “I’m so sorry I lost you, I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

Nico wasn’t looking at him, his eyes instead narrowed at the space beside Phil. He was glaring at Dan, something akin to a challenge in his gaze. “You trying to fuck with my boyfriend?” Nico asked, venom in his tone.

Phil shook his head and put his hand on Nico’s chest in attempts to calm him down. Nico slapped his hand away. “He was trying to help me find you,” Phil assured his boyfriend. “He wasn’t trying to do anything weird. We just sat down cause I puked in a plant.” He started laughing hysterically at that, like it was the funniest thing he’d uttered all day, but Nico didn’t seem amused. In fact, he seemed a bit disgusted, looking Phil up and down as if he was inspecting him for any sign of puke on him.

“Why did you bring him here, dude?” Dan asked after a moment of silence. Both Phil and Nico turned to stare at him, but Dan didn’t back down. He was taller than Nico, but at the moment, Phil couldn’t help but think that Nico seemed much bigger in stature. “He’s clearly terrified of parties. So why’d you drag him here?”

Nico stared at Dan long and hard until Dan was shuffling uncomfortably and breaking eye contact. Phil cocked his head, confused about what was going on and sluggishly trying to keep up. “We agreed it would be fun to go to a party today. As a couple.” With that, Nico dragged Phil into him, an arm around his waist, one that was a bit too possessive. Phil was too drunk to notice.

Dan scoffed and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. He was glaring at Nico, absolutely glaring, as if venom could seep into his gaze. “Right. Because he’s so obviously having fun. When I found him earlier, he was a right mess.”

“Hey!” Phil exclaimed, pouting.

“Stay out of this, sweet pea,” Nico growled, and the nickname was back, this time sounding like a way to tell Phil he was serious. He drew himself up and made himself bigger than Dan - somehow - until he was nearly looking down on him. “Who are you to tell me how to handle my relationship?”

Shaking his head, Dan let out a disbelieving snort. “I’m just saying, mate. If a stranger can tell that your own boyfriend isn’t having a good time, maybe they’re a better boyfriend than you ever were.” Phil gaped at Dan, the comment somehow sobering him up, and Nico went completely tense beside Phil.

He was silent for a good while, staring at Dan, looking him up and down in disgust. Phil couldn’t believe he had two grown men fighting over him. His drunken brain was ecstatic. “Phil, we’re leaving,” Nico said finally, after a few moments where he didn’t talk.

Phil’s brief excitement came to a halt. “What? But I just made a new friend,” Phil interjected, whining like a child being told they had to leave the park. Why did Nico want to leave all of a sudden? Wasn’t the party his idea after all?

“We’re leaving,” Nico ordered in a dictatorial tone, leaving no room for arguments.

Phil sighed and nodded, turning to grin widely at Dan. “I guess I’m leaving, then,” Phil told him as if Dan hadn’t been there the entire time. “Thanks for helping me find Nico. I’ll see you back at LaBella’s, okay?”

Dan grinned and nodded, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze was flickering between Phil’s face and the hand wrapped around Phil’s wrist, an uncertain expression flickering across his face. “I’ll see you around, Phil.”

Tugging harshly, Nico started to manhandle Phil away from the party. He whined a bit, complaining that Nico was hurting him, but Nico didn’t listen. He didn’t loosen his grip until they were a few blocks down the street, the music fading into the night sky. Only then did he release Phil’s wrist, which Phil immediately rubbed at. He could still feel the fingers pressed there, ingrained into his skin like a tattoo, and he pouted.

“That hurt,” Phil muttered again, stumbling after Nico. And then, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for.

Nico scoffed. “You deserved it,” he said under his breath.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Do you think I don’t know what’s going on, Phil?” Nico hissed. He wasn’t looking at Phil, seemingly trying to avoid glancing at him. “I could see the way he looked at you. Don’t try to act all innocent when you’re at a party acting like a fucking slut.”

“I- what?” Phil spluttered. This was too much for his drunk brain and he tripped and fell, his hands catching himself on the pavement. His palms burned where the cement cut him, blood starting to slowly seep from the wounds. Nico continued to walk as Phil tried to stand up by himself.

“You were going to cheat on me with that fucking loser,” Nico said matter-of-factly.

“No I wasn’t! I wouldn't do that!”

“Well you certainly look like you’re asking for it.” The comment made Phil look down at what he was wearing. He frowned deeply. He was only wearing a purple v-neck and skinny jeans. What was wrong with that? “Your shirt and tight jeans make you look like such a whore, Phil. I’m disappointed.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t like this outfit,” Phil whispered. “You’re the one who picked it out.”

They were coming to Nico’s apartment now, the lights inside notifying Phil that his roommate was home. He was slightly embarrassed to be seen in his drunken and upset state, but Nico didn’t seem to care. He pushed open the door and led Phil inside, straight to his room. He didn’t pay any attention to Phil as he stumbled up the stairs behind Nico, and he certainly didn’t pay attention as he stormed past his roommate and into his room, a quiet Phil with bloodied hands drunkenly following.

Once inside with the door closed, Nico nodded at his shirt. “Take it off,” Nico instructed.

Phil gaped at him. “Why?”

“Because I hate that shirt,” Nico snapped.

The harshness of the tone made Phil’s mind begin to buzz. His drunken brain didn’t quite understand what was happening, and he suspected that was the reason he didn’t start crying right then and there. When Phil made no move to remove his shirt, Nico stepped forward and Phil didn’t know why he flinched as Nico reached for him.

Instead of grabbing him directly, he grabbed Phil’s shirt, a hand on each side of the collar. His eyes were dark as he tsked, and Phil stared back in confusion.

All of a sudden, Nico was pulling.

It took far longer than he should be proud of for Phil to realise what was happening.

One moment, he had a perfectly nice v-neck shirt, and the next moment, the shirt was ripped in half and falling from his shoulders.

“You- you ripped my favourite shirt!” Phil choked out. He was more shocked than anything, his eyes so wide that they stung. He could hardly believe what had just happened and he didn’t know if this was something his drunken mind had conjured up in his sleep.

Instead of answering, Nico just took the remains of Phil’s shirt and threw them under the bed. He wouldn’t meet Phil’s eyes. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said.

In his shocked and drunken state, Phil didn’t argue. His hands were still bleeding. His head was absolutely killing from the knock he’d taken earlier. But he was far too exhausted, too confused, too upset to think about cleaning up. Instead, he fell onto the bed like he was welcoming his lover and let the sweet darkness of sleep take him.

-

They woke up in each other’s arms. At some point in the night, Nico had given in and curled around Phil, his head nestled into Phil’s neck. The gentle puffs of breath over his skin tickled, but Phil didn’t complain because he was too happy that Nico was finally paying attention to him again.

“I’m so sorry about last night,” Nico said when they woke up in each other's arms. “I must have drunk too much. I hardly even remember anything.”

Phil laughed it off, albeit a bit uneasily, nursing his headache with a cup of too-sweet coffee. “It’s okay, we both must have been rather out of it.” Phil smiled over at Nico and Nico smiled back. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Nico murmured, swooping in and pressing a soft kiss to Phil’s lips.

The gesture made Phil melt, and he almost even forgot about his hangover. Even though he did end up missing his Friday morning class.

Chapter Six

[luisneer]

selected tweets 2016-17

These are tweets from my first @luisneer twitter account. Recently I made a new twitter account with the same username, after having deleted my account and having been without twitter for several months. These tweets are from August 2016 to March 2017, which was most of my first year of college at Shepherd University, in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. I don't go to Shepherd anymore; I transferred to West Virginia University, in Morgantown, WV, after my second semester. My tweets from late March 2017 to [July or August] 2017, when I deleted my twitter, were not archived. 

I'm creating this blog post so the world will have access to some of my tweets from the deleted @luisneer, in case they have any merit as literature. I'm still not sure if I will continue to use twitter in 2018/the future. Usually when I use twitter I feel like I'm actually wanting to be doing something else, but I don't know what; or wanting to be using "another app" that doesn't exist. Twitter generally seems bad for me. Questions about my tweets August 2016-March 2017 can be directed at luisneer@gmail.com. Thank you

    2016

   morgantown has ~48 vape shops

 **morgantown has ~480 vape shops

 siri has werner herzog-like inflections

 considering changing outfits when i take several walks in one day (so nobody thinks im a serial killer, stalker, spy, alien)

 think i remember ~5% of things i said today

 imagined vague connection btwn 'vitamin d' and 'reptar'

 felt distinctly that i was a monkey or chimpanzee while crouching in the corner of my dorm room eating peanuts out of a jar

 just thought (as a request to my mom) 'fax me my skateboard...'

 looked at toilet in bathroom stall with expression of 'utter terror' for what felt like ~15 seconds while it flushed

 listening to bright eyes with headphones at house show

 feel that the toothpaste i use is advancing decay of my teeth

 feel 100% certain that i could train myself to use telepathy to operate my phone during classes

 enjoying the sensation of my right leg 'falling asleep' during psychology class (left foot is also 'asleep')

 felt 'sociopathic' after eye contact w library worker who watched me pick up & pocket a pair of apple headphones someone had left on a chair

 left stolen apple headphones on gray bench across the street from my dorm

 repeatedly placed/removed sunglasses while walking in hallway

 strong desire to remove all positive patterns from my life and perpetuate/embrace all negative ones

 feel that my laptop 'knows' which parts of its screen im looking at

 in winchester, VA

 thought of my own music as having 'no compelling audible elements'

 thought of myself as being legally named 'the fuck up', then couldnt remember my actual name

 successfully, i feel, duplicated 'sociopath facial expression' during eye contact with arch-nemesis in stairwell

 ive taken 13800mg ibuprofen since i got to college

 feel compelled to ask my 9 yr old brother for advice re 'college-level' personal issues

 feel smart after sitting on couch in painting studio + reading art magazines for 2 hours

 persistent notion that 100% of students at my college personally hate me

 psychology professor muttered something like 'scary snake... endocrine system...'

 feeling heavily drugged/sedated in psych class

 psych professor seems obsessed with/terrified by snakes

 imagined kanye smoking crystal meth and tweeting something like 'please help me... cant feel mouth... need help'

 saw a moth at open mic, thought about god

 experiencing difficulty trying to smile

 enjoying using numerous cliches ('the case is closed', 'taking a step back', 'harsh realities') in an essay

 intrigued by conversation i had 9 hrs ago w/ 2 boys who countered my tone (calm, eloquent) exactly by being loud and rude in a friendly way

 felt simultaneously really cute and really lonely while giggling with my mouth closed in french class

 imagined kanye inventing the word 'compactualize' and using it in a sentence during a televised interview

 enjoyed 8-sentence john updike bio in norton lit anthology

 perceived person standing outside bathroom stall occupied by me could 'sense', via something like echolocation, that i was/am depressed

 spoke to french professor in what felt like a distinct persona/alternate luis neer called 'marge simpson voice' luis neer

 feel confidently that the public debut of 'marge simpson voice' luis neer was a success

 feel that 'marge simpson voice' luis neer is the culmination of an unconscious process that initiated in my mind maybe 3-5 years ago

 i want to identify/analyze additional alternate luis neers

 i dont like videos

 i came to college and got weirder, better at writing, more arrogant, more defeated, more sensible

 simultaneously feel that i should run 3 miles and that, at this moment, i would be incapable of running any distance

 feel urged to draw new attention to my 'marge simpson voice' tweets

 huge power outage at shepherd lol

 realized theres no such thing as a 'nation'

 remembered ive blown off obligations to several people, not just one person, so my irresponsibility doesnt 'have a focus', felt comforted

 feel that my follower count is 'crystallized' / will never increase or decrease ever again

 struggled to convert 'stick-and-poke' to past tense during conversation in line at sheetz

 feel it would be pleasurable to take a donut + bottle of coca-cola from this sheetz via armed robbery

 crossed busy road, felt really surprised i didnt get hit by a car, also i wasnt wearing glasses, was walking to sheetz, bought an icee

 laughed alone in my dorm thinking that i should print out a picture of barack obama to put on my wall

 drank from separate glasses containing soymilk, coffee, iced coffee, apple juice, cranberry juice, water, sprite for dinner/breakfas

 just thought 'from adorno to zizek' sans context while shitting

 opened gmail, emailed my father, closed gmail, opened gmail again, viewed email to my father, forwarded it to myself

 'camcorder' would be a good band name

 i thought arnold palmer had already died

 willem dafoe doesnt make me uncomfortable

 i want to stop being mean

 i hate bfs but i want to be someones bf

 wishing i was in a car with friends and no cellular service

 tangled up in myself and others

 twin peaks is depicted as a small town but its population is greater than that of every city in west virginia including the state capital

 eating shark

 thought of my own intelligence as 'frightening'

 thought while walking to class that ginger ale should be made public domain

 had the stitches on my chin removed today, touched the scar tissue for the first time

 i miss being in therapy

 i love carpet

 i love carpet !!

 just thought about my own tweets and lol'd

 mood lately very fragile

 this is what i get for staying up til 5 am

 all night i've felt a wave of dread swelling up, now it's really hitting me

 sound of laughter in public still frightening + unnerving

 my instinct for when to unfriend people on facebook has adapted so that i unfriend people over statuses that make me feel no emotions at all

 fuck, im feeling so much terror

 gucci mane was born 3 days before conor oberst

 the other day i mentioned that i was a poet and this vape guy interrupted me to say "and you didnt know it" and i went fucking nuclear

 interacted with mailman who was picking up mail as i was trying to mail chapbooks, he didnt notice at first that i was talking to him

 what if old people have secrets

 my dad is making me root for a football team but im in pain emotionally

 i feel guilty in general

 thought of my poem "portrait of a nation without any people" as the "lead single" for my full length; it appeared in potluck 14 months ago

 im close friends with satan rn

 feel like travis scott never intended for people to spell his name with a $

 from now on every time i get honey on something ill list the thing in this thread

 finger

 desk

 coffee cup exterior

 pajama pants

 knee

 carpet

 chin

 phone

 shirt

 shoe

 thought that my elderly geography prof. moves by "shuffling"

 feeling shorter, broader

 the only part of the new bright eyes box set i want is the booklet

 is there a booklet? i know there are nvr b4 sn photos

 the song "lime tree" came to conor oberst in a dream

 i like citing things in MLA

 i write essays by pretending im werner herzog

 doesnt seem to be getting later

 lit professor gave my project (sequence of 6 sonnets) a C, i wish she would have gotten me expelled, shelley + ginsberg both were expelled

 heard someone in another room ask "where's wal-mart?" as if wal-mart were a person whose location could change

 i think i just swallowed a filling while eating popcorn, i am very scared, please help

 crazy how things get worse

 there are people on my floor having tons of fun and im upset

 bit my mattress while sitting in the chair next to my bed

 weird that chance the rapper only has 2.4 million followers when he's sort of one of the most famous artists in the world rn

 also weird that donald trump has made 34,000 tweets, seems like an incredibly large number

 the strangeness of yesterday was, for me, augmented by people on the internet talking about a tv show that ive never seen or heard about

 the sunlight is obscene

 im so upset about the sun being so bright im afraid to go outside

 im glad im the only poet who likes trailer park boys

 i slept in a blanket fort under my bed and havent left it all day

 yr = your ur = you're

 my favorite things are pdfs

 now that ive adapted my living space to allow me to never leave my blanket fort i feel like my roommate, omar, exists in a parallel universe

 i hear him but i never see him

 i love latte art, i drink many lattes

 thought that twitter "isn't worth it" in an upset tone while drinking mtn dew

 felt pleasant considering uniqueness of all parent-offspring relationships

 went through my closet + made sure all shirts and jackets were zipped/buttoned

 my blanket is generating flashes of light from static electricity

 record store guy became visibly sick of me several months ago; feel a little guilty every time i enter his store to spend money

 i prefer EPs

 felt "out of control" walking downhill listening to dead kennedys with headphones

 writing an essay is difficult because idk how much relevant information other people have already considered / moved on from

 have been wanting to write at least one poem inside my blanket fort but i don't think it's going to happen, i don't know why

 the internet isn't big enough

 usually when i think "i dont understand the uproar about [event]" i realize there is no "uproar"

 "uproar" is media's way of manipulating the public spotlight and distracting people from important tasks

 feeling helpless + melancholy after dying 15 times and killing 2 stormtroopers in star wars battlefront

 the only way to attain conor oberst-level emo hair is to lay in bed and sob for hours

 i'm sad

 my mom was confused when i told her my first book comes out today

 was luis neer in odd future

 thought "sometimes i just want to end it and start all over" in an exasperated tone re my goodreads account

 becoming increasingly convinced it would be best for me personally to take myself extremely seriously/never joke about myself

 thinking that my tweets would seem terrible if i were a senator/governor/other politician

 imagined doomsday device for future @starwars movies: the "death train," a normal train that exists in space and destroys planets

 how does anyone do it

 in science fiction movies, spacecraft usually look like shopping malls

 everyone in the world is high except me

 feel like i want to have poems published immediately

 having delusions of grandeur

 im sitting on my record player

 my most-used word in 2016 was "bleak"

 prepared and ate garbanzo beans w a lot of rosemart at 2:00 AM

 my brother has a friend over and is being mean to the friend

 all i want for christmas is to never cheer up, ever

 watching eyes wide shut and hugging duckuc

 my nose feels like it's going to bleed

 im sad because every bf looks like me

 getting better at eating ice cream by punching it with my tongue

 the internet is too freaky...

 i think 2017 will be a year of realizing things

 im watching the angry birds movie

 the angry birds movie is so shitty... why was it made...

 ive never had a new years kiss

   2017

   im weird

 eating medicinal ice cream

 im not going to do any drugs in 2017

 made a medicinal phone call

 i want to drink some blood

 i dreamed that roger ebert wrote a negative review of life after ppl and called it "liner notes"

 years dont kill people

 feel inexplicably/explicably really scared about the future of my poetry career

 i've felt stoned since i was a baby

 downloading google earth

 made eye contact in starbucks with possible luis neer incarnation from ~50 years in future; bon jovi "dead or alive" played through speakers

 realised that at some point in the future i will become extremely interested in watching football

 i recommend reading poems extremely slowly while touching the text with your middle finger/index finger

 experiencing cognitive dissonance

 used phonetic clues to correctly predict meaning of & use the word "tandem" while discoursing with myself internally

 i miss steel pedal guitar sounds on conor oberst songs

 my previous incarnation "college luis neer" has evolved to become "high school luis neer-like luis neer in college setting"

 thought "man, i got to stop caring what people think about me" in an emphatic tone that seemed confusing/interesting

 mediocore

 beyonce is cool i think

 i want to re-read "v for vendetta" and to not tweet about it

 remembered that i own a pinata

 i will be at awp

 how could i make twitter a better place

 i saw 4 people wearing yeezys in dc this weekend

 feeling increasingly self-conscious about how much i use the phrase "in the world" or refer to "the world" in poems

 felt robot-like while attaching detachable headphones cord to my headphones while wearing the headphones

 watching shepherd univ lacrosse team practice from "safety of" student center

 i invented releasing two chapbooks in one day

 im dumber than me

 reasoned mentally that im more likely to produce accurate drawings of myself because "i basically look like a bird, so i just draw a bird"

 i want to have a "fake tweet" (e.g. a simple phrase) to tweet repeatedly every time i feel urged to tweet an uninformed/unimportant opinion

 my fake tweet for the foreseeable future will be "i dropped my textbook in the stairwell". when i tweet this it means i have an opinion

 i dropped my textbook in the stairwell

 does anyone remember the chapter of "the hobbit" where bilbo avoids starvation by ingesting peanut butter, honey, cherry nyquil, and water

 sensed that all my college friends just simultaneously shifted from having vague/non-serious negative feelings about me to hating me

 resulting from continuous building of irrepressible/inevitable conjecture in the friends' conscious thoughts

 eating chicken and squash

 i click on 100% of poetry links tweeted by poets i follow

 when i was writing Waves i was obsessed with waves (e.g. energy waves, frequencies) and used the word "waves" at least ~10 times every day

 i dropped my textbook in the stairwell

 white nike swooshes on shoes of boy in library look vibrant/magical

 terrified of being cool

 walked to library really slowly while listening to noise music through big headphones

 i was really, really yung when i started publishing and i'm still really yung

 2 chainz always looks like he's walking in an airport

 i have 5 twitters

 i didnt know what bill paxton looked like, i was thinking RIP gene hackman

 why doesnt anyone blog about me

 thesis statements arent real

 thinking about my book

 i deleted both my tumblrs by accident

 sad about my tumblr

 my name is all over the internet

 im a lizard

 someday there'll be no more ppl

 a lot of conor oberst song titles have parentheses

 feeling sad about the actions of my clone, who passed away

 idk how to use venmo or what it is

 present-day tumblr is like the end of the never ending story where atreyu is talking with the rock biter and the nothing is swirling around

 when someone, anyone, is upset with me im afraid im going to be assassinated

 the views-era apple music ads that depict drake working hard in the studio have really affected and inspired me

 on tumblr i have 4 followers

 almost all of my tweets seem unimportant

 feel that if someone told me that one of my tweets made them upset i would just apologize and delete it

 ground control to commander venus

 i like my new tumblr

 i would be wearing a cardigan rn but i dont have one

 feel that i will continue to generate bright eyes-related content throughout my life

 is everything ok

 i look like michael moore

[swanslieutenant]

If the Stars Align - Chapter IV

Summary: The Musketeers AU. Danger lurks around every corner in the French court and as a Musketeer in service of the royal family, Killian’s duty is to protect them from any and all threats. As his relationship with Queen Emma develops into something more than just friendship, threats against the queen escalate and put everything they hold dear into jeopardy.

Rating: M

Content warning for the story: violence, mature themes, minor character death.

Art by @hook-and-star-ink​ , @acaptainswaneternity and @seastarved. Follow this to check all the pieces currently published and give them some love!  

Catch Up: ch1, ch2, ch3

AO3: ch4

Once a year, the queen makes a visit to the Bastille, Paris’ infamous jail, to pardon some of the prisoners convicted of lesser crimes. It’s risky business, sending the queen herself to the most dangerous jail in Paris, but it is a long-held tradition and the monarchy is nothing if not traditional. This also shows a softer side of the monarchy, a part of the game to keep the populace content, a game that these days has never been more important with an unpopular war raging on at this very moment.

Killian shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he stands with the other Musketeers in the guards’ courtyard of the Bastille, waiting for the queen’s carriage to arrive. The day is hot, bright and sunny, the sun beating down on the stone courtyard, the heat trapped by the stones and making it feel hotter than it really is. Killian, in his heavy leathers with more weapons than he can count strapped to his body, is already sweating and uncomfortable in the heat.

The Musketeers are all armed to the teeth, in case anyone tries something. Only the pardoned criminals will be out in the courtyard when Emma arrives and though they are only moments away from freedom, Killian doesn’t trust them as far as he can throw them.

He tugs at the fleur-de-lis pauldron on his right shoulder, the marker of his position as a Musketeer. He’s worn it for a long time, but today it seems tighter than normal, digging tightly into his shoulder. The nerves he thought he’d quenched over the past few weeks on the job have returned tenfold. He’s wanting for a swig of rum from the flask in his pocket, a swig of liquid courage, and if the others weren’t right beside him, he’d probably do it. Guarding the queen at the Bastille is different than any hunt or ball or dinner party; this is a prison full of murderers and thieves and frauds where, at any moment, anything could change.

Before he joined the Musketeers, while on the run from the English navy who sought to hang him for desertion, Killian spent some time amongst men like this. Some criminals want return to a wife or a family after they’ve served their time, but others are vengeful and want to make a name for themselves by going down in a blaze of glory ... and there’s no better blazing path of glory than trying to attack a queen.

The Musketeers did a sweep of the main level of the Bastille that morning, figuring out where the exits and entrances are, how sturdy the locked doors leading to the cells are, how protected Emma will be at all times during her visit. Though Captain Humbert was satisfied with the prison’s protective measures, Killian still feels on edge, his hand already hovering over the hilt of his sword and Emma’s not even here yet.

He must look worse than he feels because Will, the one who usually rolls his eyes at Killian’s nerves, clears his throat beside him.

“Take a breath, mate. It’ll be fine. I was here last year, there were no problems. She’ll be in and out.”

Killian nods, but Will’s reassurances do little for him with his own experiences. But luckily, the sound of a rumbling carriage breaks Killian out of his thoughts, and he snaps to attention as the queen’s carriage pulls into the courtyard. A footman jumps down to open the door and first out is Mary Margaret Whale, the only lady-in-waiting Emma brought with her today, reaching her hand out to help Emma down.

She’s dressed modestly today in a simple lilac gown, her hair tied back in a simple knot at the base of her head, not a jewel in sight. The head bailiff of the Bastille, Descoteaux, steps forward, bowing low as Emma comes to a stop in front of him.

“Your Majesty,” he murmurs, reaching out to kiss her hand. “Welcome. We are honoured to have you here.”

She smiles, but her eyes are quickly sweeping over the courtyard, at the prison guards in their grey uniforms and the Musketeers with their armour and weapons, and it’s only then that she addresses Descoteaux.

“Thank you for the kind welcome. Shall we begin?”

The halls of the Bastille are quiet as Descoteaux leads Emma, Mary Margaret, and the Musketeers to the prisoners’ courtyard. It’s a bit unnerving – Killian would expect nothing but noise and activity at a prison, but the only sound is the clack of their shoes as they make their way through the narrow, dark halls.

In the courtyard, the prisoners to be pardoned have been assembled in a single file line as they await the queen’s arrival. They’re grimy and dirty, chained together by hand and foot, and none of them even look over as Emma and the Musketeers emerge at the top of the stone steps.

Emma’s shoulders tense, her mouth thinning into a line and eyes widening in shock the sight of the prisoners. While Descoteaux prattles on about how the Bastille is such a humane prison (the best in all France, I swear it, Your Majesty), Emma’s face darkens. The men, filthy, skinny, miserable, tell a very different story.

Descoteaux leads her down the steps, out to walk by the prisoners, to let them say their thanks to her in person. Killian stiffens – this was his least favourite part of the day’s events, letting her get so close – but Captain Humbert keeps a close step behind her, hand on the sword at his belt. The other Musketeers, including Killian, spread out join the guards already in place, Killian stopping beside the captain of the Bastille guard, a tough man in his mid-fifties called Captain Edmond. The Bastille guards and the Musketeers line the eastern wall of the courtyard, watching the events with sharp eyes and ready to jump in.

Emma walks slowly by the prisoners, taking a moment to talk to each of them as she passes them small pouches of francs to get them started on their freedom. They still don’t look up to her, but a few murmur ‘God save the queen’, ‘bless you, Majesty’ and ‘thank you for the kindness’ as she passes by.

When Emma reaches the end of the line, oblivious to the dark mood in the courtyard, Descoteaux turns her around with a wide grin and he even claps the nearest prisoner on the back, causing him to nearly fall right over.

“Just a few more minutes, gents, then you’ll be free! Come with me, Your Majesty, we’ll sign the papers for the prisoners’ release in my office.”

Emma sends another sad look towards the prisoners as Descoteaux leads her away, Mary Margaret and Captain Humbert following. They disappear back into the building, and the courtyard falls into an uneasy silence. The only sounds are the shuffling feet of guards and prisoners alike, all restless and waiting. The heat of the day is nearly becoming unbearable, and Killian hopes the bailiff doesn’t keep Emma too long.

A door across the yard opens, and a group of prison guards file into the courtyard. A young guard, a man with short brown hair tucked under a cap and an ill-fitting uniform, leads the others out. He’s swinging a ring of keys over a finger, a smug expression on his face, and goosebumps rise on the back of Killian’s neck.

The young man doesn’t say a word. He just strides right up to the prisoners and tosses the keys to one of them, who flinches in surprise and almost drops them.

“Congrats, mate,” he says, as the man looks to him with wide eyes. “Freedom is yours.”

Killian exchanges a glance with Robin beside him; this was not how the release was discussed earlier. Captain Edmond of the Bastille must agree, as he steps forward, hand dropping to the sword at his belt.

“What is the meaning of this, Berger? The prisoners are not to be released yet!”

The young man, Berger, saunters forward, a twisted smirk on his face as the guards he entered with fan out behind him in a uniform line, hands dropping to their pistols and swords at their belts.

“Sorry, captain,” he says, withdrawing a pistol from his belt and cocking it loudly. “I’ve got my orders.”

The shot explodes from the pistol, the ear shattering crack ricocheting around the courtyard and making it infinitely louder. Captain Edmond crumbles, choking out a cry as he falls to his knees, and collapses face first onto the ground.

For a moment, everyone in the yard is frozen, staring at the bleeding body of the captain, at the growing pool of blood around his torso, at the small cloud of dust rising from where his body thudded to the ground.

And then all hell breaks loose.

Gunfire fills the courtyard as the loyal prison guards run towards the betrayers, roaring in anger and crying out for justice. The newly freed prisoners scatter as the guards descend upon each other, some running towards the gates, while others decide they want a piece of the action too, charging into the fray with no weapons other than their fists.

The Musketeers draw their swords in unison, Killian grabbing his pistol and readying it to fire with his other hand. But before he gets the chance, rough fingers grab the back of his collar, pulling him back so roughly he almost drops his pistol. He whirls, fury on his lips and fists ready to attack, but it’s not a prisoner or a rogue guard – it’s Captain Humbert.

“Protect the queen!” he orders, shoving Killian towards the doorway Emma, Mary Margaret, and the bailiff had disappeared into. “Get her to the carriage and out of here!”

Killian whirls around, darting towards the entrance to the prison. A musket ball comes dangerously close to his head as he weaves a zigzag path to the building, the ball scraping his ear. He ducks, too late, and when he presses a hand up to his ear, his glove comes away spotted with blood.

But there’s no time to focus on that, not when he sees, to his horror, three figures appear in the doorway. Emma, Mary Margaret, and Descoteaux are staring open-mouthed at the chaos, at the screaming, at the freed prisoners, at the echoing shots of musket fire and clanging of swords that until a minute ago was not present.

Emma is the first to snap out of it, eyes focusing on Killian as he approaches. She opens her mouth to speak, but Killian simply grabs her arm and pulls her back into the building and back behind the safety of the stone walls. She gets a hold on the arm of Mary Margaret, pulling her along too, and Mary Margaret shoves herself beside the queen in a protective stance.

The bailiff is not so lucky. There is another deafening musket shot, reverberating through the small hallway and echoing tenfold in Killian’s head, and then the heavy thud of Descoteaux’s body falling back into the building. He is dead before he hits the ground, blood pooling from the wound in his chest and staining his fine linen shirt, eyes staring up to the ceiling and wide from shock.

Mary Margaret gasps, and Emma’s jaw drops open. “Oh my –”

“Nothing to be done for him now,” Killian interrupts grimly, shifting to push the ladies further behind him and peering out the doorway. There is an approaching guard, one of the ones who entered the courtyard with the rogue leader, brandishing a bloody sword with a twisted, manic smile. Killian aims his pistol and fires a shot. It hits true, the man having no chance to even cry out in pain as he crumbles, the bullet ripping its way right through him.

Killian leans out again, peering through the smoke, reloading, when another figure appears in the doorway. Killian nearly hits him over the head with the unloaded pistol before he realizes it’s not another thug – it’s David, bloody and sweaty, and Killian drops his weapon, swearing.

“Do not sneak up on me, David! I could have shot you!”

David completely ignores him, eyes focusing on Mary Margaret and the queen, and he steps further in, shoving Killian to the side.

“Are you alright?”

Both ladies nod, and Emma demands, “What’s going on? Who are those men?”

She makes a move as if to look out the doorway, but the stone wall behind them explodes, spraying bits of chipped rock as another musket shot finds its way through the doorway, and Killian automatically pulls her back to safety. As the dust settles around them, David clears his throat, a tough and determined edge to his eyes, the look of a leader.

“Killian, take the queen to the other exit through the west wing. It’s the quickest route out of here. I’ll take Mary Margaret through the south passage. Best to split up, and confuse them. We’ll meet back in the guard’s courtyard on the south side, okay?”

And without another word, he is whisking Mary Margaret down the hall to the left, and Killian moves into action as well. The doorway is clear (the battle is in full force in the courtyard; he sees Captain Humbert, Will, Lancelot, and Robin engaged in swift sword fights with the rogue guards, and more loyal guards are just now swarming from the upper levels to join the fight) and gestures for Emma to step ahead of him, down the narrow hallway.  

“This way if you please, Your Majesty.”

David has sent them down the jailers’ hallway, and the guards are spilling from their offices like flies. Thankfully, they all appear to be loyalists and no one makes a motion to stop him or Emma as they fly though the corridor at break-neck speed.

As they run, seeing the offices empty, Killian considers barricading themselves into one of them, but there is a sudden yell from behind him of “The queen! This way!” that ruins that plan completely.

He quickens his pace, grabbing Emma’s hand to push her ahead of him slightly. He’s hoping that the guards who just fled their offices are able to hold off the thugs. That hope is short-lived; there is a deafening gun shot and the wall in front of him explodes as a bullet narrowly misses Emma’s shoulder. She screams, ducking as wood splinters and plaster rains over her, and Killian turns over his shoulder, firing off a shot into a group of three thugs.

It hits the man in the centre, and he drops like a rock. The other two yell in anger as they get tangled up with him, resulting in all three of them crumbled in a heap.

Killian and Emma keep running, the sounds of the furious thugs catching up to them far too quickly. Killian is starting to wonder how the hell they’re going to make it all the way to the other side of the building when he spots a small alcove ahead.

It’s risky coming to a stop, but he can hear the roars of fury and boot stomps getting closer behind them, and it’s the best option they have now.

The alcove is tucked into a corner, draped in shadows by the way its situated, and he heads immediately for it. Emma is bewildered as pulls her so sharply in a different direction, but her expression soon clears when she sees the alcove and she steps ahead of him into the shadows. Killian sweeps her heavy skirts out of the way as he slides in in front of her, trying to press both of them as far back into the darkness as he can.

There’s not much room in the alcove, though, and he has to twist so they’re face-to-face, so close Killian can feel her breath on his face. He wraps an arm around her, tucking her further into the shadows, and Emma grips his arms tightly as the clatter of footsteps come even closer now.

The men’s voices become clearer too, and Killian hears distinctly the words ‘the queen’ and ‘this way.’ Emma’s nails dig into his bicep through all the leather he’s wearing, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake, but Killian tightens his own hold around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

They’re both holding their breath now as the two men, bloody and furious, come around the corner. But neither man even glances towards the alcove, hidden as it is in the corner. They continue down the hallway, and it’s not until they’re gone from sight and their footsteps have faded from earshot that either Killian or Emma breathe again.

“Come on,” Killian whispers, tugging Emma out of the alcove. “We need to move.”

But she grabs his arm before he gets to far, twisting him to face her again. To his surprise, her hand reaches up to his face, fingers brushing across his cheek and as her fingers probe at his skin, he flinches in pain. In all the chaos, he forgot all about the bullet that grazed him outside.

“What happened to you? Is it serious?”

He shakes his head, and reaches up to cover her hand with his own. “Just a scratch, love. Now, come on, let’s go.”

Though the two thugs who were after them are gone, Killian is still cautious, listening for any sound, but they appear to have gone a different route. He and Emma keep on their route out of the prison, and finally reach the south courtyard, to where Emma’s carriage is ready and awaiting.

The footmen have been alerted to the calamity, horses already pawing at the ground in eagerness to depart. The dark-haired figure of Mary Margaret is already inside the carriage, and Killian spots David a few feet away, guarding it with his pistol out and ready to fire.

Both light up with relief as Killian and Emma appear in the doorway, and Killian pushes Emma forward towards the carriage. She goes, but has only managed to make it halfway out into the dusty courtyard before David’s expression drops.

“Behind you!”

The rogue guard, Berger, who led the charge of the mutinous guards, is standing in the doorway that Killian and Emma just exited from, raising his pistol and aiming right for Emma, the gun already cocked.

Killian doesn’t have the time to think. He sprints to Emma, grabbing her around the waist and tackling her to the ground, one hand reaching around her to help with the fall, the other pulling her closer to him as they hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Emma is winded, gasping as all the breath is forced from her lungs as she lands heavily on her back, but it’s not a moment too soon. A loud shot explodes from behind them, the sound deafening, and Killian knows without a doubt it would have struck Emma if she’d been standing.

Before the smoke has even drifted away, Killian starts to twist off Emma, determined to get to his feet to shoot back at the man. But another pistol fires, and Emma grabs him, gripping the lapels of his collar tightly, and pulls him back down.

Ahead of them, David drops his still-smoking gun and draws his sword. Berger lets out a barking laugh, throwing his own musket to the side, and striding forward, drawing his own sword.

“You’re not even a Musketeer,” he sneers, gesturing to David’s shoulder and the lack of the fleur-de-lis pauldron. “You think you can best me?”

David doesn’t answer, eyes focused as he flicks his sword around his wrist in a single fluid motion as he approaches Berger, the two men starting to circle each other.

Killian feels rather useless, just lying there on the ground, but Emma’s grip on him is strong, and besides – this is David’s fight. His face is taut with determination, the sword in his hand steady, and though he’s not a Musketeer, his abilities surely are. 

Berger makes the first move, lashing out with a ferocious swing. David parries, their metal swords screeching at the contact. He pushes forward, forcing Berger a step backwards. They swing out at each other again, countering and feinting and blocking and dodging across the courtyard.

As their fight intensifies, swinging and thrashing, Berger’s smug expression disappears, replaced with a flicker of surprise and alarm. He drops all pretense of playing fair, and swings his fist out, smacking David on the side of his face.

Killian and Emma both inhale a sharp breath as his head snaps back, blood spraying from his mouth. Killian is ready to jump up and pummel Berger, but David is already looking back to him, wiping the blood away with a furious glare. The swordfight resumes, more ferocious than ever, and Killian knows without a doubt that only one man will emerge alive from this.

And luck must be on David’s side, for Berger makes a mistake; he feints left, expecting David to follow him, but Killian recognizes the move as one that the Musketeers were working on yesterday at the barracks with the younger recruits, and David doesn’t fall for it. With a grim flash of victory in his eyes, he steps forward, thrusting his sword upwards and right into the Berger’s stomach.

Berger screams, a horrible sound that makes Killian’s skin crawl and his stomach turn. Under him, Emma tenses, pressing her face into his shoulder and tightening her grip on his collar, and he hears her mutter a curse.

David pulls his sword free from Berger with almost a worse sound than his scream, and the man stumbles away from David, pressing his hands to his stomach. Killian can’t see the extent of the damage from his angle, but the man’s bloodied hands and unsteady gait tell him exactly who has won this fight. Berger collapses onto the ground, with a gurgled cry and the last spark of life is gone before he’s hit the ground.

As the dust rises from around Berger’s body, an unnerving silence settles over the courtyard. Killian finally lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, and he shifts enough to glance down to Emma.

She’s squeezed her eyes shut, and Killian brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

“It’s okay. It’s over.”

She opens her eyes, and seeks out his own instantly, her eyes so wide in fear nearly all of the green replaced with black. He pushes aside more of her errant hair with a reassuring smile and she finally relaxes, releasing her hands from his collar and dropping her head back onto the dirt with a sigh of relief. Killian takes that as his cue to stand up, and he pushes himself off her, offering her a hand to stand too which she accepts. Her gown is completely covered in dirt from the courtyard and ripped from where Killian stood on it when he tackled her.

She doesn’t let go of him when she’s standing, opening her mouth to say something, but Mary Margaret appears then. She grabs onto Emma, pulling her hands free from Killian’s, and wraps her in a tight embrace, half in sobs already.

Killian turns away, giving them a moment, and strides over to David. He’s staring at the dead body of the man, his face pale and grim.

“Good job, mate,” Killian says, clapping him on the shoulder.” You saved us. You saved the queen.”

David smiles grimly, and shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here,” he says, marching over to the carriage, picking up his discarded pistol and opening the carriage door. “Before I have to kill anyone else.”

Emma and Mary Margaret return to the carriage now, the footmen ushering them quickly in. When they’re safely inside, the carriage peels through the open gates, the horses galloping footsteps raising dust and dirt from the cobblestones. David and Killian mount their own horses, and ride out furiously after it.

And in everyone’s haste to get away from the Bastille, minds totally focused on the safe return to the Louvre, away from the violence and bloodshed, no one notices the woman watching their departure from a shadowed corner across the street, an angry flash in her eyes as the carriage escapes the Bastille, its royal occupant unharmed.

[purinsesu-sereniti]

oh look sometimes i still write fanfic

ive been really caught up in my book that i;ve been neglecting fanfic entirely. so here you go, something quick and probably full on runons and misspellings lmao. 

The palace was eerily quiet- something most of its inhabitants were unused to, considering a young princess normally ran the halls. One in particular, the queen of said castle, felt restless and unnerved, which was what prompted her to rise from her bed and slip back into her once discarded gown. "Serenity..." The sleepy, male voice came from her bed, and she turned back around, sapphire eyes meeting the deep, dark oxford colored ones of her king, and she could not help but to smile. "Where are you going?" He asked, propping himself up onto an elbow, his concern mounting for the woman before her. This was not the first night this month she'd risen from bed.

"To see Small Lady," the queen decided in an instant, before she turned and exited the chamber, passing by her guards without a passing glance. She took to the corridors, her feet carrying her the familiar path that would lead her to her daughter's chamber. This indeed was not the first night she'd been unable to sleep- her nights were plagued by dreams and by horror, a preminition of sorts that left her chilled to the bone. She knew, without a doubt, that a battle was coming and it was coming soon.

As her hand touched the door knob, Serenity knew that her daughter also lay awake in her bed. Upon her entering, Small Lady rose up from her pillows, and at once Serenity could see that she had been crying. "Mama..." The child said softly and at once, the forever young quene sank down onto her bed, drawing her into her arms. "What is happening?" Small Lady whispered through her tears, her voice muffled as she buried her face into her mother's chest. "I saw..." She trailed off, unable to voice the horrors of the dream she had seen, unaware that her mother had seen the very same one.

"Small Lady..." Serenity said softly, holding her child at arm's length for a moment, before cupping her damp cheeks between her palms, never taking her eyes off hers. "You have nothing to fear, my dear." Serenity was not so certain she felt that confident of her words, but she would never allow Small Lady to know that. "A battle is coming, but you must not fear that." She went on, swiping her thumbs beneath her daughter's eyes, a mirror image of her father's in all but color. "I will always protect you." She drew her daughter back in then, crawling into her bed beside her, holding her as she had done when she'd been a baby. They lay side by side in silence a while, until Serenity looked down upon her face expecting her to be asleep. But Small Lady still yet lay in silence, clearly lost in thoughts beyond her years. "We are all made of stars and stories, Small Lady..." Serenity said quietly, drawing the attention back to herself, and she felt her daughter's eyes upon her. "That is the way of the senshi. To fight to protect those we love, no matter the cost."

"But what if... What if we can't win?"

Serenity sighed softly and returned Small Lady to her previous position, gently stroking her long, soft locks of hair. "Once, I too thought I could not win." She said into the darkness, recalling the dark thoughts that had once consumed her. "I thought that there was no will left to go on. That there was no power left yet inside of me." She wondered what Small Lady was thinking of- what battle could her all powerful mother have ever thought she could not win? "I had nothing left, for even you and your father had been taken from me." Ah, now she could see the recognition on Small Lady's face, who could recall that fierce battle she fought in the past with Usagi and the others. "I stood alone against the darkest of foes, against the most evil of beings... And I thought I could not go on. Why would I want to, when those I loved most were gone?"

Small Lady remained still and silent beside her mother, daring only once to look up at her mother's beautiful features. It had been years since then, since she had dared to return to the past to help Usagi and the others, only to find the past a world she did not know. Only to fade from existence when Mamoru had been pushed into the cauldron. She shivered, having never been told this story, never knowing what had happened between her fading and her return to the 30th Century when Usagi had somehow won. The look in her mother's eyes was somber and so like the eyes she had looked into when she had met Usagi that day. "You could never give up..." Small Lady whispered, drawing herself from her mother's arms to sit up and look at her. "Usagi never... You never..."

Serenity smiled a wane sort of smile, one that did not much to brighten the sorrowful look in her eyes, but she nodded. "Of course I couldn't." She could still remember the feeling as Sailor Cosmos appeared before her, reminding her that a future was still yet to come, and she had made her choice. To plunge into the Cauldron and release the power that Galaxia and Chaos had sought after- to fill the galaxy with the bright and shining light of the ginzuishou and hope it could heal everything. She could still recall freefalling into the darkness, with nothing but her own power, the memories of her life racing through her mind. And then it had ended, as quickly as it had begun.

And here they were.

"I would never, ever give up. And you musn't either. No matter what this new battle brings." Serenity spoke soft, even words to her daughter who had so suddenly grown up. Who had a team of her own and was learning to lead. Serenity had never anticipated her to have to battle on her own, but again, here they were. Soon, the past would begin to repeat itself as it most often did, and Chaos would return to claim the galaxy. But they would be ready. "If you're scared, just remember this: you have the heart of a solider and comrades to fight beside you. That will always give you strength." She could recall the many times throughout her days as a soldier that it was not she but her friends that gave her the strength to win. They had always been the ones to remind her that she could fight and win. She had to, if she wanted to protect them all, after all.  Small Lady was nodding and Serenity leaned in to kiss her daughter's temple, before she rose up from the bed. "Sleep, dearest, and tomorrow we shall continue your studies." Small Lady nodded again and slipped beneath the covers, sleep already beginning to claw at her. As she closed her eyes, her mother glided back to the door and into the hall, knowing something dark was approaching.

Tomorrow there would be no studies, for tomorrow there would be war.

[how2to18]

THE ACT OF WRITING, like the act of reading, is often done in solitude. I am not sure if it is for this reason that both writing and reading can bring the comfort of a lover who knows where I begin and end as well as an anxiety that paralyzes. I do not think the latter is necessarily a bad thing — it is an ache waiting to be soothed, but an ache that we, readers and writers alike, may sometimes need. Humans must overcome obstacles; that is part of the process.

The second poem in Mandy Kahn’s new book, Glenn Gould’s Chair, contains the following lines: “We tend to favor / our most difficult projects, those painful loves, / so much of ourselves have been left / on their knife-blades and cutting boards.” We do do that. We all have a desire for the jouissance of life — if we are able to overcome its difficulties (again). Often, it is the works of others who share our sensibility, who share the experience of creative expression, that assuage the moments that produce nothing. Kahn’s new book furnishes us with a community of fellow creators. Their lives, through her poems, encourage us to breathe and let the mind wander or linger when we lose an expected sense of direction.

As I see Glenn Gould’s name on the cover of Kahn’s new collection of poetry, as I sit in a nook — a seemingly useless space — in a new home, I feel both calm and slightly unnerved. Glenn Gould is a name I am familiar with, but I do not know his full story; the name is like a word I recognize in a language I do not speak. Yet as I sit here alone reading Gould’s name and the names of other composers and musical terms that I recognize but do not always remember from childhood piano lessons, Kahn soothes me; she offers me a seat in the spaces she has thought, written, lived, and loved in. She welcomes me into these pages, which, although finished and published, still seem to be in flux, moving across histories and geographies and (lived) lives.

Glenn Gould’s Chair is a collection of poems about process — specifically, about the mysterious act of making, which Kahn de-romanticizes. She shows us the people we have come to know as composers. We learn or remember, for instance, that Charles Ives worked as an insurance executive, and that Maurice Ravel’s music was not always lauded (the Paris Conservatory expelled him twice). Kahn breaks down the idea of the ethereal, intimidating genius, and shows us the common grounds on which we all create, which are moist and unfixed: “Look at my friends, / two adults / on the floor with their learning. / Look at my friends, on their knees, / two adults, / two potters, / hands inside their work.”

In Glenn Gould’s Chair, we get close to people and places, either through Kahn’s research or through her imagination and personal connections to the work and life of multiple composers: “I’d stand there looking in, / to that chamber where a hand went up / some forty years before / and brought down sounds so firm / that they were bells through time.” And while learning of these historical figures through Kahn’s poems, we also get to know, albeit obliquely, Kahn herself — as a poet, as a partner, lost in thought or in place, in love, and in process.

The real process to which this collection is dedicated, aside from the process of artistic creation, is that of being alive, and of taking care of oneself within that process. As Kahn reminds us, when speaking of “our most difficult projects,” “No one needs them like we do, / as no one could imagine / what was battered in the / process of their making, / and for whom, and why.” Although not explicitly autobiographical, it is through music, composers, their students and instruments, Gould’s chair, and even plants that Kahn voices an I — which could be a writer, a composer, an artist, any kind of maker. Indeed, Kahn seems to slip in and out of voices. Living and creating is a slippery process — like Gould’s fingers making up their own moves across the keys, or nature “winding its fingers, making, wetting / letting be.” Kahn speaks through the reed of the oboe and the reeds by the pond by her childhood home. The composers, the music, the plants provide a layer through which she structures and expresses a sense of self, and form a system to talk about the personal at large: “I played below my key, / and blew so lightly no one knew I blew. I hid. / between the clarinets and brass, / waiting for a rest. / But where are all the notes / I didn’t play?”

However, there remains a distance between the poet and the multiple voices in which she welcomes us next to her. Regarding this distance, Kahn once said in an interview:

It’s the self I want to protect — and bury in soft soil — not the work. […] The harder it feels to do my work, the larger the outline that rises from the kelp: whole frigates have swum up. This must sound strange to you, as I am not a confessional poet. But when I speak of myself as a plant, that’s the barest and truest thing that I could do. That is a confession, for me.

This idea of becoming a plant emerges in lines like: “I assumed, in girlhood, / one day I’d wear women’s hair: / florist’s bright concoctions / that spoke of seeking nature in a greenhouse, / and what you couldn’t change, arrange.” And later on: “I have / grown a wilderness, plucky stalks changed only / by the sun, breaking where they break, / drawing with their shape / their dreams of fullness.” Kahn bares herself while remaining secluded. There is a sense of loneliness in the book, but one that seems necessary in order to carve out a space for a self, Kahn’s or any other — the space necessary to go through a process, be it writing, researching, grieving, moving, or breaking up.

Regarding the space of corners, and nooks in particular, Gaston Bachelard wrote: “[E]very corner in a house, every angle in a room, every inch of secluded space in which we like to hide, or withdraw into ourselves, is a symbol of solitude for the imagination; that is to say, it is the germ of a room, or of a house.” By following her thoughts and delving into memory (personal and collective), Kahn looks for secluded spaces and shares them with us through poetry: “This is a home / without edges, this is the soft brown peat / of the great pond itself, everything a seed or the seed of a seed / or the warm green shape before that. This is where the blooms / that are / the wet-furred feet of sky / alight in jars.” We do not need to know everything about Arnold Schoenberg, Claude Debussy, or Kahn herself in order to enjoy their work; but we need to create room to enjoy them, to let our mind wander.

“How did I arrive here?, / asks the mind. / The heart says, / You rose.”

How do we become part of temporary spaces? Who writes us into them? Do we find a home in ourselves, or only in a memory of ourselves? “Was I chosen by this quiet park?” These questions, all evoked in the book, go hand in hand with a question of movement: how did we get where we needed to be? We glide — Glissando — and, sometimes, stop slowly — Coda — two poem titles. In Glenn Gould’s Chair, movement becomes a location, and being in process can also mean looking back.

“To realize, / years later, / the change was slow.”

¤

Mandy Kahn reads from her new collection at Skylight Books today at 5:00 p.m.

¤

Lara Schoorl is a poet, curator, and art historian from the Netherlands, who lives in Los Angeles.

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