#and now it smells like lavender and death instead of just regular death

[piepiepiemag]

got a little too into the idea of playing d&d with friends, so i made a whole character sheet before we even got started on anything lol (tw: body horror/ mildly gory zombie face under cut)

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE (CH 2) | Michael x Reader

so when i was writing this, my editor Insisted i use a grilled cheese gif for this chapter. you'll see why... i hope you enjoy though LMAO

MICHAEL MYERS x FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: When the door slammed back open with more force this time, you jumped and let out a surprised yelp. Your dad came barreling in, Michael having already disappeared back upstairs as quiet as he'd come. You tried to intercept him from storming upstairs but his horrified expression stilled you. "That was our neighbor Gladys down the street. She said she saw Myers come up to our house about an hour and a half ago."

WARNING: graphic depiction of deaths, animal violence

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"Has anyone ever shown you kindness?" Your voice had Michael opening his eyes, blinking as he looked up at you slowly, your hands tangled in his wet, sudsy hair. He was sprawled out on the porcelain bathtub while you washed his hair, the room dim and sleepy and smelling of lavender soap. He had no qualms letting his legs and arms rest upon the rim to have extra room. You’d since become accustomed to him, no longer flushing at his nakedness, so washing the blood off his skin didn’t bother you.

You’d since bought black washcloths and a black towel for Michael so your father wouldn’t get suspicious about any bloodstains. Lounge clothes - some sweatpants and a t-shirt finally in his actual size - sat folded on the counter beside the sink, his navy blue jumpsuit in a pile on the cool, linoleum floor.

For the past few weeks, you two established a routine of sorts. Michael would get hurt or hungry and come visit you. Sometimes he'd watch you sleep but he'd usually be gone by morning. With your dad's presence in the house very touch and go, it was hard for Michael to stay for any extended period of time. Sometimes he watched you from a distance whenever you'd go in the garden but that was the extent of it.

You knew it wasn't normal for him to care about another person so you did your best to make it easy for him. No more lunging at armed police officers for you, you'd lamented to him in a joking manner. You hadn't been able to see his face but you got the impression he'd glared at you.

You'd also taken to touching him more, getting him to reassociate touch with compassion. It wasn't easy to undo years of trauma but you did little things here and there. Brushing his hands with your own, touching his arm when you wanted attention, small things. He was building a tolerance to it, you could tell. Washing his hair now was the most you'd touched him beyond patching him up after run-ins with the police.

But progress was progress.

Today, he hadn't come home bloody but he had come to you for something. He'd shown up at the backdoor, made a beeline for the bathroom, and you'd gotten the message. Bathing him had also become pretty regular, though you still recalled the first few times where it'd ended with him shaking from how overwhelmed he was by your touch.

Now, though, his gaze bore into you, staring up at you like a big lazy cat. Like a lion too content to strike. Your hands had stilled, still poised to scrub at his scalp. He needed a haircut, you noted to yourself.

"Besides me," you clarified as you resumed scrubbing in slow circles. "You don't… You're-" You huffed, trying to find the words. "I feel like people didn't care for you like you needed them to. If that makes sense." 

Were you anyone else, you don't doubt he'd kill you for saying that. Instead, he just glared at you, pretty hazel eyes narrowed to slits. In anger or confusion, you couldn't tell.

That was yet another development. He'd been taking his mask off of his own accord now, even when he didn't have a reason to. The first time he'd done it had been because his hair was too long and sat uncomfortable in the mask, tickling against his ears and neck. You offered to cut it and, while it took some reassurance and thought on his part, you'd come home one day to him sitting on your bed. Scissors in one hand and mask in the other, clutching it like a child would to a security blanket. He hadn't been shaking or looking up at you with fearful eyes but his jaw had been clenched hard as he white knuckled the accursed mask. A wordless question you'd answered with nimble fingers and gentle tugging on his curls.

Having something so sharp close to his vulnerable neck hadn't been his idea of a good time regardless if it was his idea or not. He'd gotten up half a dozen times during the haircut to stand in the corner to come down from what was probably overstimulation. You were patient with him though.

You'd gotten better at reading him. He'd gotten better at leaving you clues.

In the present, he sat up and slid his legs back into the water. Wet hair slipped from between your fingers as he turned to properly stare at you. Michael was interesting to you still. You could tell he was curious about you too. He stared at you often, like when you watered your plants, washed his clothes, or made food in the kitchen. You felt his eyes on you constantly no matter what.

"What?" You asked with a small sigh, staring back at him with the same intensity.

Michael gave you a slow blink, similar to the ones Mayhem gave you as a show of trust. "Don't gimme that," you teased, smirking at him and motioning for him to sit back down. "I just- I always feel bad thinking about it, in retrospect. I mean, you grew up in an asylum alone. Didn't it-"

He interrupted you by sliding a wet hand around your throat, holding you still as though to physically stop your ramblings. Not squeezing, just holding. You got the message there: let it go. He lay back down and you resumed washing his hair, unbothered by that exchange.

Things like that were normal with him. It had freaked you out at first when he'd wrapped his hand harshly around your throat and pinned you in a doorway. But you'd slowly begun to understand him. He didn't have a way to communicate that wasn't through violence or knives.

Or hospital rooms under scrutiny, you reminded yourself with a grimace. You masked it behind a soft tune you hummed, resuming washing his hair.

Once he was cleaned and dressed, jumpsuit in the wash, you ventured back downstairs to make dinner and feed Mayhem. Michael trailed after you, hair dripping dark spots along his shoulders where it was still damp. He didn't like the hair dryer very much and only tolerated you using it to get his hair comfortably damp. No more.

“You’re probably due for another haircut by the way,” you said as you opened the fridge. Mayhem was immediately rubbing up on Michael’s leg, meowing insistently.

He looked down at her, standing comfortably in the doorway to the kitchen. You glanced over your shoulder to look at him and felt struck with the knowledge that, if it weren't for his injured eye breaking the illusion, it almost felt like you just had a boyfriend over. Your face warmed up at the thought and you snapped your head back around to stare into the white, chilled expanse of the fridge. "Umm… anything specific you want tonight?"

When you looked back over at him, you jumped in surprise when he was barely a few inches from you. Jesus, you thought to yourself. You didn't think you'd ever get used to how quiet he moved sometimes.

Michael tilted his head as he stared at the fridge with you. "I need to go shopping soon, huh?"

He didn't say anything but you could almost hear his nod.

You liked how expressive he'd gotten as the two of you began to trust each other. Little things like that made the whole thing feel domestic somehow. 

"Well, hope you like grilled cheese." You snagged the almost-empty package of sliced cheese and dangled it tantalizingly. "I'll go shopping tomorrow, promise. If you want anything in particular, let me know." You said as you grabbed the bread from the cabinet. Before he could say - or, technically, not say - you spun on your heel. "Besides pumpkin pie."

He nodded once and you smirked.

Domestic, your brain said again in an almost mocking tone. You swallowed and tried to focus on the sandwiches and not the way Michael stared at you. You began buttering the bread as the pan warmed up and tried to not envision life being like this forever: painfully domestic and sweet with Haddonfield's best known serial killer in soft lounge clothes you'd bought him, curled up on the couch eating an early lunch together after you'd washed his hair.

The sound of the front door rattling open was out of place and terrifying. Never in your life had you felt as though the ground would swallow you as your heart threatened to pound out of your chest. You spun to face Michael and quickly assessed your options.

There were two doorways that led out of the kitchen - one that faced the living room and another that led into the hallway to the stairs. There was a dividing wall between the two doorways. Meaning if you could get Michael into the hallway, he'd be out of sight for at least the briefest few seconds it took your dad to walk towards you.

"Upstairs, now!" You whisper-yelled, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him towards the hallway. "Stay quiet, he'll go away soon."

Hopefully, you thought to yourself. Hopefully he will.

"You're home early." You called to him as you took your spot at the stove again, spreading butter on bread and placing them in the pan.

Your dad sounded exhausted, shrugging off his outer coat and tossing it atop the back of the couch before slumping in his chair. "I decided to come home early. It's been an exhausting week. But Myers seems to be taking a break from killing these past few days."

You couldn't help but frown. Not killing? Sure you'd noticed less blood on his clothes but surely he'd stopped altogether. So close to Halloween too…

"Cool, I was, uh, making lunch." You called out over the pan sizzling. "You want some?"

The telltale creaks of the wooden floor had your hair standing up on end. It wasn't like normal sneaking around when you had a boyfriend, this was Michael Myers you were hiding. Right under his nose. Even if your dad didn't immediately go for his gun when he saw him, you were still a liar. And an accomplice to his crimes.

"Grilled cheese, huh?" He smiled for the first time since he'd taken on the case. "Want some help? I can-" The sound of his phone ringing cut him off, making him grimace. "I'll take this outside," he sighed as he went back out the door. You sighed with relief and looked towards the doorway to the stairs.

Michael stood there, mask on, gripping a knife tight in his hand. You had no idea where he'd gotten it, since your knives were accounted for.

You tried to seem reassuring. "He's probably going to get called back into work, it's okay." Even though you'd gotten used to it, you still swallowed when you saw the glint of the knife in the dim lighting of the doorway. "He, um, he said you haven't been killing lately?" 

Michael was eerily still. Just staring at you.

"Is everything…okay?" It felt a bit weird asking when he was going to kill someone again. Like it was just a casual hobby of his. "Just let me know, alright?"

He just stared at you. His walls were back up, you could tell, so you tried to not take it personally.

When the door slammed back open with more force this time, you jumped and let out a surprised yelp. Your dad came barreling in, Michael having already disappeared back upstairs as quiet as he'd come. You tried to intercept him from storming upstairs but his horrified expression stilled you. "That was our neighbor Gladys down the street. She said she saw Myers come up to our house about an hour and a half ago." His gun was out, alarming you. "Have you… have you seen anything?"

"No." You swallowed around your lie, quickly turning the stove off, lunch forgotten. "No, it's been quiet. I was out in my garden, mostly."

He didn't seem convinced though. "She said he was circling around the house before coming inside."

At that, he froze. He held a finger to his lips, signaling you to be quiet. You wanted to roll your eyes at how comical this was but you also couldn't afford to break character. Scared young child of the police detective, home alone with a killer in this house. 

"Where's your cat?" He whispered, glancing up at the ceiling as though expecting to hear footsteps.

Glancing around, you tried to play up your alarm. "I don't know!" You whisper-yelled. "Do you think he's-?"

"Dead, then." Your dad's bluntness made you flinch. "Myers usually kills the pets first. Keeps 'em from sounding an alarm." He didn't even try to look sympathetic as he crept towards the stairs. You followed after him as he crept silently from room to room, pushing the door open slightly before scanning the room with his gun out. It made you anxious and you kept periodically glancing towards your bedroom, dreading the impending inspection. First the hall closet, then his bedroom, then the bathrooms, and finally: your bedroom.

You felt sweat drip down your temple as he pushed open the door. Everything felt tense, suffocating you as you chewed anxiously on the nail of your thumb.

He swung open the closet door and fired at the first sign of movement.

Mayhem yowled, a sharp, piercing sound, then darted past your legs as he took off down the hall. "MAYHEM!" You shrieked in horror, watching blood trail behind him faster than you could catch him. You ignored your dad's stammered apologies and took off after your cat.

The blood trail went down the stairs and out through the back door, which had been left cracked open to let Mayhem come and go as he pleased. Now he was gone. Your heart sank as you ran outside, crying for Mayhem to come back. In the tall, mud-riddled forest it was hard to see any kind of blood trail or spot your all black cat. Minutes ticked by with no response and you fell to your knees, wrapping your arms around yourself as you bawled.

He was your little kitty. And now he was gone.

"Sweetheart, I- I'm so sorry. I didn't know he was there." Your dad tried to explain as he watched you from the doorway. "It- It'll come back, I'm sure."

"You SHOT him!" You rounded on him almost instantly, storming up to meet him and relishing in the way he backed up in fear of your anger. "You SHOT him and now he might DIE out there!" While you didn't consider yourself an angry nor violent person, it felt vindicating to shove him and watch him stumble back. "You don't even CARE!"

"No, I don't!" He shouted, trying to scare you back. "It's just a cat! What if Myers had been there, huh?"

You felt hysteric. "I don't care about that! Fuck, dad, I care about my CAT!"

Suddenly, he'd grabbed you by the shoulders and slammed you into the nearby wall, his voice hissing like a viper when he spoke. "I don't give a shit about your fucking cat. I am stressed enough as it is and I am focused on finding Michael fucking Myers, not your shitty little cat. Let. It. Go."

The sign of movement in the shadows behind him made you smile.

Michael grabbed your dad by the back of his shirt and yanked him back harshly, letting him fall to the kitchen floor. He stood there, knife tight in his fist as he stood over the whimpering man who scrambled for his gun. 

You watched with an empty expression as Michael kicked the gun aside, skittering on the tiled floor and out of reach. "Grab it!" He hissed at you. Michael tilted his head down at him but he tried to not be intimidated. "Grab my gun, just-"

Reality began to settle in as shock wore off. Your ears were still ringing from the gunshots and you could smell the charred butter coming off the stove. "Michael." Your mouth moved but you didn't feel like your words were yours. "I'm okay."

A heavy boot thudded against your dad's chest and you watched him scramble to try and understand. The dark pits of the mask's eye holes bore into you, almost searching for permission.

"You've been hiding him." Your dad gasped in horror. "You've been hiding the man I've been hunting. Right. Under. My fucking nose!" He roared, struggling to get out from under Michael, only ending up grabbed like a scruffed kitten in his attempts to lunge at you. "How long!? How long has he been hiding here?!"

You didn't feel like answering. So you didn't.

He didn't like that though. "What have you two been doing? What, do you nurse him back to health under my fucking roof every night? Is that why you've been buying first aid shit?"

None of this felt real to you in any substantial way. It felt like a movie almost, a sick indie film about a serial killer you'd grown attached to finally snapping and slaughtering your family because you'd finally given him the chance to get close. You watched Michael press the tip of his knife to your dad's sternum and could almost see the anger and hatred rolling off the masked man in waves.

After all, you'd given him a hard line of not hurting Mayhem. And your dad just broke that rule.

You backed up against the fridge and slid to the floor, watching with a distant expression as Michael wrestled the man to the floor. "Yeah." You said quietly, more to yourself than to him. "I clean him. Bandage him. He protects me." A wet laugh left your throat at the absurdity of it all. "We're partners."

No point in hiding it anymore.

"M-maybe I should call Loomis, s-see if I can get you two joint rooms in the fucking asylum-!" The man below Michael yelled out, his words muffling as Michael jabbed the knife into him. Wet squelching sounds that became almost monotonous as hot red sprays erupted from the holes in his neck. Puddles of red seeped beneath the man's body and Michael seemed to relish in the thrill.

"You killed my cat," you mumbled bitterly to the corpse of the man you once called dad.

And you watched as the body ran cold with Michael's anger. He stood up, towering over you as he tracked bloody footprints as he approached you. "Hi." You said absently, giving him a small smile. "You'll have to kill our neighbor. No witnesses."

He tilted his head curiously and you just let your head fall between your knees. You didn't want to talk about this anymore than you had to. "Just- Just get rid of the body, okay? I'll clean up."

Had you looked up, you would have seen his nod.

The stench of bleach burned your nose and made your eyes water as you scrubbed at the now blood-free kitchen floor. You'd opened the windows to air out the smell but it still felt like it was suffocating. But there was no evidence anymore, thank god.

You didn't ask Michael what he'd done with the bodies. You'd kept your head down when he'd lifted it up and carried it with him out the back door and you were content not knowing. It would only serve to upset you.

Clutching the rim of the sink, you let out a long, pained sigh. Things were going to change now. Your father and Mayhem's blood was all gone, the knives would be disinfected, and Michael's jumpsuit would go through the wash again. No evidence any of this had even happened.

Logically, you knew this should upset you. It did, only in the sense that the wet plunging sounds of the knife echoed in your mind. But you couldn't feel anything beyond anger that he'd shot Mayhem. That he didn't care about you, only his work. It infuriated you to think about how little your life would change with him gone. The house was bought and paid for, you knew everything he owned would be left to you, and life would continue on.

He didn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. You repeated this mantra over and over to yourself as you heard the back door open.

Michael stood there, his hands and suit stained with blood. Flecks of dark red stained the white mask in harsh streaks that made you want to hurl. "How, um, how did it go?" You tried giving him a smile but fell short. He approached you and you did your best to hide your flinch when he took your wrist. Red stained your skin and you heard the sickening stabbing again. "Sorry," you mumbled, "I should have done something to- to try to make him leave, or-"

Michael cut you off with a harsh tug on your arm. Your head snapped up to meet his eyes behind the mask, your own wide in confusion. He just stared you down, only gripping you tighter when you tried to pull away.

His silent question felt loud in the little kitchen, even if he said nothing. "I'm… I'll be okay." But you weren't sure if you were telling that to him or yourself. "It was inevitable. I- I just didn't think it would be so soon. But, um, I knew I was… I knew I was going to be sticking with you. Partners, right?"

You didn't wait for any type of response, gesturing to his jumpsuit. "Lets, um, get you into clean clothes, yeah?"

Michael didn't budge.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he lifted his hand towards your face, dragging a bloody finger down your cheek and marveled at the way it stained your skin. A red to match his own,

And as quickly as he came, he left. His footfalls were heavy as he went up to the bathroom and left you floundering in the kitchen. You broke from your trance only when you heard the shower running. Swallowing, you followed his trail upstairs to collect his bloody clothes. You could only hope the blood was fresh enough to come out easy.

When you passed by Mayhem's food dish, you winced at the memory of your cat's blood streaked across the house. You filled his bowls and set them outside, hoping the prospect of dinner would entice him home. 

It was the best you could do, really…

The cops came two days later. When no one on the force had seen or heard from him in a few days, they'd come by to check. It wasn't hard to play up your distress. The five stages of grief had hit you harder than expected. On the first day, you'd just yelled at Michael, slamming your fists into his chest as he watched you curiously. You'd wondered to yourself after sobbing over breakfast how he'd felt after his sister died. You'd only ever heard stories but you wanted to ask him.

"We found him off a backroad down the way with an older woman in the car," the officer interviewing you asked. "Do you have any idea what that was about?"

You swallowed and shook your head. "He, um, he mentioned he got a call from Gladys. That, uh, Myers was outside her house so- so he told me he was going to take her to a hotel and then go back to work." Your voice trembled as you spoke. "H-he'd been working so much, I-" 

The officer gave you a sympathetic look. "I'm so sorry, kid." 

Michael was easily named the killer so you weren't even considered a suspect. What they didn't know was that he was taking this opportunity while the police were busy to kill again, letting out his frustrations that had been building up. 

He hadn't left you alone since your dad had died. Always hovering in doorways or your wrist if you were close enough. You knew Michael well enough at this point to know he didn't necessarily feel bad for what he did. But he was certainly capable of fearing your reaction. You could easily turn him in now, all wound up emotions like a ticking time bomb.

But you didn't. You were partners. A pact now sealed in your father's blood

Once the police left, you wanted to get out of the house. It all felt too suffocating. You just needed a moment without Michael's eyes on you, if such a thing existed. So you'd gotten dressed into proper clothes and went into town. You knew the whole town would be looking at you so you tried to keep yourself presentable while still looking a wreck.

Which wasn't hard, after everything that happened.

News reports of your dad's false crime scene would be all over the news in a day. All over the televisions, newspapers, and your dad's police buddies would be sharing stories in bars over drinks. You felt sick at the knowledge that he'd had a life outside you and your little bubble of fake domesticity with a serial killer.

It all felt like a huge reality check that left you stumbling like a drunk on the curbside.

You snapped back to your body as you stared emptily at some crummy greeting cards in the little general store. You'd been walking the aisles with no clear goal in mind and many of the other patrons simply let you pass with pitiful smiles that made your skin crawl. "I should've looked at the fridge…" You mumbled to no one.

"Hey." A soft voice interrupted your train of thought and you gave a glance over your shoulder. Laurie Strode, dressed in all black like she was attending a funeral. Maybe she was - a funeral for the town. You knew the paranoia of Michael stalking her never really went away and you felt a little bad for her. A part of you wished you could reassure her.

“Oh, um, hi.” You stuttered inelegantly. “What- um-“

“I’m sorry,” she gave you a sorrowful look. You were getting pretty sick of those. “I heard about your dad… Michael is ruthless.”

You swallowed around a lump building in your throat. “Y-yeah. I hope, um, you’re doing okay too.” You tried to give her a reassuring smile but you weren’t sure if it came out like a grimace.

Laurie just laughed, no joy behind her tight smile. “I’ll survive. Always do.”

You said your polite goodbyes and you left her, now even more uneasy. It was jarring to be reminded that life existed outside your little house in the forest, that Michael's actions had consequences that spread far beyond just you.

It made you wonder if Michael’s intentions were what you thought they were. He’d never leave Haddonfield. Not willingly. He’d continue killing with or without you in his life.

And that knowledge made you feel sick.

Your dad's funeral was mostly uneventful. A few of his work friends came to console you but you denied their company when you went to the cemetery. Your dad had told you many times when you were young that, when he died, he wanted to be poured into water used to help grow flowers on your late mothers grave. It had struck you as odd then but now you understood.

Guilt still ate at you. He'd probably haunt you if he didn't get to be reunited with your mom in some way, so you'd bought some daisies - her favorite, according to him - and brought them with his ashes and a bottle of water. Haddonfield's graveyard was nothing spectacular, just rows and rows of headstones. Some newer with fresh flowers and photos, some older and covered in moss and dirt. The forgotten ones always made your heart clench.

You pointedly kept your head down when you passed Judith Myers' grave. Her parents had a joint headstone beside her, a spot they'd reserved for themselves a year after she'd died. According to stories, they'd believed Michael deserved nothing but cremation. No tombstone, no funeral, just death in silence.

The fate of the Myers family had been a horrible story. Even after their son was shipped off to Smith's Grove, the family still received harsh criticisms for what they'd done. While Michael's actions were certainly the focus, some people still believed the parents had some sway in it or had influenced his behavior. He'd only been a little boy, after all. A possibly mentally ill, neglected child whose parents had, allegedly, favored Judith to the point Michael acted out.

A car crash killed them, according to the news. You weren't sure. The timings had been too close and their funerals had been closed caskets. But you'd been too young to really care about that sort of thing. Now, though, you were curious. It felt like you'd get answers somehow if you knew. Regardless, Michael was left without guardianship and became a ward of the state, locked away in a hospital for fifteen years. At first, the town didn't know what to think of him. The poor, unstable boy who now had no one waiting for him if he ever got out. Many villainized him, of course, but some wanted to see him make a full recovery. They saw a traumatized child who needed help.

It was only after Michael broke out of Smith’s Grove and killed again that public opinion on him changed.

You pushed those thoughts away and focused on kneeling before your mothers grave. Your fingers were still damp from the wet earth you'd pulled out as you'd dug a little hole for the flowers all on autopilot. The little flowers looked nice, spots of white and yellow against mucky browns and greens. This wasn't that different from gardening, you thought to yourself as you added the water into the jar of your father's ashes. Not that different at all.

It felt a bit weird. But it was his wish. After everything you'd done, the least you could do was honor that. Besides, you didn’t really think you could cope with having the jar of his ashes in the house you’d let him die in. So you poured the water over the flowers, dirt under your nails as you showered them graciously.

You'd never made a habit of talking to your mom's grave. Your dad did it a few times and you'd seen people doing it before but there was just no appeal to you. Talking to air felt weird and you weren't exactly going to start now. You'd never known your mom, she didn't need to hear your stories.

She’d died when you were young so it wasn't like you knew her. The concept of a mother meant more to you than who she specifically did. When you were growing up, sometimes you'd feel a longing absence that she wasn't there but the woman buried beneath your feet still meant nothing to you. A stranger whose photos lined the walls of your dad's bedroom - photos you would probably store in the attic. Like you'd never really known them. A part of your dad died with your mom anyways so the symbolism felt right.

He’d always go on and on about how much you looked like her, how similar you two were, that sort of crap. Now, staring at her headstone, you wondered what she’d think of you.

The feeling of eyes on you has become commonplace for you now. An is-ness rather than a concern. So you didn't even bother lifting your head. Just slumped forward, cross-legged, and picking at the dirt under your nails, flicking it at the daisies. "Do you ever miss them?" You asked aloud. You knew Michael was close enough to hear, especially since you were alone. "Your parents, I mean. I doubt you miss your sister too much. I mean, I heard what you did with her headstone when you killed those high schoolers." The bitterness in your tone was not missed but it didn't feel right to put words in his mouth.

"I'm still trying to decide how I feel." You sighed, poking at soft petals. "I never knew my mother so I can't miss her. She wasn't part of my life, only her ghost was. But I don't know how I feel about my dad dying. It always felt like I was competing with her for his affection. He loved her so much and could barely spare me a passing glance…" You swallowed and your throat clicked. "Sometimes I wonder if he'd have been happier if I had died and she'd lived.

If Michael Myers had to be the one to hear your confessions, at least you knew he wouldn't tell anyone.

You wiped your eyes and sniffled. "It's weird. I haven't decided if I hate him for that yet. If I hate him at all, even." When you looked up, Michael was staring down at you, face hidden behind the mask. You almost envied his ability to simply hide his feelings away. You'd never been able to avoid wearing your heart on your sleeve. "Do you ever think about if your parents wished it had been you instead of Judith?"

The silence felt suffocating and you broke into a helpless sob. The kind of crying that you did when no one was around and it felt like nothing was ever going to be okay again. Michael sat down beside you in the dirt, silent companionship through your tears.

He didn't say anything. But he didn't have to.

[closer-stars]

Heart of Depth (3)

Member: Yeosang Genre: Action, Slice of Life, Fantasy, Fluff, a little tension. Genshin Inspired AU Word Count: 9k Requested: Sort of yeah Content: Yeosang x MC development. More world building. Food stuff. A little bit of crime stuff, some history, some art info dump, some typical genshin shenanigans. Mild Violence (aka haha WooSanSang being badasses). Allusions to death. Note: Had to cut down part 3, it’s actually a lot longer originally lol. Inazuma’s been insane content. HoD was supposed to be 5 parts but considering how lengthy the parts have become it might be longer oops. Links to be updated after 24 hours. Life update: kinda got a slightly consistent work now so been focused on that. I hope this tides everyone over until I make a better return. Network: @ateezlovenet Tag list: @barsformars @miniyeo @jeongyunhoed @yeekies @yeotlny @frankenstein852 @shinyddeonghwa @prodbyteez @yeochikin @yeocult @harubirus

Part 2

“Yeosang, you might have to skip on meeting with them today.” 

He looks up from his screen, peering at San several feet away from him. “Why?” 

The good thing about San is that he’s unfazed when Yeosang uses that tone on him. He doesn’t cower when it comes to it, besides, there’s a special voice he uses when he’s genuinely angry. “Looks like there’s something special going on in the museum’s garden at night.” San explains. He already learned the hard way to not speak in riddles to him, but there were things that were better off spoken with mind games. “Check your email, I sent you the notice.” He says, shifting his attention to other matters on his plate. 

There’s something in San’s voice that makes Yeosang want to groan. Usually, this means San’s got some sort of trick up his sleeve when some sort of misdemeanor has been happening-- though the last time San had to speak in riddles over something serious was a few thousand years back. To cut the agony short, Yeosang shifts his attention to his emails, already the email San has forwarded sits at the top. 

It’s been a recurring incident for the past few weeks now. It’s only now that the museum have found the source of the smell. There’s been a peculiar flower that only blooms at night, emitting a scent similar to lavender, despite not looking like the mentioned plant. Though no one knows what flower is, the only response the staff has at the moment was to leave it be and wait for further instructions from the board. The photos attached to the notice made it easy for San to recognize it, all the man was waiting for was for Yeosang to see the photos too. 

His demeanor changes almost immediately once it registers in his head. That’s his lover’s flower, the Neve Jewel. It’s blooming again. Truthfully, Yeosang didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He didn’t really think they would’ve kept their promise after all this time. He stares at the images. He knows that glow, the shape, the colors all too well. All that’s left is the scent, it’s been so long since he smelled those flowers, now all but a lingering feeling in his dreams. Deep blue eyes lay unmoving on his computer screen as he tries to process waves of emotions in him. San waits in his seat quietly, even if his fingers tap away into processing permits and other papers, he worries for how Yeosang would take this. “I’ll let them know that I’ll be late today.” Yeosang states,already writing a message for you. 

Did San think he’d do anything different? Not quite. Even with the change of schedules, he knows how much Yeosang looks forward to seeing you everyday. He also knows how the man will do anything for those he loves. He can’t comprehend how he’s been able to have such self-control since their passing. He would always visit the tombstone of his lover up until the earth had decided to give birth to new life. 

[ Yeosang to You ] My dear, I’m afraid I won't be able to see you until after your closing hours. 

“San, can you get me the iced cafe latte along with a slice of their strawberry cheesecake?”  He would have to wait until night falls for him to catch sight of the flowers. He has feelings for you, that much he is sure. Whether or not you are who he thinks he is, how you’ve been towards him.

“Now?” San asks, rising from his seat and about to grab his jacket. 

“That would be nice, yes.” He says as he busies himself with an email, for the changes in the schedule for today. With that settled, San’s already off to your shop. 

---------

Just as San enters your shop, he’s amazed at the booming activity. All the tables were filled with various groups of people. He wondered what was so special about today. As he approached the counter, you had just finished packing up an order for takeout. While you seem to manage just fine on your own: taking orders and making drinks, it’s definitely not an easy task. 

“Today’s bustling I see.” San says as you immediately rush over after washing your hands. 

“San!” You exclaim, a little relieved for some sense of familiarity after the hectic peak hours. He sees your shoulders drop a little and he flashes a wide smile, glad to be of some relief to you. “Yeah, I asked some of the regulars what’s going on today and it seems like they have finals week coming up so everyone’s just been so busy with their studies.” You shrug as you explain. You were done with university so that aspect of those years are long behind you now. “Anyways, the usual?” 

“Not quite? Two iced cafe lattes, one slice of chocolate mousse and one slice of the strawberry cheesecake.” You nod and after the transaction’s made, you let him wait by the far end of the counter as you get to doing the coffee. 

He leans against the counter as he waits for his purchase. As time passes by, he looks around the place, watching regular humans go about their daily stresses. From the corner of his eye, he spots a familiar insignia on someone’s laptop. The owner’s hunched over, visibly lacking sleep as they seem to try beating their deadlines. He gazes at them for some time until he turns away, not wanting to think too much about it especially in front of all these people. 

“Here’s your order. I added some cookies as well, those are on the house.” You explain upon seeing his confused expression. He flashes a bashful smile in thanks. 

“Yeosang might come by later tonight.” He states. The sight of your flustered expression makes him smirk. “Has he already asked you to be his?” His light laugh rings in your ears and he stops teasing you. 

“Wooyoung might be here instead later. I have to run a few errands today.” You relay to him to which San acknowledges to send to Yeosang. Just feels like the old days. 

He should also probably relay to Yeosang the symbol he saw earlier. 

--------

“Yeosang, we need to--” San’s words are cut short when he’s greeted by the sponsors in their office. He sets aside the food bought from your shop and greets the visitors properly, throwing out any sense of concern in his body. 

“Ah yes, Mr. Choi just came back from an errand. Mr. Choi, I would like you to meet the representatives of the Museum of Ancient Art. I’m sure you’ve talked with them through the emails?” Yeosang says, voice going a little deeper as it usually does in front of formal visitors. If they weren’t in front of him, he would’ve laughed at how Yeosang still tries his best to assert himself. An eons old god, still trying to assert himself, if Yeosang only knew how much respect and intimidation he exudes. 

San approaches the two that he has constantly talked with through their online exchanges, relieved to have faces to their names. That’s right, he remembers now. A meeting with the Museum of Ancient Art to see which collections they can exchange with and how to promote each other in their respective areas. He just hopes this meeting ends as soon as possible because he finally recognizes the insignia from earlier. 

--------

The meeting lasts for two hours. Thankfully, it was a meeting that wasn’t the type that could’ve just been over email. The four of them rise from their seats, delighted to have finished a fruitful meeting on time. After San walks them out of the building, he hurries back in, and already Yeosang’s eating his slice of cake with his coffee. 

“We have no other meeting after that right?” San says as he brings his share to his table, leaning against his seat after such a tiring discussion-- not even a museum tour for students had worn him out that much. 

“None, so we will be here until after closing to check on the discussed flower.” Yeosang after sipping his coffee. “There was something you wanted to tell me, yes?” 

This gets San back into business mode, stern lines on his face as he faces Yeosang who busies himself with his cake. “Yeah, I saw someone in their shop, with the same insignia as the one that did a break in a few weeks back.” 

Yeosang’s eyes are on his coffee and half eaten cake as he listens to San’s encounter. This doesn’t feel right. Once he catches a glimpse of the flower, he’ll rush over to your shop. “I’ll drop by their shop afterwards.” He simply says. 

San takes the chance to look at his companion carefully. Behind the calm eyes already a storm rages, there’s tension in his neck and arms. If he’s right, then it’s only a matter of time. 

“We’ll discuss this at my place after tonight’s activities.” He simply ends the conversation there, taking another bite of his cake. 

“We’re still visiting their shop after?” It was a bit of a surprise for San to hear Yeosang wanting to go out of his way. Then again, why was San even surprised by anything anymore. This is Yeosang, he’s talking to. Also, with what San saw, archons know just how much turmoil there is inside Yeosang.

“If it’s possible, yes.” Yeosang closes his eyes as he drinks his latte. That’s enough for San to know to leave Yeosang to the privacy of his thoughts. Now all that’s left to do is wait until closing time. 

As San looks away from him, he shifts his view to his computer, then to his phone. It’s a little odd that you haven’t replied to his messages. Despite his calm facade, he’s stressed. If his assumptions are right, you’re being targeted, for reasons that are yet unknown to him. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] Are you working in the shop right now? 

[ Wooyoung to Yeosang ] on my way to the shop! Need me to prepare an order for you guys?

He stops for a moment, wondering the proper wording to make sure Wooyoung doesn’t panic as much as he is right now. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] Maybe later should San and I make it after today’s itinerary. I was simply wondering since they haven’t replied to me today. 

He stares at his phone screen for another moment. 

[ Yeosang to Wooyoung ] We’ll let you know. 

He has thirty more minutes before the museum is deserted. For now, he’ll make the most out of his cake. He’s not quite sure anymore if peace will last long from now on. 

--------

San takes the lead tonight. He asks one of the security guards to direct him and Yeosang to where in the garden was this strange flower located. Yeosang follows the male a few steps behind. His hands hidden in the pockets of his coat, he doesn’t want anyone to see just how tense he was. 

“It was spotted in this area, sir. The smell leads you to the plant.” The security guard informs them as he gestures to the general area.

San nods, taking note of his advice, already he catches a waft of the scent. He doesn’t need to look at Yeosang to know how on edge he was. “We can manage on our own from here. Thanks.” San promises, as he dismisses the guard, to return to his duty. As the security guard leaves the two alone, he glances at Yeosang. “Do you want to be alone?” The archon shakes his head. He sniffs the air for a moment. The scent takes him back to the memories of eons past. Simpler times, he assumes. 

From there, the two of them follow the scent. It’s a sharp contrast from all the turpentine and antique materials they’ve been exposed to since the museum was built. In today’s standards, the Neve Jewel would remind the regular people of an untouched field in the mountains. Though it is similar to lavender, it is still something that would even make those who love the said herb doubt that it is lavender that they’re smelling. 

From there, they see a faint glow against the dim lighting in the garden. A soft glow of cool blues bounce onto the ground from where the flower resides. San sits by the bench across the flower as Yeosang approaches the plant. 

It’s just like how he remembers it, just like the painting he showed you. It’s still the same after all these years. Yeosang hears nothing but the rush of blood in his ears. He’s too scared to touch the flower, fearing that it would be reduced to nothing-- that this would just be a sick dream his mind conjured. 

“It’s real, Yeosang.” San says softly, as he watches his friend gaze at the flower in disbelief. 

Yeosang snaps out of his thoughts and stands up. “I think I got all the proof I need.” He says softly. He stretches his legs, now reaching his full height. “Let’s go visit the shop.” 

--------

Yeosang parks his car a few steps away from your shop. The warm glow from the lights lets him hope that you’re still inside. He and San enter the shop, only to be greeted by Wooyoung mopping up the floor. “Oh, thought the two of you wouldn’t come. Want the usual?” He asks, the surprised look on their faces doesn���t slip by him. “Looking for Popsicle?'' Wooyoung asks, leaning his hand against the top of the mop.

“Popsicle..” San repeats, thoroughly confused but Yeosang catches his reference fairly quickly. 

“Didn’t think you’d give them that nickname.” He muses, already handing his card to Wooyoung who is already making his way to the counter. 

“Man, they call me Sparky, it’s even.” Wooyoung counters. He didn’t really think he’d reveal himself like that but alas, it’s been done. 

“Creative nicknames.” San comments, amusement in his tone. 

“Happens to the best of us.” With that, Wooyoung busies himself whipping up their orders. “Popsicle left early for personal errands and to try out some personal recipes, to see if they can add it to the seasonal menu.” He explains above the whirring of the coffee machine. “Also, apparently it was a busy day so they weren’t able to reply to any of our messages.”

Yeosang, unaware of some of the changes, inevitably trips against a potted plant. From the sudden cold feeling against his leg, Wooyoung probably had watered this just a few minutes ago. His resigned sigh catches San’s attention and notices his trousers have been, quite literally, soiled. “Uhhh, Wooyoung?” San calls out, a little concerned for the cleanliness of his peer’s outfit and the shop’s. 

“What-- Oh.” Wooyoung sees the mess and Yeosang says nothing but an apologetic bow. “I can clean it up once it dries up. Cleaning up wet soil just makes a bigger mess.” He points out. Unfortunately for him, this means staying in the shop longer when he can be in his bed, underneath his comfy blankets. 

“I can be of assistance.” The archon speaks up. San looks at his friend in alarm, hoping that he won’t give away what he really is but he pays him no heed. Wooyoung eyes him in confusion. 

With a flick of his wrist, his watch extends into a double ended scythes, his reflexes this time faster than earlier. He dips the edge of the blade against the spilled mud then against his pants, making sure to not nick at the fabric. The water from the damp dirt envelops the blade quickly, turning from an opaque brown color to clear and clean water. 

He lifts one end of the scythe from his pants and tips into the pot, the water dripping in as carefully as possible. Once successful, he taps the end of the scythe’s pole against the ground and immediately returns to a watch. 

Wooyoung watches the entire scene, speechless and confused by the entire spectacle-- though more of the fact Yeosang knows how to wield a scythe. “Does San know how to use a weapon too?” This wasn’t what he was supposed to ask but it will do for now.

“Just a sword staff.” San returns in equal nonchalance as Yeosang, in hopes that it wouldn’t make Wooyoung lose his mind. Instead though, Wooyoung lets out a low whistle, impressed at the two’s experience of handling rare weapons-- well he assumed they were rare. For he went with a great sword while you were something along the lines of a mage. To be honest, you didn’t really know how to describe your choice either. 

“Okay but, Yeosang, your pants are dirty and you used the blade against the fabric. Aren’t they expensive?” Wooyoung’s not entirely sure at this point of how to remedy the situation, one foot already at the direction of the broom to clean up the now dried soil. He’s not entirely shocked that Yeosang knows how to deal with water, his hydro vision hangs by his waist. He was more shocked with the scythe and the possibly damaged clothes. How he did that so willingly, maybe it’s the perk of being rich. 

Yeosang waves his hand dismissively about his concern. “Nothing to worry about. I know someone who can clean this without sacrificing the quality. To ease your wary heart, I barely touched the blade against the pant leg. It’s still perfectly fine.” 

Of course, he’d know someone. The rich always do. 

“What brand are you even wearing?” 

“Cucinelli.” 

With that mentioned, Wooyoung stands up and leaves the two for a moment. The abrupt exit leaves the two surprised and concerned. He returns with a broom in hand, cleaning up the soil and putting it back into the pot. The brand name alone tells him everything he needs to know about how much the pants were. “Is it really that expensive?” Yeosang asks, a little surprised by Wooyoung’s sudden lack of response. 

He doesn’t answer for a moment. “It’s enough to cover rent for a few months yeah.” 

This makes the archon ponder for a moment. Truly there were things that he forgets from time to time about the differences in the lives of humans. 

---------

For the next hour the two of them fill in Wooyoung on what has happened in their day, when all of a sudden Yeosang perks up in alarm. 

Yeosang looks around, can never be too careful after all. “Did you see anyone with a symbol that depicts three intertwined knots?” Wooyoung just gives him a perplexed look. WIth the amount of people Wooyoung sees on the daily, it was rare that any of them would stand out to him. It was easier to spot people who stand out in a studio than in a coffee shop. 

“Huh? Maybe our Popsicle did but I don’t remember seeing anything like that, why?” 

This time, he wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or not. The things the two have talked about, especially in the art scene, doesn't faze him anymore. For all he knows, the insignia they’re asking about is an anonymous artist they want to work with.

San shakes his head. “Just a hunch about something. One of these days, we can tell you but for now, we need to go home. It’s late.” San reminds them as he glances at the time. 

By now, Wooyoung was already finished cleaning everything up. The paper and plastic packaging for their orders were in their hands and it’s on them to throw it. His reasoning? He already worked hard to keep this place clean and he’s stayed beyond work hours to wait for them just like you’d always do. 

Now that the lights were closed and the doors were locked with ample protection by Wooyoung, San looks around and sees an odd being a few feet away. “Yeosang.” He murmurs softly, eyes flitting towards the direction he needs to face. The amulet in his pocket feels a little heavier.

Across the street stood the members from the Abyss Order, their eyes glinting in the dark with a plan that would put Wooyoung in danger should they not act quickly. “Wooyoung, I need you to get in the car now. I’ll drive you home.” Yeosang orders, tryinggnn his best not to sound on edge to not scare the guy. Usually, he and San can take care of these members without anyone around them becoming collateral damage. He’s not sure either if Wooyoung has his sword with him. 

 “What? Nah, it’s okay. I can just walk or get a taxi.” Wooyoung reassures, standing up twirling the keys in his fingers. 

“Wooyoung, it’s an ord--” Before Yeosang could complete his sentence, San already has his sword staff up, creating a sturdy shield to block out the bullets that were fired at them. The boom and the lack of sound from impact makes Wooyoung look over immediately. San’s weapon stands at a roughly twelve feet tall pole alone, add the sword and it could have been eighteen feet in length. The human’s not quite sure as to how that happened but questions might be better put for later. 

“Ah shit.” Your friend mutters, unclasping his bracelet and already it shifts into a greatsword, taking up a length of six feet easily. “I don’t know what they are but they are not damaging this shop.” What’s scarier: these unknown threats or you screaming? 

He manages to block a few of the projectiles coming their way,much to the shock of the two immortals. “Got any plan? Preferably something that makes sure this shop is unscathed?” Wooyoung growls, returning the projectiles, with much more strength towards the perpetrators. This time, the heated projectiles combined with his element, exploding upon impact. His vision glows a sharp purple as he continues to use his element. 

Yeosang looks around, trying to figure out a plan. “Watch my back” He simply says. Immediately, San shifts to take his usual position behind the archon. Wooyoung on the other hand, still throws damage against the strange figures. “Wooyoung, keep exposing them to electricity.” 

The human grunts in acknowledgement, slightly frustrated that he can’t move around freely as he has to make sure the shop takes no damage. San jumps into action,using the bladed end of his staff to take out what seems to be a burly figure wielding an electro hammer who was lunging straight towards Yeosang. It doesn’t take much to know that the figure’s near gone with how hard it staggers back from the impact. 

Yeosang spins his scythe, and the blades start to get enveloped by water. As he swings his scythe, blades of water hone in on the figures, knocking them back upon impact and damaging their own weapons. This gives enough time for San to push forward and drive his staff down onto them: pinning them against a sudden burst of wind currents. The pressure making it hard for them to wriggle out of, yet they twitch insistently from the exposure to electricity and water. “Leave if you want to see another day.” Yeosang warns in a strange voice. Wooyoung’s not sure if his goosebumps are from the static on his sword or from the change in Yeosang’s attitude. 

The men-- from what Wooyoung can only presume, submit to his order, speaking of promises to not return to the area and other words that he can only assume were pleas of mercy. 

“Whoever sent you here, tell them of my regards.” Yeosang growls. He doesn’t need to lean forward to look them in the eye. From where he stands, waves of his power come off him slowly. Something in Wooyoung runs cold when he sees his eyes and the tips of his hair glow an intense blue-- a blue that reminds him of the deepest trenches in the ocean, as he restrains their movements even further with water. 

When the promises are made, San makes sure to look each perpetrator in the eye, memorizing their faces and features for the future. They can never tell when the tide changes. The male then loosens his restraints on the men, despite the blood and bruises they have he lets them go. Though personally, he would’ve sliced them into ribbons for coming into this part of the neighborhood. 

Once the three have scrambled away from them, Yeosang heaves a sigh. It’s been a little too long since he had tapped into his archaic abilities. He carefully switches his scythe back into a watch, clasping it around his wrist. Once it’s snug around his wrist, he checks the time. Past midnight. What a tiring day. San heaves a tired groan, tapping the end of his staff against the ground and it becomes a weaved ring on his pointer again. The archon walks to his car, unfortunately with a few dents and scratches. It will be a matter to be taken cared of for another day, for now: safety.

“Get in the car.” He has already put up a protective layer of water against your shop, making sure that any damage against your shop would be minimized. The three figures have already retreated but to leave Wooyoung alone would be a death wish. Wooyoung scratches his thumb against the base of his sword and it turns immediately into his bracelet. He makes sure everything else is clear then hops into the car, swinging the door shut as Yeosang steps on the gas. 

“Who were they?” Wooyoung exclaims as he falls back into his seat with an exhausted whine. His clothes were definitely a mess and the adrenaline’s starting to wear off “Shit, Popsicle.” He worries for your safety, especially after tonight’s run-in. He’s not sure if you’ll be able to fend for yourself on your own. 

“San will take care of them. It’s too dangerous for us to go get them right now.” He promises yet the edge in his voice doesn’t leave. He knows who they were but why they were there is what’s making him grip the steering wheel harder than he should. “Yeosang.” San’s voice immediately reminds him to breathe. “To answer your question, the ones we fought earlier are from the Abyss Order. They haven’t been making their presence known in years.” 

“So why now?” 

“We don’t know.” San replies in place for Yeosang. “That’s why we asked if you saw a three intertwined knot insignia earlier because I saw something when I went in during their shift.” The rest of the drive is quiet. The car slows down to an acceptable speed to avoid any road blocks along the way. 

“You’re staying the night in my place for now.” Yeosang explains much to Wooyoung’s shock. “It’s not safe for you to go back yet. Not until tomorrow morning at least. San will pick them up. He knows his ways around the roads here.” He continues, as he slowly parks his car in the complex’s parking lot. 

Wooyoung explains to San where the two of you live and San already has a mental image of it. “Any landmark?”

“A convenience store right next to a grandmother’s ramen shop.” 

“Okay, I’ll see you guys later.” San then jumps out of the car and onto the scaffoldings of the buildings.

Wait, this is where Yeosang stays? Wooyoung looks around the area: the cars look timeless, expensive as well. On the ground seems to be the numbers of the respective owner’s place. He shuts off the engine and unlocks the doors. “Tell them to bring what they need for the next few hours. I have a lot to explain.” 

---------

That’s how Wooyoung ended up staying in Yeosang’s place for the night. Yeosang cooks up a simple pasta for them, knowing that even San will sleep over for the night. Wooyoung offered to help but Yeosang had been stubborn enough to make him sit down and drink his tea after updating you with what had happened. 

The needed conversation had to happen with you around so to kill time, both men decided to know the other a little more beyond the coffee shop and art museum. 

“... I basically got my vision after realizing what I wanted to do with my life.” Wooyoung explains. It happened after having a conversation with you in high school. “We were fighting about whether or not I should try for the competition despite my injuries..” Go figure. He went all in for it, of course with your help to keep him grounded but it would seldom work as he tunnel visioned into his goal. The difference between your two favoured medium is in the longevity of the works. He accepted that dancing is one of the shortest living works. Three minutes on stage is different from three minutes through a screen. Yet, there he was wanting to make his name known for years to come despite the short lifespan of dance. “It was when I told little Ice Cube about it that my vision formed in my pocket.” 

“I did get my name out there, once we started studying in university.” He continues. “I rose up the dance crew quickly. Things are always different in real life as compared to recorded performances, yet there’s always something beyond as they would say.” He shrugs, trying his best to not sound like he’s bragging. “Now here I am, teaching some idols choreography while teaching passionate dancers in a studio with a part time in your shop.”

This makes Yeosang mull for a bit. He’s met the Electro Archon, with Wooyoung’s story it did fall in line with the Archon’s belief and virtue: to go beyond what Time can limit. It took a few thousand years to remind the mentioned Archon of their humanity though. Fortunately, they have thus the influx of electro users in the succeeding years. He wonders then, when did you get yours? The archon does not want to pry yet curiosity pesters his mind. “I’m assuming that they have gotten their vision prior to yours then?” 

The mortal looks at him with wide eyes. “They never told you how they got the cryo vision huh?” Wooyoung notes as he takes his time to study Yeosang’s place.. Yeosang busies himself by making himself a cup of tea, while Wooyoung an americano. He knows his skills in creating coffee would be sub-par compared to yours but for now, it will do for him. 

“I’m afraid not, though I am aware of the similarities of the lives led by cryo users.” Yeosang returns as he hands the mug to the other male. Each Archon hands a human or an adepti with a vision, usually done when the subject of interest has reached a point in their life that exhibits values worthy of their attention. For the Pyro archon, it would be due to the passion one carries despite all odds. For Yeosang, the hydro vision is gifted when the human exhibits the desire to better themselves. The Cryo archon was an oddball even after the changes, for those who receive the cryo vision are those who have gone through a certain loss that changes them in the long run. As if to help them survive what the world has done to them.

What did you lose? 

Wooyoung eyes the coffee in his hands with worry. Your story is not his story to share, but he can share parts of it from his eyes. “They started living with my family at a young age.” He starts. “It took them awhile to warm up to the family but no one forced the lil Popsicle to be happy.” The dazed wary look you would give his parents pained him even until now. “Despite that, they’ve been deadly protective of our parents and brothers. You were always willing to fight any one that tried to bully me or any of our other classmates.” He says with a soft laugh. Yeosang listens intently, the mere image of you, a small child, willing to protect those who were suffering, it would’ve been a sight to see. Wooyoung takes a careful sip, making sure to not burn his tongue. “Their family was known for their ventures in history, usually through art and any written records.” Wooyoung adds, looking up at the male across from him. There’s something in him that tells him that Yeosang isn’t any regular vision holder. “Can I ask something?” 

The question surprises the archon slightly but he gestures for Wooyoung to continue. He supposes that not everything can be told from another pair of eyes, best to be told by someone who has seen it all. 

“You’re not a regular human are you?” Wooyoung’s question makes him chuckle. 

“What made you ask?” Yeosang starts, eyeing the human with curiosity. 

“For starters, no one’s hair glows at the tips.” Wooyoung points out, tipping his head towards the fringe that frames his face. “Nor should the eyes” he adds, referring to the run in earlier. He doesn’t add the words Yeosang spoke of, thinking it could be twisted easily into his favor. “Also, this amount of money cannot be amassed in such a short year unless you’re from a rich family.” In the back of his mind, he was already making a plan of how to escape and warn you should this become a worst case scenario. He was about to list more before Yeosang cracks up. 

“Well, yes. You are correct. I am not.. A human entirely.” Though he does plan to live like one after this. 

“But you’re not.. An adepti either then? You don’t look like Ganyu.” Wooyoung points out. At least that removes the possibility of him being associated with the bad guys. What memories that name brings him. It’s been a long time since he’s heard from Ganyu. The last he’s seen her, she could pass off as a woman in her early fourties if it weren’t for the ruby horns that curled upwards from her head. Maybe he should pay her a visit in the near future. 

“An adepti can take on a form like Ganyu yes, but there are also adepti that can take on the forms of animals or look like regular humans. My dear friend San, is an adepti as well.” Yeosang counters calmly as he sips his tea. “Now, I trust their judgement, you are a trustworthy human, especially to have the electro vision. Dear Wooyoung,” he starts. The ways of proving that he was the archon without annihilating an entire area is usually limited for a human’s mind can be picky. He lets his eyes turn into wide saucers, too wide to be considered human, and for his skin acquires scales like that of a dragon. Wooyoung’s reaction tells him enough and he reverts himself back to that of a human. 

“You’re the hydro archon.” Wooyoung sputters out. 

“That is correct.” Yeosang nods calmly.

“Can I swear?” 

“Carry on.” 

“Holy shit.”

--------

The way San entered your apartment as well was enough to scare you for the next three days or so. He doesn’t tell you much, even in the safety of your own home. Only a “Let’s go. We’ll explain somewhere safer.” By then, you already had your things ready and kept everything in place. Your vision is securely strapped around your waist while your Regalia is on your wrist. 

You arrive in one piece thanks to San. He had you running through small roads and hidden spots around the city, to avoid prying eyes and wandering ears from seeing the two of you. 

At first glance, you assume that this was another regular apartment complex that maybe you staying at home was the better option. But when you enter the lobby, the smell alone tells you this more than a regular building. There’s a receptionist with three guards around the place, the pristine interiors softened by the warm lighting. You feel out of place in your regular sweats and hoodie, San on the other hand might be in a worse position. A wrinkled jacket, dress shirt that’s been dirty with his tie loosened, his shoes lost their luster and his hair was in slight disarray. A rare sight indeed. 

“Let’s go. They won’t mind you anyways as long as you’re with me.” San reassures you, sensing your discomfort when the staff pass a glance at you. He walks with you to the elevator and once the two of you are in the small box, he heaves a sigh of relief and exhaustion, leaning against the wall for some sense of support. 

“What exactly happened, San?” You ask. The concern in your voice makes him look over at you and for a moment, he thought he saw the previous archon in you. No wonder Yeosang’s been hung up about you. Yet, once he comes to his senses, it’s just the same you. A regular human who carries the cryo vision, yet he could also see why Yeosang would like you regardless of your potential history. 

The rising elevator makes your ears pop, thankfully you manage to hear him say, “We’ll talk about it in Yeosang’s place. Wooyoung’s there as well.” He repeats. There’s no hint of unperceived danger in his voice yet it puts you on the edge. 

The lift rings, notifying them of their arrival. He gestures for you to walk ahead of him, mostly out of your own safety to make sure nothing comes running at you from behind. “2411” The man behind you says, and so you look for the number. It’s deep into the hallway when you finally see his place. San takes the chance to knock on the door thrice, and without missing a beat, it’s Wooyoung that greets the two of you-- slightly worse for wear but nothing you can’t fix. 

He sighs in relief, seeing you in one piece along with San and he lets the two of you in. “I brought your stuff.” You say, handing his duffle bag to him and he manages to let out a sound of relief.

“Yeosang! I’ll go ahead and shower!” He calls out, leaving you and San alone with him. The way Wooyoung has become so casual and comfortable with him doesn’t surprise you anymore. 

San takes up the stool Wooyoung left, you sitting next to him as you try to make sense of his apartment. The wide view of the skyline from wall to wall in the living room was enough to make your head swim with a fear of heights. The colors were on the whites and browns with the occasional accent of black. His kitchen didn’t really help quell your curiosity of just how rich he was. It’s only now that Wooyoung’s words were settling into your head. He’s rich and if your guess is right, he’s probably part of the 0.5% of society. There is no way he can pay for the upkeep of this apartment easily unless he was part of that aspect of society. 

Your eyes return to him as he serves the two of you some of the pasta he had made earlier. “Eat while it’s still hot.” He says for now. San doesn’t mind your questioning gaze on his friend but Yeosang tries not to cave in. Not yet. “I will explain everything once everyone’s cleaned up. It will be a long night for you and Wooyoung especially.” He leaves no room for arguments, and it takes a moment for the archon to realize that he’s using his business voice again. He rubs the back of his neck, albeit uncharacteristic of him as he tried to assert his calm nature just moments ago. “I will take a shower for now, don’t rush your meal for tonight.” Thus leaving the two of you on your own. 

---------

The water runs hot against his skin but the temperature doesn't faze him, steam has already coated the mirrors and the glass tiles. He just stares blankly at the murky rivulets that run down his body and to the drain. Questions still ring in his head as to what could’ve happened, why did it happen, and what had happened. You’d think an aged archon such as he could see the answers easily, yet there’s one thing he can never get right. Humans and their “sense” of logic, the claimed hardest to sway yet here he is wondering why things went the way they did with the adrenaline from the battle wearing off as the hot water relaxes his muscles. 

What was in the store that the Abyss Order thought was of importance? Was it you? 

As much as he loves being with water, he hates how it would remind him of many memories he tries to push away they still come back. Ironic really how water always is in motion, yet he can’t seem to just move on from what has happened years back. He snaps out of his thoughts and finishes washing up for the night, his dirty clothes tossed into the hamper as he changes into his sleep wear for the night. 

One day, the memories won’t hurt anymore. For now, he lets them hurt until the pain ebbs away. He lets himself mourn the pain for a few moments before coming back to reality. He can’t let himself mourn more than needed, there are things he needs to attend to first. 

When he comes back to the kitchen, it’s Wooyoung who is now keeping you company and from the looks of things, he was filling you in on what had happened to the best of his ability. 

“Really,” you sigh, drying your plate as you eye him with concern. “Thank goodness, you had your bracelet on you today. Let me check you for injuries.” You chastise him, not taking a no for an answer as you give his body a quick scan. 

“Ice cube, I think you should be checking on San and Yeosang-- Ow!” He yelps, when he feels your hand press on his shoulder. 

“Did you handle your sword the wrong way again?” You ask, spreading a thin layer of ice on his skin, akin to a muscle relaxant strip. 

The way you know him so well makes him pout. “Maybe..” He mutters, he waits for an earful that never comes. Instead, your attention shifted to Yeosang who has been watching the two of you bicker for what could’ve been this entire time. 

“Oh hey, Yeosang. I was telling them what had happened earlier, well at least the ones I understand.” He changed his seat so that Yeosang could sit next to you. 

Little shit. 

“You didn’t have to clean up.” He says, thanking Wooyoung for the seat. He doesn’t stop you though, you were practically finished with the job anyways. 

“It’s fine. It’s the least I can do. San went to clean himself up a few minutes ago.” You take your seat after cleaning up the dishes, you don’t miss the chance to shoot Wooyoung a glare at his motive though. 

“Then he’ll most likely return in ten minutes. Wooyoung, what have you told them thus far? Just so San and I can fill them in on any questions they might have.” 

“Mostly the fight, what the guys looked like, and your weapons.” He says, a little too enthusiastically thus causing the two of you to look at him with raised eyebrows. “What? It’s not everyday you see a double ended scythe and a sword staff three times taller than San.” 

“I heard that.” A pointed voice comes out from behind the. It was San, fresh out of the shower with an empty look of annoyance on his face. 

“Well, now that we’re here. I suppose we can get started.” 

The four of you take comfort in the living room as this could be a very long discussion. Well, to be specific, it’s only San that manages to find comfort on the couch, lounging on one side like a lazy cat while you and Wooyoung are still in shock over the quality of the place alone. The two of you sit carefully on the couch, Yeosang decides to sit across the two of you. The archon already seems burdened, wondering how else to go about this. 

“For starters,” San suggests. “I think it would be a good idea to tell you that I saw someone at your shop with the insignia on their laptop. It’s safe to guess that they’re part of the Abyss Order.” 

You look at him in confusion. The name rings faint bells but not quite what you were looking for. “The what?” You ask, shifting your glance to Yeosang. The immortals wonder if they saw a spark of fear flash before your eyes as you try to make sense of the situation. 

“The Abyss Order, my dear, they’re a long running organization. They started from wanting to topple Celestia, to wanting to take down the Archons.” It was the simplest way Yeosang could put it. The complete run down of history could take longer than a night and he doubts you and Wooyoung could take so much information within a short period of time. “Their insignia has changed over time. They work in the shadows, feeding opposing ideas to humans in subtle ways that reach the communal consciousness.” There have been certain forms of media that have come out that romanticize questionable lifestyles and choices, that only a handful can tell the Abyss had a hand in them.

“So why were they at my shop? I’m just a regular human trying to make ends meet and make my dreams come true” You say. 

“Regular my butt. Ice Cube, we have visions, I don’t really think we’re regular.” Wooyoung snorts. He has a point, vision carriers weren’t that common. “But that is a good question.” He says after a jab to his side thanks to you. 

Yeosang cups his chin in thought. “My guess is because of San and I.” He returns calmly. “Well, to be exact, me.” 

Wooyoung’s head starts to work into overdrive. “Wait, right.” He cuts his own words off, groaning into his hands. San starts to find his own nails interesting as the conversation shifts to this. Unfortunately you were still unable to make sense out of everything. How could you, your night went from San telling you to pack up, to running through unknown streets, to seeing the three of them in a slightly worse for wear situation to a multimillion apartment.

“Can someone please explain?” You plead, your patience running thin. You don’t like being kept in the dark. You don’t like the familiar feeling of frustration and powerless feeling it brings. 

“My dear, I don’t know how else to say this but I, Kang Yeosang, am the Hydro Archon.” As he reveals this, his eyes glow into the colors of the ocean, with his pupils widening more than normal,  streaks of ice blue against a deeper blue green hue. If you look any closer, you might be able to see hints of white, just like sea foam in his eyes. His skin forms patches of scales on his forearms, but the metamorphosis stops there. He’d rather not turn into full form and cause property damage. “I’ve been the one responsible for giving Hydro visions for as long as I can remember.” He manages to rasp out, his voice now rather hoarse due to the partial transformation.  

Your eyes grow wide, somehow this makes sense and at the same time it doesn’t. This explains his extensive knowledge of history yet at the same time, it’s a struggle to wrap your mind around the mere fact you’ve been catching feelings for an immortal being. Of all beings to fall for, it had to be the Archon. It couldn’t have been someone like Wooyoung but then again, do you really want that?

“He wields a double scythe by the way.” Wooyoung comments under his breath. That part, you can take in stride, your best friend handles a great sword while you used something akin to a floating orb. 

“But wait, you said initially, this Abyss Order’s targets were you and San. Is San an Archon too?” You ask. If he was the Anemo Archon, you might have to cut this discussion short-- it’s been a hectic and eventful day.

“I was offered, but I turned it down.” San says with a shrug. “I prefer just being something like a guardian of a region rather than overseeing the entire world.” He doesn’t continue the story and instead stretches his body out like a cat lazing under the sun.

Yeosang slowly transforms back into that of a regular human. “That’s as far as my guess goes, that I’m the primary target. Anything else is unfortunately beyond my knowledge.” He hasn’t kept in contact with the other archons either so it’s anyone’s guess at this point.

“So what now?” You ask. “I really can’t just stay at my shop 24/7. Wooyoung can’t either, besides the shop, he works at a dance studio too, remember?” 

Yeosang stays silent for a while, thinking through possible remedies for the time being. “Would an additional hand suffice?” 

“I’m not hiring you or San into my shop. I don’t think the salary I can give either of you could compare to the salary in an art museum.” 

“Oh no, not me. The art museum needs San and I to continue running.” He shakes his head. It was a lovely idea though, a nice change from the constant stress of files and intensive care. “I know someone who might be able to help, he’s just like San.” San looks over at Yeosang with a raised brow, raising his head from his arm to get a better view of his friend. 

“I mean, if he’s a friend of yours and is aware that I can’t give a salary as high as you can then I don’t think I can turn down the offer.” 

“Then it’s settled then. I’ll contact Hongjoong tonight to give him the details. If things go as planned, he will be able to meet you tomorrow afternoon.” 

“Oh right, Yeosang put up some sort of protective barrier for the night that spans until early afternoon I think? So more time for us to rest and catch up on sleep.” Wooyoung explains upon seeing your panicked face at the ‘tomorrow afternoon’ part. “So I guess, that’s it for tonight?” Wooyoung asks in a hopeful tone, trying to stifle a yawn with his hands. 

The immortals remember the limitations of humans and thus decide to end the discussion here. “Yes, we can continue this some other time. For the sake of your safety, feel free to come to the art museum. I’ll let the staff know of you to let you through easily. For now, it is better for the two of you to get some rest.” 

San sends him a look, realizing that he had omitted a certain topic out of the discussion. At the mention of rest, you start to feel the exhaustion seep into your bones. Your eyes feel heavy now as Wooyoung’s yawn reminds you of how eventful the day was for both of you. “I’ll lead them to their room.” San offers, much to Yeosang’s relief as he couldn’t handle what San might want to discuss once the two were off to rest. 

Yeosang switches the lights off, bathing the room in darkness and night lights once more. The hallway was dimly lit, making sure that none of his visitors bumped themselves to their slumber. He asks himself why he veered away from the topic of you being a potential interest by the Abyss Order. He wasn’t happy with the answer but it’s the only one he’s got.

He doesn’t want history to repeat itself, yet he knows that those who don’t know it are doomed to repeat it. Even with these worries, he can’t get himself to look at the amulet that rests by his bed side.

--------

Something inside you starts turning. “San, do you remember what the symbol looks like?” You ask carefully, voice barely above a whisper. For Wooyoung’s sake, you didn’t want him to hear this conversation. 

His eyes glance at you after watching Wooyoung flop over the bed. It’s only now that you notice the green streaks in his eyes. “Of course, something wrong?” 

“Can you draw it and send it to me over chat?” You don’t answer his question. “Also, do you have any injuries?” Until you have some sort of confirmation, you won’t divulge any information to him. 

San raises his knee as an answer. “Scraped myself when I had to pin the Abyss members down but nothing too worrisome.” 

“Can I at least fix it? I wasn’t able to ask Yeosang either of his injuries.” San remembers that you were more adept at healing, you can still pack a punch but you preferred to stay at the back. For both of your peace, he enters the room and lets you check on his injuries. 

At least the wound has been cleaned but it’s still very fresh. “This isn’t just a scrape, San.” There’s something in your tone that makes San shrink back like a child. Wooyoung peeks over, your concern catching his attention. 

“That looks pretty bad.” Wooyoung comments much to San’s embarrassment. Never did the guardian expect a human to chide him like a parent-- not even Yeosang did that. 

“It’s not that--” San’s words are cut off by the jolt in temperature. The sharp cold stings against his wound-- maybe he didn’t disinfect it enough. He hears you murmur words of what he can only assume were spells. The intense drop in temperature made his leg stiffen from the sensation, but it was gone as quick as it happened. The guardian looks at his legs and already it was new skin, as if the wounds never even happened and he had just decided to do an exfoliation. “Makes me wonder how you’d be in a fight.” He muses his thanks, running his fingers gently against his healed knee. 

“Please don’t. I might just be the type to cry while fighting.” You plead, much to Wooyoung’s amusement. 

The immortal chuckles at the image, for the most part it is endearing but he tries not to wear down the light conversation with the more realistic thoughts in his head. San stands up and heads towards the door. “Good night you two, the next few days might be a little hectic for the four of us.”

Part 4

[sohotthateveryonedied]

I’ve Never Felt So Helpless

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

“Tim.”

“In fact, I think we’ve both earned a quiet night in with food and shitty movies and snuggles and—”

“Tim!”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Tim looks down where she points at a spot on his neck, and—was that stinging sensation always there? He touches the part of his cowl that covers his neck. His glove comes away covered in blood. “Oh.” Now that he’s aware of it, he can feel the blood rushing from the wound at a speed that he’s fairly certain wounds aren’t supposed to bleed at. “That’s not good.”

Tim is a simple man, no matter what anyone else says. Does he fight crime in tights? Yes, and proudly. Does he guiltily watch the occasional Riverdale episode because he had a crush on Cole Sprouse growing up and owes this to his prepubescent self? Obviously. Would he like to enjoy a relaxing night every once in a while, devoid of supervillains and near-death experiences? One hundred percent. Tim has stated this precise case upwards of a dozen times tonight, yet here he is, exhausted and covered in plant matter from a fight with Poison Ivy. All because Steph wanted to handle Ivy’s escape from Arkham themselves despite the fact that she and Tim specifically asked for tonight off so they could have some alone time for the first time in weeks. Tim bought sparkling cider, dammit. “You are way too hung up on this,” Stephanie says, wringing out her hair from when Ivy chucked her into a pond. They stand together on a rooftop, watching the final squad car pull away from the scene. It is not nearly as satisfying as it should be. “I wanted one night. One.” “There will be other nights, Tim. Besides, we caught Ivy before she could do any major damage. I call that a job well done.” “At the cost of our date night!” “Oh, like you’ve never canceled plans to fight crime. You’ve blown me off for supervillains plenty of times. So have I. But this time, we got to do it together, which I think counts as a date night.” “It doesn’t, actually. Normal people do things like going out to dinner, catching a movie, taking romantic walks on the beach. I want to be like that.” Steph turns to face him. She plants her hands on her hips. “Tim.” “And, you know, I can’t remember the last time we got to have a date night that didn’t involve punching someone. Do you know how insane that is?” “Tim.” “In fact, I think we’ve both earned a quiet night in with food and shitty movies and snuggles and—” “Tim!” “What?” “You’re bleeding.”

Tim looks down where she points at a spot on his neck, and—was that stinging sensation always there? He touches the part of his cowl that covers his neck. His glove comes away covered in blood. “Oh.” Now that he’s aware of it, he can feel the blood rushing from the wound at a speed that he’s fairly certain wounds aren’t supposed to bleed at. “That’s not good.” Steph is in front of him in an instant, one hand pressed against his neck and making him hiss. “How does the world’s greatest detective not realize he’s got a giant gash in his neck?” Should Tim be feeling this woozy already? It must be the adrenaline rushing out, leaving him a puppet without strings. “There was a razor vine, but I thought it missed me.” His legs shake, dangerously close to giving out. Steph takes notice and helps lower him to the ground so they’re on their knees, facing each other. “Clearly, it didn’t. Take your cowl down, let me see.” Tim obeys. Steph has to let go of the wound for a moment so he can loosen the cape from around his neck. It’s only a second, but Tim already feels warm blood seeping down his collar, soaking into the fabric of his uniform. “Shit,” Steph hisses when she gets a good look. Her hands fly back to press against the wound. “How bad is it?” “Bad.” She fumbles in her belt for a pad of gauze. She pins it to his throat, trying to keep the blood inside of him where it belongs. “It didn’t hit an artery, did it?” That would...well, it would be pretty damn bad. Life-threatening, if it isn’t already. “I don’t think so. The gash is too low.” She presses harder when blood leaks from a gap in her fingers. “It shouldn’t be bleeding this much, should it? The wound isn’t even that big. I don’t think your blood is clotting like it should.” Tim goes even paler than he already is. “Oh.” “Oh?” “Ivy. She sprayed me with something.” He winces as the wound throbs. “During the fight.” “Are you kidding me? You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?” “I was busy! And I felt fine, so I figured I would run a blood test when we got back to the cave. I didn’t think she would do something to my blood.” “Damn it. Okay.” Steph closes her eyes, thinking. “Can you reach your communicator?” “Yeah, I think so.” Tim reaches for his utility belt, tilting his head to see better. That small motion causes Steph’s hand to slip, allowing another gush of blood to spurt from his neck. “Shit, shit, shit.” She repositions, gets a better grip on the wound. “Don’t move your head.” Tim swallows nervously. “We good now?” “I think so. Just...be careful, okay? Small movements. You’ve already lost too much blood, so I want to keep you as plugged up as possible.” “Kinky.” “Shut up.” Tim manages to locate the communicator and turn it on. Just in time, too. It’s getting harder and harder to focus, the blood drying on his neck and sticking to his skin. If he wasn’t anemic before, he certainly is now. The communicator crackles. “You’ve got Oracle. I thought you and Batgirl were off duty tonight.” “We are,” Steph says. “Listen, can you patch me through to whoever can hypothetically get me and Red Robin to the cave as fast as humanly possible?” “What happened?” “We had a run-in with Ivy. She’s taken care of, but she did something to Red. Something to keep his blood from clotting. He’s got a laceration on his throat and I’m trying to stop the bleeding, but I don’t know how much longer we have.” “Sending an ambulance to your location.” “Negative. His face is uncovered, so a regular hospital is off the table. It needs to be the Batcave.” “Got it, I’ll transfer you to Batman. He can take you in the Batmobile. I’ll call Leslie Thompkins and have her meet you guys there.” “Tell her to hurry.” Steph’s voice wavers, anxious. Tim wants to reassure her that he’ll be fine, but it’s getting more and more difficult to concentrate, like he’s a radio trying to tune to the right station. He tips forward and presses his forehead against Steph’s shoulder, his body sagging. She keeps him upright, careful not to loosen her grip on the gauze. Finally, the communicator beeps. “Batman here. What is it?” Steph runs through their situation again, leaving Tim free to drift as he pleases. Steph is warm against him, like a fresh latte. There’s blood in her hair. Tim runs his fingers through the bloody patches, trying to separate the clumps. Something prods his shoulder. “Hm?” “I asked how you’re doing.” Bruce doesn’t sound nervous—he never does. But Tim knows him better than most. He can tell when he’s worried. “I’m hanging in,” Tim manages. “How long ‘til you get here?” “I’m ten minutes out. You think you can hold on until then?” “Mm-hm.” Honestly, Tim isn’t sure if he can. But at least Bruce won’t worry as much if he thinks Tim is going to be okay. “Batgirl, do either of you have an Ivy antidote on you?” “I have a couple for her general toxins, but I don’t know how they’d do with this one. Should I give it a shot anyway?” “No, it might make things worse. Keep me updated on his condition. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Batman, out.” A click. Tim tosses aside the communicator, uncaring of whether he turned it off properly or not. The ground rocks beneath him, like the rooftop is floating on a roiling ocean. Steph’s free hand runs through his hair, soothing on his scalp. “Sweetie, are you still with me?” “Mm.” “Stay awake, okay? Just for a little longer.” Tim nods against her shoulder. Steph releases a breath. “Good. Now, do you think you can reach into my belt and get some more gauze? This one is soaked through.” Already? That’s a bad sign. Tim doesn’t move his head from her shoulder. “Which pocket?” “Uh...second one on the left of my right hip, I think? I usually go by muscle memory.” Tim checks the pocket and finds no gauze, but there is a stick of gum and a few rubber bands. “Next to that one, maybe?” Still nothing. “Steph, do you actually know what you’re doing?” “Look, it’s easier when I can see it, okay? Here, bunch up your cape. I can use that for now until Bruce gets here.” It takes some careful maneuvering for Tim to reach his cape without moving his head or neck, but he manages to fold it the best he can. He hands it to Steph, so brings it close to the wound. “Okay,” she says. “I’m going to switch off now. Ready?” Tim nods. “Do it.” She’s quick about it. She yanks away the soiled gauze and replaces it with the cape in seconds, but blood eagerly spills out as soon as it’s free. Tim’s vision goes blotchy, the darkness behind his eyelids sprinkled with stars. He hisses when Steph crams the fabric against the wound hard enough to make him want to jerk away. He doesn’t, though, just digs his fingers into her shoulder and takes deep breaths through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs. “It’ll stop hurting in a bit.” She presses a kiss to his hair. “I’ve got the bleeding under control, I think.” “You think or you know?” “I think.” That’s not at all reassuring. Even so, Tim finds that he doesn’t mind as long as it’s Steph with him. He would gladly put his life in her hands, and now that he’s here, he’s content. He trusts her. “Tim?” “Hm?” “I changed my mind.” “On what?” “We should have done a date night instead.” Tim snorts, but it’s weak. More a huff than anything. “This isn't so bad. ‘Least we’re together.” “Yeah, covered in blood on a freezing rooftop. Very romantic.” Tim hums, presses his nose to her neck and closes his eyes. She smells like lavender. “You’re pretty.” “Stop that.” “Stop what?” “Stop talking like you’re dying.” “‘m just making an observation. You’re pretty.” There is blood covering both of their uniforms, smeared across the bat symbol on Steph’s chest. Her face glistens with sweat from the fight, and there’s a bruise on the side of her jaw. She’s still gorgeous. “You’re a dork.” Tim hums. His stomach rolls and his heart picks up until he can feel it throbbing in his skin, like his pulse is racing to get out. He closes his eyes. “I don’t feel good.” “Bruce is going to be here in a few minutes. Hang in there, alright?” How much blood has he lost by now? Two pints? Three? How much longer does he have before the point of no return? Even as Steph keeps pressure against the wound, he can feel rivulets running down his neck. She can’t keep the bleeding at bay forever. “I love you...y’know that?” “Don’t say that. I’m not kidding.” “Someone should...should feed m’cat. Ruby’s tiny, but she eats a lot.” “Bruce is on his way, Tim. You’re gonna be fine. Don’t fall asleep yet.” “I’m losing blood,” he mumbles against her shoulder. “Humans...need blood to survive. ‘m gonna go into hypovolemic shock soon, and then it’s over.” He can barely lift his head now. There are weights attached to his eyelids. “Stay awake, Tim. You hear me?” Steph’s voice trembles, and Tim feels awful for putting her through this. She deserves better. “You’re not dying. I won’t let that happen.” Tim wants to reassure her, to tell her she’s right, if only to keep her from making those shaky crying noises. There are tears dripping on his shoulder. He wants to stick around, keep Stephanie from feeling the hurt that’s about to come, but his pulse is racing too quickly to keep up with blood it can’t circulate. He hears Steph’s voice somewhere above, calling his name, but she’s too far away. Tim lets himself sink into the darkness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steph hasn’t changed out of her uniform yet. She knows she should. She’s sticky, covered in blood that dries on her suit in rusty red flakes. The blood is thick in her hair, on her hands, soaked into the fabric over her knees. Tim’s blood.

She can still feel it—feel Tim’s fluttering pulse under her fingertips, growing weaker and weaker with every passing second. The weight of him against her shoulder, slumped as if he was already dead. And then the agonizing moment where she felt him let go, sagging against her like a corpse. She wants to forget it. To forget this entire night, wipe it clean from her memory. Pretend that everything is still okay, even when it isn’t. “How are you doing?” Steph looks up at Bruce. She didn’t even hear him come in. He hands her a cup of coffee, which she takes in cold hands. “I’m fine.” Her voice suggests otherwise. “He’s going to be okay.” Steph looks back at Tim asleep on the medical cot, his skin as pale as a cadaver's. A bag of O-negative hands beside the bed, pumping blood into his body through an IV. Another IV pricks his other arm, delivering the antitoxin. He looks dead. He was unconscious for a full three minutes before Bruce arrived on that rooftop, lifeless in Steph’s arms. It was the most terrifying three minutes of her life. “Stephanie.” Bruce’s face is stern but sympathetic, his eyes gazing into her own. “You did good tonight.” “He nearly died.” “But he didn’t. You saved his life. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you.” Steph can count on one hand the number of times Bruce has said that to her. He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Alfred prepared a room for you upstairs. You look like you could use some sleep.” Steph shakes her head. “I think I’ll stay here for a while. Just until he wakes up.” Bruce nods and leaves, his footsteps echoing off the cave walls. Steph reaches out and grasps one of Tim’s cold hands in her own. His fingertips were pale before, almost blue, but they are slowly returning to their rightful shade. She sighs. Fuck it. She leaves the coffee on her chair and climbs into the bed beside Tim, pulling herself close and resting her head on his chest. She can hear his heartbeat under her ear, steady and unfaltering. She closes her eyes. “Don’t do that again, okay?” she whispers. “Or I’ll resurrect you just to kill you myself.”

[thesassenachswiftie]

Lover - Chapter 13: “Soon You’ll Get Better”

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Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7 // Chapter 8 // Chapter 9 // Chapter 10 // Chapter 11 // Chapter 12

Summary: Claire and Jo go Christmas shopping; Claire gets a call at work that Lamb’s in the hospital in Boston where she fears she will need to spend the holidays without Jamie. In short: angst, but make it festive.

" This won't go back to normal, if it ever was It's been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because 'Cause I have to

Ooh-ah, you'll get better..."

CW: cancer, hospitals, illness of a loved one,

Notes: First of all, if you’re still here, thank you for reading, and thank you for bearing with me as I took a small hiatus. Hopefully I will be getting back to a more regular posting schedule, but work is really draining right now and it’s hard to find enough hours in the day to do everything. 

As you know, each Chapter of this fic is based off a Taylor Swift song by the same name. This one was particularly difficult to write/approach because I actually haven’t listened to this song in over a year. In early Summer 2019, a tumor was found on my grandfather’s brain. This was also the summer I discovered Outlander, and the summer Taylor Swift released Lover. The day after Lover came out, I broke down sobbing in my apartment listening to this song and thinking about my grandfather, knowing his condition was worsening. That night, I recieved the call that my grandfather had passed. He was the kindest, purest soul and I write this chapter in part as a tribute to him. Many of the experiences Claire and Lamb share are based on my own experiences with my grandpa that summer, and this version of Lamb is very much based on my Grandpa Jim. 

That being said, you may want to grab a box of tissues before reading, but hopefully not all your tears will be sad. I’m hoping to post again before Chistmas, but in case I don’t Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays--and Happy Hanukkah to any Jewish readers I may have--here is a Hanukkah present for you!

 Chapter 13: “Soon You’ll Get Better”  

         “All I want for Christmas is yooouuuuu” the sounds of Mariah Carey rang out throughout the small boutique gift shop in the heart of the village of Northport.

           “Good God, we’re only a week into December and I swear I’ve already heard this song three hundred times. I’m not exaggerating either. Two hundred and eight-four at the very least.” Jo scoffed exasperatedly.

           “Are you complaining?” Claire asked in reply. “It’s a great song--a classic really.”

           “Do you know how many incredible, amazing, beautiful, jolly Christmas songs there are in existence?” Jo was gearing up for one of their famous rants, “Yet, the radio stations only ever play the same eighteen songs, I swear!”

           “It must be more than eighteen.”

           “Fine. Twenty. Take this song for instance: Ingrid Michaelson has the most hauntingly beautiful cover of it--do you ever hear it? No! You only ever hear Mariah!”

           “I, for one, like Mariah!” Claire interjected, playfully defensive.

           “Who doesn’t? But she’s not the only powerhouse female vocalist out there! I’d just like to see a little diversity in my holiday music, is that so much to ask?”

           Claire giggled. Her best friend always had an opinion on everything and she loved them all the more for it. “Do you think Jenny would like this candle?” Claire unscrewed the lid a locally-made jar candle, taking a sniff before placing it under Jo’s nose. It smelled like Lavender and Sage with just a hint of Eucalyptus.

           “Does Jenny keep a lot of candles around, with all those children?” Jo chuckled back. “It does smell nice though.” Jo had only met Jenny a couple times when visiting Claire, but they had a knack for reading people and Claire was glad to have them along as a shopping partner.

           “I suppose candles aren’t really her thing. Jenny seems very practical, but I don’t know what she would need that she doesn’t already have, and Jamie’s been no help!”

           “I think you’re on the right track with the self-care/relaxation vibe, but maybe not something the children can use to burn the house down. What about an artisanal lotion set?” Jo inquired, gesturing at a nearby display.

           “Oh that might work!” Claire took a squirt from the bottle labeled ‘tester’ inhaling deeply as she rubbed it between her palms. “Ooo that’s nice, I would appreciate this if I were a hardworking mother.”

           “If things keep going the way they are with your man, LJ, you might just be before you know it” Jo made a lewd gesture with their hands, raising their eyebrows to make it clear exactly what they were implying.

           “Jo! You’re terrible” Claire shrieked, smacking her friend playfully on the arm. Besides, not much of that happening these days if you haven’t noticed, Jamie is literally across the ocean.”

           “Well, at least you can’t get knocked up from phone sex,” Jo replied. “What are you getting him anyway? I’m thinking something lacy and strappy, with little bows on it of course, to be festive. There’s a place down the street that might have something like that.”

           “Hmm” Claire exhaled. “We’ll see.” Claire knew lingerie was definitely going to be part of Jamie’s Christmas gift, one she would be most excited for him to unwrap. God, she missed him. It had been over a month and they were settling into a routine, video chatting every night, sweet texts back and forth throughout the day, the occasional phone sex when they were both sick with desire for one other--but nothing was the same as the feel of their bodies pressed against each other in the heat of the moment, chasing each other’s climax. Claire couldn’t wait to be reunited with him in every way.

           It was two days before Christmas break, only a few days left until Claire would find freedom for the next ten days and, most of all--the comfort of Jamie’s arms. Claire was sitting in her school nurse’s office, inhaling deeply during the first quiet moments she’d had all week. There was an uptick of student visits in the past couple weeks--a few were legitimate concerns tied to cold and flu season: students whose parents sent them to school when they weren’t quite well enough, overachievers who wanted to maintain their perfect attendance dragging themselves to school despite their bodies protestations. Most of her patients however, were suffering from something much more insidious: the eagerness to start their winter break early by skipping their classes. This time of year the air of the school felt different, students and teachers alike were burnt out, apathetic, and ready for a break. This attitude in the students fed into the teachers’ attitudes--overworked with the end of the marking period, trying to squeeze in Christmas shopping and decorating between grading. Claire did not envy Jo nor any of the other teachers during this time, but their exhaustion was so palpable in the air of the school that she was starting to feel it too. By tomorrow, most teachers would be shutting their doors and playing a holiday film, giving up on instruction all together--hopefully that would make for a quiet day for Claire. Really, if she could just get through the rest of the day it would be smooth sailing until Christmas--until Jamie.

           Her silent musings were broken by the blaring sound of her office phone. She was expecting a teacher, calling to send a student down, but instead it was the school clerk, Glenda. “Hi Nurse Beauchamp, we have an outside call for you, it seems like it may be a personal call so if there’s any students with you we can send someone down to watch them if you’d like to take it privately here in the office.”

           Claire's heart sank to her stomach. What could it be? She took a deep breath and swallowed to brace herself before replying “last student just left.”

           “Alright, I’ll transfer you now.” The click of the call transferring sounded through the phone.

           “Hello, this is Miss Beauchamp”

           “Hello Miss Beauchamp, I’m Tammy, a nurse at Mass General we’re calling because you’re listed as the emergency contact for Quentin Beauchamp” a nasally voice croaked through the phone speaker--the voice was impersonal like that of a cashier saying “have a nice day” for the thousandth time, not fitting of a potential harbinger of death.

           “Yes…” Claire replied, nervously, questioningly.

           “Mr. Lambert was admitted this morning after showing signs of cognitive distress. An initial cat scan shows a mass on his brain. He’s currently undergoing testing to see if it’s cancerous.”

           Claire’s lungs felt like they were about to collapse. Lamb had been diagnosed with prostate cancer several years ago, but had been able to live with it through treatment. Claire also knew that cancer was insidious and could spread throughout the body rapidly and without warning. She knew it was very likely that the mass was cancer. She tried to find her medical professional voice, but a diagnosis was different when it was someone you loved. Instead, she croaked out, “when will you know?”

           “We should have the results by tomorrow. He’ll stay here overnight for monitoring and we’ll decide whether to admit him long term from there.”

           “I’m on Long Island, should I drive up?”

           “I’m afraid it’s too soon to tell, it could be nothing, but--” Claire cut her off, knowing exactly how bad it could be.

           “I understand. I’ll drive up this evening.”

           “Alright, he should be back in his room by then, he’s out getting his tests done now. It’s room 713 when you get here.” Claire wrote the number on a bright blue sticky note on her desk as the nurse spoke. “Have a nice day Ms. Beauchamp”

           “Hmm” was all she could reply, as if she could possibly have a nice day. She hung up the phone, and finally let the deluge of tears she’d been holding back free.

She allowed herself to cry for a few minutes to get it out, but she knew she had to get to Boston as soon as possible. She picked up the phone again and dialed the main office.

“Hi Glenda, it’s Claire. I need to take the rest of the day off--I have to go to Boston, my uncle…” she couldn’t say it out loud for fear of unleashing the tears again “Is Principal Gowan there, I need to let him know.”

“Oh Nurse Beauchamp, I’m so sorry to hear that, let me know if you need anything. Mr. Gowan’s in his office, I’ll transfer you to him now, if he doesn’t answer just pack up your things and go, I’ll take care of it”

“Thanks Glenda, I really appreciate it”

----------

           After getting the ok from her kind and understanding principal, Claire rushed back to Jamie’s apartment, hastily packed a bag (likely forgetting several things), informed Jenny where she was going--which was met with sympathy and genuine concern--and hopped back in the car for the journey to Boston. She entered the hospital doors several hours later, the buttons of her coat were tangled in her hair as she rushed, breathless, to the front desk to receive her visitor’s pass.

           When she arrived at Lamb’s room, he was asleep. She didn’t want to wake him, but she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze to let him know she was there before settling into the armchair beside him to await his awakening. He looked so frail and small in the hospital bed, not at all like the strong, spirited man who had raised her. He had left the television on--some sports channel was playing a highlight reel of various golfing moments. No wonder Lamb fell asleep. Claire was staring at the screen, but her thoughts were elsewhere: worried about Lamb, wondering if she’d remember everything when she hastily packed, wondering what the future held. Would she have to spend Christmas in this hospital room? A golf ball soared across the Scottish Highlands on the screen. Jamie. Jamie was coming home Christmas Eve, she was supposed to pick him up from the airport, supposed to spend her holiday break with him, experience her first Hogmanay with the Murray family, be surrounded by love and laughter and family. Lamb was supposed to be fine, he was supposed to take the train down, spend Christmas with them. Every plan they had made was shattered into a million pieces. Would she even be able to see Jamie? She thought about the presents she’d bought for him, not yet wrapped, piled in the closet but definitely not hidden, especially considering it was his apartment. Of course he’d understand--she could tell him where they were, but the magic of unwrapping would be lost, it would feel entirely unsentimental. It was bad enough that she felt her gifts weren’t sentimental enough--what could she possibly get him to show how special he was to her? How could she communicate that with an object? If she were a painter she would paint him a painting, if she were a songwriter she would write him a song, but she was simply Claire, and practical gifts were all she knew. She had purchased a cozy blue sweater to match his eyes and keep him warm in the brisk London winters, a cool multi-tool the size of a credit card that would fit in his wallet and help him solve a variety of problems, a protective case for his phone, and a box of artisanal beef jerky.  She had also procured a complicated piece of lingerie with a big red bow across the chest for him to unwrap the night of Christmas, which she knew he would enjoy. Everything was thoughtful enough and mostly practical, but she longed to be able to give him something truly special--a grand gesture to match her feelings for him. Claire glanced back at her uncle and immediately felt guilty being so selfish. I hate to make this all about me. Lamb always had a knack for helping her realize what was important when life’s situations overwhelmed her. She needed him for perspective, but how could she talk to him about this? How could she tell him how she felt? She knew it was wrong, but she was mad at him for getting sick so close to Christmas. Who am I supposed to talk to? What am I supposed to do if there’s no you? The tears were welling up in her eyes as she watched her most beloved uncle sleep--hooked up to machines, pale and listless in the hospital bed.

           Claire slipped into the adjoining bathroom to try to compose herself--she didn’t want her uncle to wake up and see her upset, she knew he would try to comfort her, to be the rock he always had been for her. She was here to be his rock this time, she needed to stay strong for him. She looked at herself in the mirror, telling herself it was going to be ok--her uncle was strong and he’d been fighting a long time--he’d continue to fight. Soon you’ll get better. She had to convince herself it was true, pretend it wasn’t real, it wasn’t so bad. She knew it was a delusion, she could see it all over her glass face when she looked in the mirror. She was genuinely afraid that this could be when she lost him, if not physically right away, he could be lost mentally. She’d been hoping for years he would get better, but now it seemed he’d taken a turn for the worse. She took a few deep breaths and offered up a prayer. She wasn’t usually religious, but they say desperate people find faith, so she decided it was time to try. God? Jesus? Whoever is up there. I know I don’t much deserve anything from you, I’m not sure I’m exactly on good terms with you, but I’m inclined to believe you care and you are good. Besides, I’m not really asking anything for myself, not really. I just pray my Uncle is ok, I pray he gets better. He has to. Please don’t take his brilliant mind away from him. Please let him be ok. Please, I’ll be good, I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. Just please, please, don’t take him away from me. I need him. Please let him get better. Please let him get better. Claire continued to repeat the words like a mantra as she returned to her bedside chair. She stared at the collection of orange bottles on the tray table. Please let them help him get better. Please let him get better. Please, please, please let him get better.

           Claire had no idea how long she sat there, repeating those words to herself, but her silent appeal was interrupted when a nurse entered the room to check her uncle’s vitals.

           “Hi, I’m Brenda, I’ll be the nurse on duty tonight.” Brenda erased a name on a small whiteboard in front of the room and replaced it with her own.

           “I’m Claire, I’m his niece.”

           Brenda had made her way over to the other side of the bed and was checking the monitors beside the bed, making notes on the chart in her hand. “I hate waking them up, but I’m going to have to.” Claire was glad that she was much kinder than the nurse she had spoken with on the phone earlier—had that really been earlier? It seemed much longer since that phone call. “Excuse me, Quentin? Sir?” Brenda gently nudged his arm to awaken him. Lamb’s eyes fluttered open and he looked disoriented, Claire watched him carefully hoping that his disorientation was solely from being awoken mid-sleep and not from any neurological damage.

           “Hi Uncle Lamb” Claire stammered, hoping she sounded cheerful anyway.

           “Claire! My girl! You came all the way to see your old uncle!”

           “Of course I did! How are you?” she replied warmly.

           “Oh, I’m fine, they’re taking good care of me here.” Lamb’s voice sounded genuinely content and Claire felt comforted for the first time since the hospital had called her earlier that day.

           “Hello sir, my name’s Brenda, I’ll be your nurse tonight. I just need to ask you a few questions and check your vitals.”

           “What is your name?”

           “Quentin Lambert Beauchamp”

           “Good. When is your birthday?

           “March 23th, 1939”

           “Good, and who is the president?”

           “Well, unfortunately…” both Claire and Brenda giggled at how Lamb began his sentence. Claire was well aware of Lamb’s opinions of the current president of the United States, and was glad to see he hadn’t lost his sly sense of humor or his disdain for the man.  She was also glad he knew who the president was, hopefully his mental capacities were more promising than the worst-case-scenario her mind was conjuring.

----------

           Claire stayed by her uncle’s side for the rest of the night, only leaving the room twice, once to find something to eat from a vending machine, and once for her nightly call to Jamie. She allowed herself to break down when talking to Jamie, sobbing over the phone. Jamie did his best to comfort her through the speaker, desperately wishing he could be there for her in person. Claire wished the same, longing to curl up in his strong embrace, and bury her swollen face in his chest. She couldn’t bring up the fact that she might have to spend Christmas in Boston. She was enough of a mess without facing the reality that they wouldn’t see each other, and when Jamie promised they’d see each other soon at the end of their call, Claire hung up quickly as another wave of emotion overtook her and she buried her face in her hands to cry some more.

           The next morning, the doctor came in with Lamb’s results. Claire grasped Lamb’s hand, unsure of who was holding onto whom for comfort as the doctor explained that the mass on Lamb’s brain was in fact cancerous, but it was still relatively small and had been caught early. He explained that they could operate on it and remove it, however there was no guarantee that it wouldn’t come back or that they’d be able to get it all out. It was moments like these where Claire desperately wished she was already a surgeon, that she could feel in control of the outcome--though could she operate on her own uncle? Would she be able to hold her hand steady enough to do a good job? No, perhaps it was best left to the veteran surgeons in Boston.

           After discussing all the details and options with the doctor’s, Lamb decided to go through with the surgery. It was scheduled for the day after Christmas and Claire resigned herself to the sobering fact that she’d be spending the holidays in the hospital. As the florescent hospital lights lit the room with an unnatural glow, Claire couldn’t tell him she was scared. She had to stay strong, she had to keep it together and remain positive and supportive.

           ----------

           Claire spent the next few days devoted to her uncle, rarely leaving his bedside. Lamb had forced her to spend the nights at his apartment, which was probably for the best. She wasn’t sleeping well to begin with and the recliner at the hospital was only making matters worse. Claire was present and doting on him from morning to night though, helping her uncle order his meals, assisting him when he needed to use the restroom, adding and removing pillows and blankets as needed, or anything else he needed or wanted. Lamb had been moved to the cancer floor, and the window of his new room had a nice view of the Boston skyline. Lamb was making the best of a bad deal, he bragged about his ‘luxury accommodations’, he cracked jokes often, he liked the nicer nurses, he ordered extra dessert with all his meals and was in generally pleasant spirits. Claire could see the cracks in his cognition though. Sometimes he would change the topic he was discussing mid-sentence, and he couldn’t seem to keep time straight. Whenever anyone would mention Christmas, he would act surprised to know that it was coming up, and at one point he hinted at Claire that she might just get those roller skates she wanted for Christmas, a gift she had not asked for since she was eleven years old. He didn’t seem to know what year it was or how old Claire was. He did know who Claire was though, and for that she was thankful. He also knew who the president was whenever the nurses asked, always beginning his answer with a short preamble to make known his disdain.

Before they knew it, it was Christmas Eve and Claire couldn’t hide the sadness she felt on her face. She was glad to spend the evening with Lamb, but she had been looking forward to her first big family Christmas. She had filled in Jamie about Lamb’s condition and her subsequent stay in Boston over the course of their phone calls that week. She had also describe the Christmas gifts she had purchased for the Murrays, Jo, and Lamb, so Jamie would know the rest were for him. Jamie had agreed to put the Murrays gifts in gift bags and distribute them for her. They were meant to exchange family gifts that evening, the morning being reserved for Santa, and Claire was heartbroken to be missing out. In a matter of hours, and for the first time in two months, her and Jamie would be on the same continent, yet they wouldn’t be able to see each other. There was no way Claire could get into the Christmas spirit under these conditions. The hospital, despite being modestly decorated, was not the most festive atmosphere. Even a troop of Girl Scouts caroling their way through the hospital halls did nothing to assuage the weight of losing everything Claire had been looking forward to for the past two months.

           “What’s a matter, my dear?” Lamb asked, showing genuine concern for his niece.

           “It’s nothing, I’m fine, I promise, I’m just wishing things were different today.”

           “Why today? Is it something special? I can’t seem to remember.”

           “It’s Christmas Eve. You were supposed to come to Long Island and meet Jamie. We were going to spend the holiday with his family.”

           “Yes, I remember, that’s today? Oh dear, I haven’t gotten your gift yet I’m afraid.”

           “That’s fine, Lamb, I’m afraid I left your gift at home, so we’ll have to do that part later. We can take a raincheck on gift exchanging. I was just really looking forward to you getting to know Jamie.”

           “I’m sure I’ll meet the lad soon; he seems really special to you.”

           “He is; I know you’ll like him.”

           “I already do.” He patted the top of her hand and turned his attention back to the sitcom on the television, providing humorous commentary to try to cheer Claire up.

----------

It was late Christmas morning. Uncle Lamb was napping again and Claire had switched the television to the Hallmark Channel--usually her guilty pleasure this season, today it was simply reminding her of how her Christmas was proving to be less than magical. For her there would be no Christmas kisses, no magical snowfall, no saving the small town family business or learning to love Christmas again. All that awaited her this Christmas were fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, and nurses visiting every 6 hours to check her uncle’s vitals. This Christmas would be decidedly the most un-magical she had ever experienced. She had had her share of unconventional Christmases in the past, in fact, she never really was a Christmas person, but it had started to feel special to her when she was living in New York. This Christmas though--this was one she was looking forward to more than ever before. Claire spent most of the morning crying, grieving over all she was missing. She should have spent the morning curled up in Jamie’s arms, watching the children open presents. She could picture the Murray’s living room, trashed with colorful wrapping paper from end to end, each child in their own private world fascinated by their latest favorite toy, Jenny and Ian beaming through tired eyes.

Claire was surprised Jamie hadn’t called her to fill her in on the details yet. He had called yesterday when his plane arrived--groggy and jet-lagged, his communication skills were not the most eloquent, but he tried his best to make her feel better. She hadn’t heard from him at all this morning though, not even a Merry Christmas text. Surely the jet lag would have woken him up as early as the children, and they must have been done opening presents by now. Claire tried to rationalize that Jamie was just spending time with his family, but she couldn’t help feeling hurt and ignored. She thought she was important enough to him that he could take a moment away from his family to at least text her, or to find some way to make her feel included from afar. Had his feelings changed in their months apart? Did coming home to a messy apartment turn him off? Did she find his Christmas gifts and come to think she didn’t care enough to get him something more thoughtful? She thought about calling him, but a mixture of pride and fear kept her from acting first, not to mention she couldn’t stop crying over these sappy Christmas movies.

Suddenly, a voice from the doorway rang through the room, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” Claire looked up in confusion, momentarily unable to comprehend her surroundings and the disruption that had just entered them. Santa? No. The tall figure filling the door frame was dressed like Santa, beard and all, but the unmistakable Scottish burr gave away his true identity. If Claire hadn’t already been crying, she certainly was now. Jamie was standing in the doorway, dressed in a Santa suit, carrying a large, blue IKEA bag overflowing with wrapped presents and what appeared to be Christmas decorations.

“What?” Claire could hardly believe he was there, she rose from the chair and the couple met in the middle of the room for a hearty embrace. Claire buried her face in the soft, fluffy suit covering Jamie’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably. Perhaps the setting wasn’t a snow covered street in a small town, but this was her own Hallmark movie moment--and to be honest, those Hallmark guys had nothing on James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser. Jamie held her close, and tight, planting kisses in her curls and whispering softly to her.

“I’m here, mo nighean donn.” He caressed her shoulders with his thumbs, not releasing his embrace in the slightest, breathing in her scent, trying to absorb her fears and pain.

All of the commotion had awoken Uncle Lamb and after witnessing the couples’ embrace for longer than was comfortable, Lamb loudly cleared his throat to remind them of his presence in the room.

“Uncle Lamb!” Claire unfolded herself from Jamie’s embrace, keeping one arm around his back. Jamie sheepishly pulled the fake beard down around his neck to reveal his face and removed his Santa hat, clutching it tightly in the palm that wasn’t holding Claire. “This is Jamie, my Jamie. Jamie, this is my Uncle Lamb.”

“Well, I’m certainly glad it’s not Santa Claus, or we’d have a lot of explaining to do to the lad!” Lamb chuckled back.

“A pleasure to finally meet you, sir.” Jamie reluctantly released Claire from his grasp to step beside the bed, extending a firm but gentle hand to Lamb. “I’m sorry it’s not under better circumstances.”

“Pleased to meet you as well, lad” Lamb replied, patting Jamie’s hand with his before releasing their handshake. “And don’t you worry about me, I have the best nurse there is taking care of me.” Two sets of proudly smiling eyes met Claire across the room.

“Oh I dinna doubt it for a second. Your niece is a rare woman.”

“Glad to see we’re in agreement. Now what’s all that?” Lamb gestured towards the large tote discarded near Claire’s feet.

“Aye, I thought I’d bring you two a bit o’ holiday cheer.” Jamie pulled a large cardboard box from the bag and extracted a small tabletop Christmas tree from it, unfurling each branch carefully and placing it on the countertop across the room, plugging it in to reveal fiber optic lights changing colors dreamily. “I usually insist on my Christmas trees being more, well, alive, but under the circumstances this’ll have tae do.” Jamie and Claire spent the next half hour or so festooning the room in garlands and placing tiny ornaments on the small tree. Claire tried to ignore that more than half of the bag was filled with brightly wrapped gifts, not sure whether she was hoping they were all for her, or hoping that they weren’t. After all, she didn’t have anything to give him and she didn’t know if he had looked through his gifts yet nor if he had appreciated them.

While they decorated, Jamie filled Claire and Lamb in on the events of the last few days. Jamie had called Jenny to tell her not to bother picking him up from the airport. He had planned on renting a car there and driving straight to Boston. Claire could hear Jenny’s voice loud and clear through Jamie’s imitation “ya clotheid! Have ya gone daft? Yer barely able to form coherent sentences amidst the jet lag from yer Christmas Eve flight, and ya wanna drive five hours tae Boston in that state!?! Claire willna appreciate ya ending up in a ditch on the side of the road as a Christmas present ya eejit!” Jenny had made a fair point, and Jamie had agreed to sleep at home and left shortly after he awoke that morning, staying only long enough for the children to open their stockings, and to watch their faces alight with surprise at the sudden appearance of piles of presents under and around the tree.

“I’m glad you took Jenny’s advice, but most of all I’m glad you’re here.” She embraced him again. “You didn’t have to do this though, Jamie, I know how important your family is to you.”

Jamie stepped back and lifted Claire’s chin with his thumb, looking into her eyes. “You are important to me, Sassenach.” he replied, with a sincerity that penetrated Claire’s heart. Claire responded by kissing Jamie chastely on the cheek, knowing her uncle was only four feet away--politely trying to ignore them and watch the television which he had flipped to an all-day marathon of A Christmas Story on repeat. Jamie’s welcome intrusion broke up the monotony of hospital life and seemed to give Lamb a better sense of what day it was.

“Now that we’ve got the place looking good and festive, I believe it’s traditional to exchange gifts on Christmas day.”

“Jamie, it’s too much, I--”

“Oh? Thought they were all for you, didja Sassenach?” he teased. Claire blushed. Of course; she hadn’t really--but who else would they be for? Surely Jamie wouldn’t spoil Lamb, a complete stranger to him, quite so much, and no one else was there. She looked dumbfounded as she tried to come up with a defense but Jamie stopped her. “Dinna fash, Sassenach, Jenny wrapped your gifts for me and Lamb before I could see and I bought them along too. She thanks ya for the wee lotions, by the way.”

“God bless Jenny! That woman is a Saint.” Claire also silently thanked God that she had left the present she was planning on wearing for Jamie that evening in her dresser drawer, that was not a gift she wanted Jenny to see, and was definitely not something she wanted him to be opening in front of her uncle.

The three exchanged gifts, save Lamb, who had nothing to give but smiles and approval for the young couples’ thoughtful gifts. Jamie was genuinely appreciative of Claire’s gifts, although she kept insisting that she hadn’t finished shopping and there was more to come; to which Jamie humbly rejected, claiming it wasn’t necessary. Jamie’s gifts to Claire were thoughtful and meaningful, the most touching ones being a print of a painting of the rose garden he had ordered from the Botanic Garden’s gift shop and a bracelet engraved with the words perennis amor, which caused Claire to tear up and embrace him tenderly in spite of her uncle’s presence.

The three enjoyed the rest of the day thoroughly. A Christmas Story played in the background and they laughed and shared stories with one another. Jamie was a born storyteller and Lamb was elated to have a fresh audience to recount his many adventures to, so conversation flowed naturally between them, with Claire occasionally interjecting. Claire mostly just sat back and admired the two men who were most important to her, filled with joy that they were getting along, that Jamie was there, that it was Christmas. For the first time in several days she had hope and peace. She was surrounded by love in that hospital room as well. She had all the things Christmas was said to bring, and for that she was grateful. Jamie had made her greatest Christmas wishes come true without her even asking and she felt lucky to be alive.

The hospital staff served their version of Christmas dinner for the small family, and while Claire was sure it paled in comparison to whatever Jenny had made, it was quite delicious, especially considering it was hospital food. Jamie ate in the armchair next to Lamb at Claire’s insistence, since the two were deep in conversation, and Claire sat in the chair on the other side of Jamie, taking in her magical Christmas scene, better than any Hallmark movie could depict.

After dinner, Jamie was fading fast, listening to one of Lamb’s stories with heavy eyes.  She took one of the spare blankets and covered Jamie. “Looks like you’re still not over your jet lag”

“Hrmmphh, I ‘spose not.”

“Do you want me to go get you a coffee? I doubt the cafe downstairs is open today, but there’s a cappuccino vending machine a few floors down that isn’t terrible.”

“Aye Sassenach, that’d be bonny. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“None at all, my love, I’ll be back soon.” Claire squeezed his hand before leaving the two men alone.

Jamie listened to her footsteps down the hall, and waited until he heard the ding of the elevator before he cleared his throat to speak frankly to Lamb. He sat up straight in the chair to ward off the sleepiness, having a few important things he wanted to say before Claire came back.

“Lamb, I need you to know, Claire is the most important person in my life. I love her sae much and I’d do anything for her.”

“I’m glad to hear that, I can see how happy you make her. She lights up when you’re around, it comforts my old heart to see.”

“I need you tae know, I’m very serious about her. I ken we haven’t been together that long, but I know--I know deep in my wame that I’m meant tae be hers. I want ya to know that I intend on spending the rest of my life making her happy, and while I havna bought a ring or ennathing yet, I wanted to ask yer blessing” Jamie paused for a moment before adding, “just in case.”

“Of course you have my blessing, son. I couldn’t be more glad to know that Claire will be so well cared for after I’m gone, truly.” Both men looked somber, knowing full well that this could be their last conversation, hoping dearly that it wasn’t. Claire returned with three cappuccinos in hand, surprised by the mood in the room.

“Everything alright, gentlemen? Don’t tell me Ralphie shot his eye out!”

“Och! Everything’s fine, Claire! I’m just tired is all, I’m sure this wee cappuccino will cure me in no time!” replied Jamie, eagerly taking a cup from Claire as she set another on Lamb’s tray table. The rest of the evening was quiet as Jamie took a nap, while Lamb and Claire watched A Christmas Story more intently then they had all day. Claire didn’t want to leave him alone so early on Christmas so she let Jamie nap until Lamb was asleep soundly for the night. The sense of joy she had felt all day was still present, but the nagging worry she felt about Lamb’s coming surgery was starting to settle in as well. Claire woke Jamie gently and Claire whispered softly to Lamb that they’d return in the morning, squeezing his hand before the couple quietly left the room.

----------

They walked out to Jamie’s car, since he still had his stuff packed in it, but Claire drove them back to Lamb’s apartment where she’d been staying. The cappuccino was helping Jamie stay coherent, but he was in no state to drive. They were quiet on the drive home, but kept their hands locked between the seats, grateful just to be in the presence of one another.

When they arrived at Lamb’s apartment, Jamie was so tired, he didn’t even want to brush his teeth, let alone do any of his usual nightly routines. However, he had spent the morning sweating in a polyester Santa suit over his clothes, and although he took it off shortly after his surprise arrival, he felt in need of a shower. Claire showed him where the bathroom was and made sure he had everything he needed, and got herself ready for bed.

Jamie showered quickly, not bothering to wash his hair, and only cleaning the parts of his body where any stench would be most concentrated, figuring the water would take care of the rest. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waist, ready to collapse into bed, but not before embracing his sorcha. He scooped her into his embrace and she buried her face in his bare, firm chest, warm from the shower. He smelled clean, and fresh and most of like Jamie. “I’m so happy you’re with me, Jamie. You have no idea how much it means to me that you’re here.” the emotions of the day hit her again and her voice caught at the end of her sentence as tears filled her eyes once again. Jamie kissed her forehead softly, down to her nose, and landed on her lips, giving her the firm, passionate kiss they’d both been longing for all day--and for months before that.

“Mo cridhe.” Jamie breathed when they separated. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you. I’ll no’ leave you alone when ya need me.”

“Oh Jamie” Claire was still crying, “I’ve been so worried. I’ve been trying to stay strong for Lamb, but I feel like this won’t go back to normal--if there ever was a normal with him. I’m scared he’s going to get worse, or--” her sentence dissolved into a fit of sobs, which she tried to stifle on Jamie’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to stay strong when you’re with me. I’ll be here to help you shoulder the burden. I’ll be here to soak up your tears. There’s two of us now, Claire.” He pressed a kiss into her curls. “You can feel your feelings now, mo cridhe. Lay your cares on me. Come now, let’s get ya tae bed. I’m no’ sure how much longer I can stand myself.”

Claire fell asleep wrapped safely in Jamie’s embrace, free to be herself fully. Free to be vulnerable she felt safe, she felt loved, she felt comfortable, and most new to her--she felt she had the hope and strength that she could carry on, no matter what was to come. She slept better than she had in weeks, secure in the embrace of her eternal love.

End Notes: Thanks again for reading!! By the way, the Ingrid Michaelson song Jo mentions is hauntingly beautiful and you should listen to it. Also, I hope you liked Jamie's surprise. This was going to be a lot more angsty of a chapter but Jamie refused to let Claire suffer and had other plans. I know this was full of a lot of emotional ups and downs, and hopefully we can all find some comfort in the fact that just because Christmas/the holidays may look different for a lot of us this year, it can still be special, and there's still light, joy, love, hope, and peace to be found in the midst of the darkness.

[commander-isekai]

Commander Isekai - commander from an another world

A/N:

Hi all! This my tongue-in-cheek fic about a commander, who’s actually a human player from the real world, and who now lives through the game, but armed with previous knowledge about it. They aren’t happy just to follow along a story, so things will get different quickly enough. Hence their name is commander Kai, as a pun from the isekai genre. I’ve been inspired by similar fics done about other games, and I thought gw2 could be a fun one too.

Chapter One:

The Second Awakening or how I found myself in a video game world

Sometimes, all you can remember is falling. It was the only sensation I could comprehend. The world around me was a blurry, like a messy watercolor painting. If there were any noises, I couldn't hear them. I just fell.

A painfully bright light drilled into my eyes.

I woke up with a great thump, as I landed into a large pile of dry leaves. They managed to soften my landing to a degree, but I was aching from all over, like if I had rolled downhill like a cheese in a cheese-wheeling competition, determined to win the first place no matter how crumbly my state would be at the finish line.

"This fucking sucks.." I groaned, tossing my arm out and trying to find my glasses, or my phone, but only grasped more leaves. I hoped I hadn’t broken either one during my fall.

"Are you alright, Valiant?" I heard a concerned voice ask, "the awakening can be sometimes rough, but you'll find your bearings soon enough."

Oh no, had I fallen asleep outside? I had a bad habit of dozing off, but the embarrassment of sleeping outside and this kind person having to wake me up made me wish I could knock myself out permanently rather than face them.

"Yeah yeah, I'm sorry about this, just give me a minute..." I tried to form coherent sentences while pushing my hair away, but my hand gathered only more leaves? and no hair??

I pulled my hand in front of my face and yelped in surprise when I saw that it was bright lavender, a color that my regular human hands should not be, and that I was grasping purple and pink ferns instead of my regular colored human hair.

"Wh-what the hell is going on?" I looked at myself and the person helping me, and only then I realized they weren't human either, but a pea-green person who seemed to be made out of plant material and flowers. Behind them, I could see a shimmering lake and a small village, with more denizens similar to them and me.

As I gasped upon the scene, the two braincells inside my skull finally hit a nerve and made the connection that I had been missing:

A) Somehow, I was in Caledon Forest. Like, the starting zone in Guild Wars 2, an MMO I used to play lot back in the day until I got too busy with my life and other video games.

B) Also somehow, I wasn't a human anymore. I was a walking, talking, internally-panicking sylvari.

C) Last but not least, I could see everything clearly without glasses. This fact stressed me out the most. Had my vision somehow been fixed when I fell? I did like my old glasses, and really hoped they were in one piece somewhere.

"Are you feeling enough well to stand?" the sylvari that must be a mender asked me, offering a hand that I gladly took as I wobbled onto my feet like a newborn calf.

“I think I am?” I answered hesitantly, not certain if I’d stay upright after she’d let go of me.

" I am mender Lorean. What's your name?" the sylvari asked me.

" Um, Kai" I said, as the first name in my mind was the name of my commander character, "short of Cainneach, but just Kai is fine."

It didn't feel right to introduce myself with my given human name, as it was definitely not a sylvari name, and that would have revealed me being something else than your regular baby sprout. I really wasn't married to that name anyway, so Kai came out naturally. I had already used Kai as a all-around nickname, so I settled into it like putting on a new, yet surprisingly comfortable shirt.

"Alright, Valiant Kai", seeing as I could hold on my own against the gravity, Lorean let go of my hand, and explained: "Now, it can take some time to get used to the world outside the Dream. You shouldn't wander off too far from the Grove, at least not until you're experienced enough. You should find anything you need inside the city, and the mentors will help you along. Caithe also asked me to tell you that she wants to speak with you, when you are ready."

The mender that helped me did not seem to comment on my errantic behaviour - they must have seen a wild variety of saplings in their time.

"Wait, why do you keep calling me a valiant?" I asked, trying to wrap my head around what I could remember about Caithe. The total sum was not much - an assassin with a troubled past: a guild of heroes that basically cut ties after a failed dragon killing quest and ex-girlfriend who's in the lead of the bad Nightmare sylvari. That'd be a lot for anyone.

"Caithe told me, about how you joined forces with her to defeat the a large nightmare beast in the Dream. That must be a sign of a great Wyld Hunt", Lorean explained, and asked curiously: "don't you remember the Dream?"

Oh right. The Dream, or the tutorial part with the big dragon monster. I somehow completely skipped that in this new, 4D-supported version of Tyria. At least I did not remember experiencing anything resembling fighting a giant dragon to death, not after waking up here. I had an inkling that telling so would only raise more questions, and I had plenty of those myself.

  "Oh yes, it's all coming back to me", I lied with a practiced straight face, "I must have just hit my head hard when I awoke, that's all.  I'll be on my way now, thanks!" 

I waved and nearly dashed to an exit before Lorean could respond. They were being just nice, sure, but I needed a moment for myself with no one else right now, or I would explode on the spot.

'''

Not far from the village, but enough far that no one would hopefully bother me, I made my way to the large pond, to really take in all the changes.

"Oh no, the fireflies are actually that big", I grimaced when I saw a group of the flying creatures gather around one of the light-giving plants, "That's going to take some time getting used to."

I sat down next to the water's edge, and I could finally take a look at my new features. They were nothing like what I'd been used to - instead of soft skin, my face was hard, bark-like texture. My hair was like plant's leaf, yet sturdier - it hurt when I tried to pull it. My form was different too, almost like I had had a second puberty without knowing it - my limbs were taller than what I had been used to, and I felt my presentation was more masculine than what it had been when I was human.

The more I sat and contemplated my situation, everything around me seemed to make no sense. I was stuck in an unfamiliar body, in the role of the main character of a video game, and while I did not remember every detail of what happened in the story, I knew it wouldn't take long for things to get hairy. Why I was here? Why did I look like this?  No matter how I tried to rationalize it, I had no answers, and I was only left with piling up frustration, and tears began to form in the corners of my eyes.

“Hey, are you alright?” A new voice dragged me out of my depths. It belonged to a blue sylvari with a mushroom-capped head, and whose leaf-like outfit seemed to grow naturally as a part of their body.

“I don’t know, it’s just - a lot of stuff to process. The whole awakening, and everything”, I told them as honestly as I could.

“You seemed to be a little more lost than the other sprouts - and I do not mean that in a judgmental way”, the sylvari said and hold out something: “here, take this, it will help.”

“Oh, thank you”, I accepted the carved bowl that seemed to be made out of a giant nut, and the gentle smell of pumpkin soup overwhelmed me. Gods, I realized only now how starved I felt, like I had not eaten properly for days.

“I don’t have any money, or gold-” I tried to say, but the other sylvari cut in quickly:

“Do not worry about it! I hope you have a pleasant evening!” 

The sylvari took off, and I was too mesmerized by their kindness towards a random stranger like me that it did not even occur to me to ask their name. The soup, still warm in my hands was a temptation too great to resist, and I wasted no time devouring it.

Maybe this world isn’t too bad after all, if people are gifting food freely to others like that, I thought to myself, earlier anguish almost completely forgotten.

[viking-raider]

Silver and Magic - Chapter 3

Summary: You tend to Geralt’s wounds, prevent an angry mob from storming the house, because Geralt is there. Then, you both find something new about each other.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 3,547

Chapters: 1 2

Rating: M - Violence, Cursing, Mature, Sex, Fluff

Inspiration: This is sorta what I picture reader’s sword to look like (x) and how I picture the reader’s eyes (x)

Author’s Note: Tell me what you think!

Tag List: @jennylovelyheart, @peakygroupie, @jessevans, @rosie-loves-things, @ohjules, @mary-ann84, @omgkatinka, @the-freak-cassie-131, @heelsamizayn, @agniavateira, @cap-barnes, @romyr4, @michelehansel, @katiebriggs004-blog, @badassbaker, @mrsaugustwalker, @authentic-bish-face, @rizeandvibe, @severuined, @supernaturalvikingwhore​, @bellastellaluna​, @wondersofdreaming, @thisisntmyrightera, @michelle-1185​, @winchwm​, @royallylazy​, @sofiebstar​, @worldicreate​, @agniavateira​, @fantasygirlsuniverse​, @witches-of-discovery-a​, @xuxszx​, @ayamenimthiriel​, @keiva1000​, @klaine-92​, @itsreigns​, @constip8merm8​, @scorpionchild81​, @mylifefallingupthestairs​, @onlyhenrys​, @luclittlepond​, @ellixthea​, @lebguardians​, @geralt-yennefer-jeskier​, @cherrybloomn​

You had just finished lunch with Geralt, when you noticed the string of twinkling lights coming out of the treeline, in front of the cottage.

“The fuckers.” You snapped, setting the plate you were washing down and strode out onto the porch. “Fuck the short mindedness of men.” You cursed, feeling the tense heat of Geralt's body behind you.

“If I had known, my presence would have been such a bother to you, I would have left sooner.” Geralt replied, touching his bandaged side, underneath his shirt.

“It's as if you are Mateo and his monster all over again.” You said out loud, more to yourself than to Geralt.

“This has happened before?” Geralt frowned down at you.

“Some years ago, there was another Mage that lived in the village,” You explained, watching the torch holding villagers come closer. “he was shady, at best. He would dig up fresh corpses from the village graveyard and piece them together, trying to reanimate them.” You told him, shaking your head. “Why he wouldn't just use the whole fresh body, instead of parts of it, is beyond me.” You cleared your throat, at how odd that sounded. “But, he managed to animate one of them, it turned on him, attacking and gravely wounding him. He came to me, to heal him, obviously.” You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The villagers, having heard of this, came up here, just like this...” You waved your hand out to the small mob of angry villagers, almost at your doorstep. “They demanded, I bring him out, or they'd do me harm.”

“What did you do?” Geralt asked, flexing and tensing his body.

“I wouldn't let them take him.” You answered, looking up at Geralt. “He had done wrong, yes. He had defiled bodies of beloved family members, and meddled in magic, he shouldn't have. But, he was wounded, near death, either way. It is my responsibility and duty as a Healer to protect and tend to those in my care, no matter what they have done. If they wanted him, once he was healthy, then I wouldn't have protested too much. But, in the end, he gave himself up, and they killed him. Burying him in the cross roads.”

“Healer!” The leader of the mob yelled, as they stopped in your yard. “We demand the Witcher.”

“And, I demand you to get off my property.” You retorted, lifting an indifferent brow at them. “So, fuck the fuck off, before you end up regretting it.”

“Why are you shielding the murderer?” A voice called out from the crowd.

“Who has he killed, Jax?” You replied, knowing the owner of the voice.

There was a hushed silence between the two groups, and you nodded your head.

“I didn't think so.” You huffed, shaking your head at them.

A rock sailed out from the tangle of bodies, and would have hit you, if Geralt's hand hadn't shot out, by reflex, catching the stone in his large palm, with ease, and inches from your face. You both exchanged looks, and it was in that moment, Geralt noticed that your eyes were a liquid silver color, making him blink at you, his arm lowering, slowly.

“Right.” You said, still looking at him, your voice strong and annoyed. “All right!” You barked, stepping off the porch and addressing the mob. “Listen up, you fucking runts.” You growled, jaw tightening. “You have come onto my property and threatened not only my guest, but you have also threatened me.” You said, looking at each and every one of their faces, making eye contact and snickering when several looked away, unable to keep your eye. “I have served this village as a healer longer than some of you have been alive, three or four of you, I actually helped birth into this world.” You hissed, looking two of the people you were sure of, in the face. “and this is how you repay me?”

“We don't like his kin-”

“I don't care, what you like, Tomas.” You snapped at the leader. “My home, my rules. If you have an issue with how I run my household and tend my land, you can come and tell me, to my face.” You challenged them, the sudden whoosh of air and thunk of metal against stone permeated in the air. Glancing down you saw the vibrating hilt of your sword, the mob took a collective step backwards. “I didn't think so.” You said, looking at them wide eyed and tilting your head. “Now, leave. Before, I have more patients to tend too.” You told them, softly.

Heads turned towards each other and there was a low murmur of voices, before the group cracked and fell apart. The villagers dispersed and wandered back to their homes. Geralt stepped up behind you, watching them go, then turned his attention back to you and your sword.

“How did you do that?” He asked, resting his index finger on the top of your sword's hilt, stilling the vibrating metal.

You looked up at Geralt and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Right.” He smirked, nodding his head. “Magic.”

“Leave it.” You told him, turning your back to the sword and going back inside.”Just leave it there, as a reminder, to anyone that wants to be brave, and try sneaking about.”

“You think, they will?” Geralt asked, standing in the kitchen as you picked up the plate you had been washing before all the commotion.

“No.” You replied, washing the dish. “Only time I'll hear from them, for a while at least, is when they need my healing capabilities.” You smiled at him. “Which is how I like it. Nice and quiet.” You dried the dishes and put them away. “That's why I picked this spot, to have the cottage built.” You explained to him, leaning back against the counter. “It's a nice and secluded spot in the mountain and woods, but still close enough for those that need me, to reach.”

“It is a very quaint spot.” Geralt nodded, looking around your homely cottage. “A very homey cottage as well, it's...” he paused and felt the next word he was about to say, deep in his chest. “peaceful.”

“Enchanting, isn't it?” You smiled, looking around the place yourself.

“Is it?” Geralt asked, looking back at you, his brow creased. “Have you enchanted it?”

“With magic?” You frowned back at him, and shook your head. “No, this isn't the work of magic, this is the work of finding what makes me happy and centered, over the years. It's pure and natural. It's what makes it feel...” You shrugged, struggling to find the right word. “peaceful.” You said, giving in.

“I've never quite felt so, at home and peaceful, as I do here.” Geralt admitted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, that's good to know.” You smiled at him, touched. “I wouldn't want my patients feeling uncomfortable or anything, inhibits the healing process.” You heaved a sigh and fixed your eyes on him. “I'm going to lay down, you seem well enough to stay on your feet.” You told him, checking him out to be sure of your assessment. “Just don't over do it, hm? I don't need to find you face down in my herb garden.”

Geralt laughed, very softly, smiling down at you. “I promise, I will not stray.” He swore, stepping out of your way.

“That's a good Witcher.” You teased him, rubbing your forehead as your head started to throb.

You laid down in your bed, not even bothering to take your shoes off or cover up, feeling your head pound; you had used a lot of magic in the last few days, between normal daily use of it, healing Geralt and dealing with pesky villagers. It took a long while, but you finally managed to slip off into a black sleep, restless as that was.

Geralt walked out onto the porch, and took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, it was so crisp and clean, then wandered around your property, checking out your garden. He found you were growing all sorts of things; herbs like penny-royal, lavender, st. john's wort and aloe. But, also regular plants, you would find in a garden, plenty of flowers, like daffodils, roses, that climbed the trellis just outside your kitchen window, honeysuckles and dragon's breath, which Geralt hadn't seen in a very long time. He found a small stone bench in the heart of the garden and a little fountain in front of it, the vibration of his medallion told Geralt that the water flowing from the fountain was done with magic. Geralt took a deep breath, his shoulders drawing up and his enhanced sense of smell picking up the sweet and fragrant flowers, the sharp and bitter scent of herbs, and the earthy smell of vegetables, before letting the breath out with a soft and content hm, his eyes falling closed. Enjoying the peace of the garden a little while longer, Geralt stood and checked on Roach, who was grazing on the tall grass and wild flowers out front of the cottage, then went back inside and noticed you were still asleep, so he stayed as quiet as he could.

With dinner nearing and you still asleep, Geralt poked around your kitchen and pantry, but noticed you were running rather low on items. Pressing his lips together and tapping his foot, Geralt went back to his room, pulling his dagger out of his saddlebags and went out into the surrounding forest. A little while later, he came out of the treeline, a large buck draped over his shoulder and dropped it on the pouch, before going around to your garden, helping himself to some of the carrots, onions and peas you had growing. Geralt grabbed your cast iron cauldron, filled it with fresh well water and set it on the kitchen counter, washing his bloody dagger, he used it to chop up the onions and carrots, dropping them in the cauldron, and then shelled the peas in a separate wooden bowl, for later. He went back out onto the porch and started skinning and cutting up the deer, what he wouldn't use for dinner, he stored in your meat shed, and tossed the deer meat he was using, into the pot, set it on the hook and over the fire to stew. When you still weren't awake an hour later and the stew was done, Geralt went down to your room and stood there at your half closed door, debating whether he should wake you or not. But, decided against it, if you had slept this long, then apparently you needed it, and he didn't want to ruin it for you. So, he ate his fill of the stew and pulled it off the fire enough, that it would stay warm for you, when you finally did wake up.

Geralt had laid down, but hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep, until the sudden scent of Sunflowers entered his senses and he jerked, groaning as he strained his stitches. He took a breath and it got stronger, getting out of bed, he followed it, down to your room. He pushed your bedroom door open and found you having a bad dream. Frowning, Geralt stepped into your room and gently rested his hand on your shoulder, shaking you carefully, trying not to startle you awake. He could hear the rapid pound of your heart, like a drum in his ears.

“Y/n?” He whispered your name, but you only seemed become more agitated. “Y/n.” He called your name again and sat down on your bed, the frown between his brows deepening. “Y/n, wake up.”

You jerked up, like shot, laboring to breathe, eyes wide with fear and distant. “Get off me!” You barked, feeling Geralt's thick arm wrap around your waist, increasing your panic.

“It's all right, y/n. It's me, Geralt.” Geralt whispered in your ear, pulling you closer to him. “It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you, you're safe with me.” He told you, cupping the side of your face and laying your head down on his shoulder, turning his face into the back of your hair and rocking lightly. “It's all right.”

“Geralt?” You panted, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah.” He sighed, pressing his cheek to your hair and felt you slump against him, one of your hands gripping his upper arm. “You're all right, I've got you.” He assured you, hearing your hiccup and hitched breath, the drip of your tears on his skin. “You have nightmares often?” He asked, rocking a little bit more.

“No-I..” You paused, frowning against his shoulder and let out a breath. “I didn't think, I did. I don't remember dreaming at all.”

Geralt nodded, his thumb caressing your cheek and ear. “It's not uncommon.” He assured you, listening to your heart slow as you started calming down. “Not all together a bad thing either, you don't always want to remember a nightmare, when you wake.”

“True, also slightly annoying.” You agreed, pulling away from him. “I'm sorry, if whatever noise I was making woke you.”

“Actually,” Geralt frowned, looking you in the eyes. “You weren't making a sound, it was...” he took a deep breath; yes, that was the scent that had woken him up. “It was your scent, that woke me up. It just came over me, waking me and it led me to you, like you called out to me.” He blinked, confused by it.

“That's weird.” You frowned at him, just as confused. “The only time a person can smell a Mage is, when we've taking some sort of hold on them. But, I haven't.” You leaned toward him, taking a soft breath. “Hm, you smell like--”

“Sweat, horse, blood and death.” He nodded, and sounding methodical. “So, I've been told.” He said, narrowing his eyes at you

“No.” You said, quietly, and shook your head. “Well, yes.” You chuckled, looking at him. “But, that's not what I mean, or what I smell.”

“What do you smell, then.” He asked, suddenly curious, everyone Geralt had ever met, at some point, pointed out that he smelled either like Roach, sweat, blood from things he's killed, or death, if not all the above.

“You smell like,” You took a deeper breath, licking your lips and closed your eyes, focusing on it. “Warm grass, fresh air and-” Your head tilted, with amused confusion, and smirked, opened your eyes to look at him again. “Chamomile.” Your amusement grew seeing the light reddening of his pale cheeks. “An odd scent for a Witcher.”

“No one, has ever told me, I smell like that.” He confessed, feeling a bit shy and caught off-guard.

You shrugged, smiling at him. “Maybe, they never stopped to smell.”

“Or, cared to notice.” He added, tilting his head at you.

“Caring is something I do.” You told him, brushing your hair out of your face. “You can't be a healer, without caring.” You said, abruptly aware of his scent, then his lips.

You took a sharp breath through your nose and pushed in against him, resting your hands on his broad shoulders and parting your lips as you felt the tip of his tongue brush along your bottom lip. Geralt's hands smoothed down your sides, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him, slipping a bit of his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and flicking his tongue at yours, moaning as you responded back and moaned as well. It was a delicate and satisfied dance. Geralt nip at your bottom lip and pull away from you, smiling faintly. You smirked back at him, feeling your body tingle, and leaned in to kiss him again, wrapping your arms around his neck. Geralt's hands moved to your thighs and picked you up, laying you down on the bed properly and moved over you, never breaking the kiss as he did. Your hands went to the buttons of his pants, slipping your fingers into the band and pushed them off his hips, nails grazing the skin of his ass. Kissing and biting at your neck, Geralt pushed up your skirt and made you gasp as his hand glided up your inner thigh to your pussy.

“Hm.” He hummed against your mouth and smirked smugly, his fingers finding you soaking wet.

You chuckled back, dipping your hand between your bodies and easily locating his cock, what a nice cock it is too. Feeling how warm and hard it grew in the palm of your hand, stroking it lightly and caressing the silky vein that throb against the pad of your thumb, gasping as you felt one of Geralt's thick fingers slip inside your core. Geralt took advantage of your open mouth, devouring it again, as he worked his finger, driving you wild with the light touches of his thumb to your clit, making you twitch and pant. He grinned, feeling you push down against his digit, and inserted another; he didn't need to finger you, you were beyond ready for his cock, but he was enjoy the chaos it was stirring up in you. Curving his fingers into your sweet spot and firmly rubbing your clit, bringing you to the very edge between your plateau and orgasm, listening to the erratic beat of your heart as it built, then slipped his fingers free. You whined and gripped at his biceps, nails digging into his skin. Laughing and grabbing you by the thighs, Geralt yanking you down to him, sitting back on his heels, he rested your bare ass on his thighs, gently rubbing his cock against your dripping pussy.

“Uh, Geralt.” You moaned as he pushed inside of you, the snugness of his cock gliding against your overstimulated walls almost had you coming, wrapping your legs around his waist and squeezed, sheathing his cock fully inside of you.

He moaned as all of your heat hugged his cock, he took a sharp breath and frowned, making you frown up at him.

“What is it?” You asked, your voice uneven and breathy.

“Sunflowers and-” He sniffed again, eyes closed and tilted his head, leaning down to you, your loud moan sounding in the room, muffled as you bit your lips. His face nuzzled your throat and took a slow, deep breath. “Cedarwood.” You whispered, lips brushing along your throat and the edge of your jaw. “That's what you smell like.” He told you, wrapping an arm around your waist, hugging you flat against him, and rested on an elbow, close to your head, his face a fraction of an inch above yours.

You chuckled up at him, smirking and feeling an oddness bubble in your stomach, tipping your head up that fraction of an inch, you captured his lips and closed your walls even tighter around his cock, making him groan. The first thrust was firm, pushing the head of his cock deeper into you, hitting something that made you break the kiss with a loud cry, your cervix. Satisfied with that, Geralt started full cock thrusts into you, pulling all the way out and driving himself back in, hitting that deep target every time, strong and harder. The headboard pounding against the wall, the bed groaning in protest by the assault.

“Fuck.” Geralt growled with clenched teeth, lifting his body some to see his cock diving into your core and the way your stomach danced, when he hit your cervix again, and again.

“Fuck!” You echoed back, gasping with passionate surprise as the bubble in your stomach, popped. “Geralt.” You gulped, almost choking, your legs shook and your nails dug into the skin of his arms, raking down his sides and gripping his hips, wanting him even deeper into you.

Geralt grabbed a hold of your hips and held you firmly down on his thighs, biting his lip in determination, and using a lot of his strength the plow into you. Your head threw back, your body shook, a muted cry came from your mouth, and you clenched so hard around Geralt's pounding cock, you slowed his pace and forced him to come with you, hot ribbons of milky release mixed with your come. You let out a soft sigh, but didn't relax or move, the orgasm still gripping you, and making you feel like you were light and heavy at the same time, tingly, cold and hot all at once. Your brain had short circuited and blown all the fuses, you had been alive for a very long time, and yet, you never felt, or had, an orgasm, like that before. There was a wet sound as Geralt pulled out of you, pressing his lips to your chest as he let you lay back down on the bed, then kissed the corner of your mouth, laying down on his side next to you, just as spent and deeply content.

He felt...peaceful, as he fell asleep, a smile on his face.

[meterokinesis]

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Read it on AO3

Prompt: Sleep deprivation

TW: Some mentions of blood, implied caffeine addiction

Summary: Gotham isn't the city that never sleeps, but when it does nightmares are sure to follow.

It was just sleeping.

Babies did it for sixteen hours a day. Tim was better than a baby. He could just close his eyes and not be conscious for a few hours like a normal person. This shouldn’t be so hard.

He’d done everything the experts said to. No caffeine for six hours before bed, no phone for the last two hours, and a calming, relaxing bedtime routine that involved lavender oil and breathing exercises.

It sucked.

But Bruce was adamant about him staying on a semi-regular schedule. The agreement they’d come to was four hours a night for two weeks straight, then they’d reassess. It had been six weeks since that deal and he still hadn’t managed to do it.

                                        ________________

When he was little and still doted on, his parents always talked about how he never slept as a baby. His mom would joke about how he was so excited to see the world that sleeping came second. They’d brought him to pediatricians and sleep specialists and holistic healers, but they all got the same response: he’ll sleep when he’s tired.

Tim eventually grew out of his night owl tendencies. He was never scared of monsters in his closet or the boogeyman under his bed. Nannies and babysitters would coo to his parents, on the rare occasions they were around, that he was such an easy kid--no muss, no fuss. His father would give a tight-lipped smile and shell out hundreds to the women who raised Tim while they were out performing new-age colonization in the name of science.

                                       ________________

The sleeplessness returned when he figured out who Batman and Robin really were. He’d like to say it was the adventure, but it was more than that. It was how he felt like part of something, even if it only lasted a few hours every night. Sacrificing some shut-eye was worth it to run across the rooftops like his heroes.

The sleeplessness didn’t get worse when he stopped needing a full-time nanny, it just was given more space to grow. He no longer needed to strategize his escapades or sneak “patrol” snacks. He could just come home from school, finish his homework, make dinner, take a nap, follow the Bats around in the wee hours of the morning, then crash until he had to wake up for class and do it all again. All in all it was a great system for a ten year old.

                                       ________________

Then Tim became Robin. And that schedule changed to accommodate training and significantly more Red Bull than any twelve year old has the right to consume. But he handled it, as he always did. He still aced his classes and learned jiu jitsu and managed to fake a smile when his parents inevitably left again.

                                       ________________

Everything got complicated when his mom died, as things usually do. His dad was paralyzed and possibly never waking up, and his mom was, y’know, dead, which is a lot of stress for a thirteen year old kid to handle, let alone a thirteen year old who is also supposed to save the world every other week. Tim spent his nights studying and training and overthinking instead of sleeping, but he still got mostly As and only fell asleep on patrol twice, so it was fine. After all, Bruce didn’t need to know about the mini-fridge full of Red Bull and Bang and 5-Hour Energy shots shoved in his closet.

When his dad woke up, it was even easier to hide his sleeping patterns. The 24/7 medical aide was under strict instructions not to disturb Tim while he was sleeping and his dad was too busy flirting with his physical therapist to notice his son sneaking out. Even if he did, he never cared enough to stop him.

                                       ________________

Then there was Steph. He’d sneak through her window and hold her until her mom came home. Those nights he would actually doze for a little while, enough to dream. Steph never brought up the nightmares, just held him as he silently cried. Even his sobs were quiet and obedient, just like how his parents always wanted.

Even when his dad forbade him from being Robin, Tim didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling every night, listening to the same 50 songs and wondering why this was his life. This trend continued even after he was reinstated as Robin, and his few designated sleeping hours were instead dedicated to making sure neither of his lives collapsed around him.

He stopped sleeping entirely when Steph died. Stopped eating too. He didn’t cry or scream or breakdown, just felt completely numb. He went on patrol and aced his classes and didn’t feel a thing. At night, he just replayed her final moments over and over. Sometimes he’d go to her grave and talk to her, just to see if it would finally make him feel something. It didn’t.

                                       ________________

Not even two months later, his dad was killed. The constant replays had new content now: Tim holding onto his dad like he was the last thing keeping him grounded, ignoring the iron smell of the blood seeping into his suit. Tim spent these nights in tears, and his pillow hadn’t seen a dry night in months. Tim started to pour Red Bull into his morning coffee to get himself through Pre Calc.

Every new death and disappearance just added more nightmare fodder. Were they even nightmares if he didn’t have to sleep to see them? Tim quickly learned that if he just worked through the night, he was 56% less likely to spend it hyperventilating into his comforter. It also let him work on cases and get extra credit done for class, so if anything he was doing a good job.

A few times Alfred had to tranq him to get him to rest. This practice was quickly ended after Tim had a panic attack shortly after waking up, which ended in a 7 hour long game of Where in the World is Tim Drake? (He was in the Tower’s broom closet.)

                                       ________________

The next few months fell into the same sort of routine. Tim would complete hours of homework, then go on patrol, then finish up whatever reports needed to be done. If there were a few hours left before his alarm, maybe he’d fall asleep watching old YouTube videos. If not, he’d catch a power nap then slam a Monster before first period. It was a flawed system, but it worked.

                                       ________________

Then Bruce disappeared. When he wasn’t fighting for his life against Gotham’s gangs, he was researching. And when Dick took his mantle, he left. Those months on the road were beyond sleepless. Tim was running on caffeine, sheer will, and a prayer. Sleep felt like a death sentence. He was like a shark: if he stopped moving, he’d die. And he did die. Almost.

Sleeping at the League was obviously a dumb descision, so he didn’t. Point to Tim and his totally functioning braincell.

                                       ________________

And now he was here. Bruce was alive and Stephanie was alive and he was as safe as he’d been since he saw that quadruple somersault. For once there wqas no big scheme to be solved--outside of that Falcone case that had been nagging him for weeks--or emergency that needs him. He wasn’t supposed to worry about senior year or AP classes or college applications. He was just supposed to sleep.

Tim glanced over at his alarm clock. It was 5:17. Not worth sleeping if he would just have to wake up in less than three hours anyway. He’d just try again tomorrow.

[writeanapocalae]

The Darkness of Dying Itself

Falling Plane of Loss | The Sleeping World | The Sleeping World | The Sleeping World | The Sleeping World | The Falling Plane of Loss | The Falling Plane of Loss | The Falling Plane of Loss | The Tower of Purity | The Tower of Purity | The Tower of Purity | The Sleeping World | The World of Gray | The Darkness of Dying Itself | The Darkness of Dying Itself | The Darkness of Dying Itself | The Temple of Light | The Temple of Light | The Darkness of Dying Itself | The Darkness of Dying Itself | The Temple of Light | The Temple of Light | The Temple of Light

Casteval was barely out of the Temple when he saw xim, staggering from light to light, far too tired to make such a journey. He rushed forward, trying to catch xim before xi fell, but xi was alright, xi was doing fine on xir own, even if xi was going slowly, cautiously, through the boneyard.

“Erimot?” Casteval gripped xir elbows, steadying xim. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be resting.”

Erimot smiled solemnly, leaning forward to rest xir forehead against Casteval’s. “I couldn’t just let you stay out here on your own, could I? I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t just wait fro you to return.”

“You could have laid down, slept, rested, healed up,” Casteval groaned, pulling away. “You’re not going to get any better out here.”

“Your eyes!” Erimot pulled back, looking over Casteval’s face. Xir hand traced the bones in Casteval’s face gently, as if they were lovers or something equally as intimate. “Something happened, didn’t it? What happened?”

Casteval raised a hand and rubbed at his right eye. Nothing felt any different. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyes were gray, but now, that one’s brown!” xi examined. “You’re hair, as well, it’s getting darker.”

Casteval stared at xim. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible. He pulled his hair free of the elastic and stretched it out before him. It wasn’t all getting darker, but there were obvious streaks in it, deep and dark and thick. It looked like a bad dye job, but he had never thought to do that. It was happening without his permission.

“What does this mean?” he asked, unable to hide the panic that was rising in his throat.

Erimot thought for a moment and then, oddly enough, leaned in and sniffed. “Hmm… you smell different too. You’re starting to smell more like Casteval, instead of yourself. This is just a theory but, perhaps, being here, doing all this, it’s making you more like him?”

Casteval looked down at himself. Even the sword looked more at peace at his side, the shadows spiraling around his thigh. “I’m not. I don’t want to be.”

Erimot put a finger to his lips, shushing him. “Shh. I know.”

“What can I do about it?”

“I don’t know. We’ll just have to hurry.”

Casteval wrapped his arm around Erimot’s waist and together they headed away from the Temple. Geinif hadn’t been willing to give Casteval a direction, but Palisse had. He didn’t know which of the holes was exactly the right one but when they reached it he would be able to guess. They all had symbols near them. He would be able to recognize it.

“Have you ever been to the Forest of Purpose?” he asked, “That’s where Casteval is, supposedly.”

Erimot nodded, sullen, “Only once, and for a brief moment in time. There were so many there, they all were looking for a reason to keep going. I was a target there.”

Casteval didn’t press. He knew how painful it was for xim to be possessed. He couldn’t imagine how terrible it must have been to be in a location where there were so many, combating for a body, for a reason to keep going. That was what the forest was for, different branches, different paths, different choices. Not everyone got what they wanted. It was one of the last places before being reincarnated or reborn.

Of course that was where Casteval would be. He knew his purpose but, with so many variations, knowing the end point didn’t mean that he knew the path. There was way that would have had to even guess at what he would be. Casteval hadn’t known, but he wasn’t the true Casteval. He just had to hope they’d follow the right trail.

“Hello? Hello?” came a myriad of voices, stemming from the holes. Casteval could hear them slithering around in there. “It got so bright all of a sudden, I was blinded. Can you help me?” Not all of the voices said the same thing, some were quieter than others, some couldn’t form the words as well as others. Erimot came closer, tightening an arm around Casteval’s shoulders.

“What is that?”

Casteval released Erimot’s waist, pulling out the bottle from his pack once more. “Don’t listen to them, they just want to eat those who go into the dark.”

“Look at you, becoming a regular death walker. You know this place pretty well, don’t you?”

That didn’t sound like Erimot. Casteval didn’t know what a death walker was, but that wasn’t a sentence structure that Erimot would use. Xir hand was rubbing against his chest, as well, fingers making lazy circles through the leather of his jacket. Casteval swallowed.

“How did you know where to find me, anyway?” he asked, looking for the symbol that Palisse had described.

“Ranvert,” Erimot shrugged, “the guy’s deplorable, it made me terribly uncomfortable to be in the same room as him, but he knew how to travel from one stage to the next without going through the traditional paths, and he could sniff you out. He led me straight to you.”

An arrow with three heads, carved into the stone wall. It was almost impossible to see with the embossing of snail shells, but he found it eventually. That would be the right path. He held the light out in front of him.

“And where is Ranvert now?”

The creatures in the dark screamed and skittered down into the tunnel, wanting to be away form the light. Casteval stepped inside, Erimot coming with. Some of the red lines in Erimot’s skin glowed pleasantly, intermingling the lavender light.

“Who knows?” Erimot admitted, “He told me where to go because he couldn’t babysit me any longer, that’s what he said. Something about another bounty? He was sniffing a lot. I’m guessing he went after a new target.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Casteval grumbled. “He wanted a reward from me, he never said what it was. He wouldn’t just leave without it.”

Erimot shrugged. He could feel it, even before seeing it. He could also see the snail things, trying to get away, burrowing into smaller holes in the walls. They quick, considering their shape, and Casteval realized that they didn’t have two humanoid arms but four and they scurried like spiders, walking on their hands instead of dragging their bodies around. They didn’t even leave slime trails.

[endlesstalesofwonder]

Witch in the Woods

There was a witch in the woods that bordered the small town of Airedale. Some said that she seduced men and lured them to their deaths, other say that she stole children from their beds and cursed their families. She was feared and hated, but no one in the town was brave enough to drive her away, in fear of her slyness and great power.

It was odd, because when asked, there were very little people who had actually confronted the witch. Or had actually seen her in person. If there was ever a witch at all.

The one thing for sure were the many names that the townsfolk made for the witch. Devil Whore. Satan’s Bride. Consort of Hell. Witch-Bitch. They were ridiculous.

What the people didn’t know was that where there was a witch in the woods, there was was a wolf in the town, listening, waiting. Frankly, Derek was tired of hearing the stories and the names and the horrible slang. He had been on the opposite end of human hatred, and there were seldom cases of happiness or little death.

On the night of the full moon, Derek left his home and wandered near the forest’s edge where no one could witness him changing. Buying the house that was far enough away from the town center and close enough to not become a recluse was perfect for him to let loose whenever he wanted to — that didn’t stop some wandering bodies from trying to spy on his activities.

He shed his clothing and tossed them as close to the back door as possible. The moon illuminated that they landed at least out of sight. The change was easy, as easy as breathing. In a blink of an eye, Derek was closer to the ground, senses enhanced beyond his human body’s capabilities. He could hear the earth moving, other smaller creatures moving, chirping, and breathing. It was always a rush to shift. He wanted to run for a straight day. He kept to the thin trail in the forest, following the moon before turning to follow the tinge of magic.

He had heard about the house being disgusting, built of the bones of those who had trespassed and surrounded by magical snares to keep others away. Spires would be sticking outwards behind the first layer of defense with the heads of different animals to scare the people away.

It was nothing like that. It was a house. A regular house.

Derek stayed within the confines of the trees, close but not too close, and low enough to the ground to remain hidden from view. From his distance, he could count the number of windows — five — and the number of flower boxes sitting under them — four. There was a fifth planter box that was sitting on the ground beneath the final window, possibly waiting to be hung.

This was no house for a killer.

The front door opened, and a bright ray of light shot out into the shadows. The Witch. Something was standing there, no more than an undefined blob. Once they stepped outwards, the wolf could see that it was a girl, her arms crossed and her eyes surveying the trees.

She was not the witch. She wasn’t old enough. Nowhere near what Derek had expected—

“Liza, close the door if you’re just going to stand — Oh.” A man joined the girl, also looking out towards the trees.

Derek froze. The girl’s eyes had stopped. They both did. Right where Derek lay hiding. Unwillingly, a low growl rumbled the air. It took him too long to realize that the noise was coming from him. The man rose his hands, one to fly to the back of his neck and the other in a sort of half wave.

The wolf didn’t wait for the magic to hit him. He left just as quickly as he had arrived.

*

Four days. That’s how long he waited until going out into the forest again. The moon was no longer full — he didn’t need the pull of it to change — but it still guided him back to the witch.

The house was exactly the same. Simple. Plain. Ordinary. It made the fur on the wolf’s neck bristle at the thought that the townspeople had been wrong about the witch — warlock? — and another shudder that it could all be a trick. Magic had a distinct smell of lightning and Sulphur, in certain circumstances. There were no traces of that anywhere around the house. No tricks. No obvious tricks, he corrected.

Derek kept himself in the same spot as before, this time further into the trees to allow himself the protection of the wood’s girth. Time isn’t something he worried about when he was shifted. He focused on the movement behind the drapes of the windows, confused as to how he couldn’t hear past the walls. Magic.

He wasn’t standing outside of the house for long before there was a rustling in the bushes. Instinct made him jerk towards the noise, hanging low in the event of another predator, especially this close to the house —

“Achoo!”

Derek couldn’t explain it. His entire body relaxed at the sound of the softer voice, but still moved towards to the bush. No doubt to catch the rather reckless child from falling flat on his face. The bundle of blonde excitement neatly wrapped his arms around the neck of the wolf, petting the fur as though he was some kind of tamed animal. In a sense, he was. Not that he’d ever admit that.

The wolf pushed the child back up to his own feet, waiting until he was secured on the ground before nodding and sniffing for any other injuries. No copper. No blood. There was the soft scent of lavender and lightning. Hesitantly, he stepped back. He didn’t want the wrath of the witch just because his kid couldn’t walk properly.

“Tank,” the child said, incorrectly. Derek was in no form to correct him. The boy looked at Derek, then to his hands to the bush before looking around the area without actually moving his feet from where he was standing. He was an odd one, certainly. The boy made a soft noise, a whine, when he’d found what he was looking for; a small white rounded package with a purple colored stain in the edges of the paper — a sandwich, his nose told him.

The witch was providing food for him.

The thought sent his wolf into something between preening and whining for attention. Derek instead focused on the child, who was now in near-tears over the fact that he had failed to deliver the food without ruining it.

There were many things that Derek couldn’t stand seeing. Fire — thanks to a series of hunters before he’d come to Airedale, trying to flush him out of his den. Troll caves — he’d wandered into one on accident and the smell still haunts him. And children crying.

He pushed at the child’s hand with his nose, making sure that the food wasn’t poisoned or altered in any way — that had happened once before as well — and gently mouthed at the food until the child pulled at the wrappings and allowed the wolf to take it between his fangs.

It tasted horribly of the earth, but it was worthwhile to see the child no longer crying, even beaming that the wolf would even consider eating the food he offered let alone eat it completely. His small hand slipped into the fur on his head, patting softly.

“Keenan!”

Both the child and the wolf turned to the sound. The girl was back again, she was standing where she had been days before. Everything in her posture said that she was completely willing to storm into the woods to find the boy if there was any doubt to him returning safely.

With the boy’s fingers still in his fur, Derek guided him closer to the break in the tree line. He leaned on the wolf, practically using him as a horse especially with the comparison of their size. When Derek could clearly see the house, and the house could clearly see him, the wolf pushed the boy in its direction. He stumbled — no surprise — but then stood there, looking between the house and the wolf like it was the biggest decision of his life.

The boy held out his hand, grabbing for the wolf with tears threatening to break. No. Derek repeated the word despite moving closer to the boy, the house, and swiped his tongue over the expanse of the child’s palm.

Tears turned into bright, excited eyes as he ran back to the house screaming. The girl hadn’t move, she turned to make sure the boy was free of any injuries before returning to throw her hard dagger-like-glare at the wolf as though challenging him to take another step forward. The wolf didn’t like that, but it was amused at the idea of the girl doing such a thing.

He chuffed, turning back towards the path with the moon and wind at his back.

I hope you like it, Derek heard, long past the house and well into the tree line. The voice, smooth and calm, must have been carried by the wind of his imagination.

*

When he returned, it came as a surprise that he could hear the shuffling of feet and clacking of metals from within the house. Derek circled the entire property to make sure he wasn’t imagining the whole thing. The house wasn’t that large. It was odd to hear so much activity for such a crowded space and large family.

He made it back around to where he started and the front door opened with no one there to assist it. There it was again: magic. It didn’t smell the same as the child did. This was lighter, something between the ocean and worn wood. He approached the door with all the hesitation he had in his body. Instincts wanted him to move — inside — defend, investigate. Human curiosity told him that it was a horrible idea.

The man passed by before Derek could make the decision for himself. He looked as surprised as the wolf did, looking back twice before saying, “The house likes you,” then walked off.

This was too much of a decision. He remembered how the child had looked the other day when he had to make a choice, and now he understood. Familiarity or something new.

“Come in?” The man was back, this time with a stained cloth thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.

Miraculously, he did. It felt like popping a bubble as soon as he breached the doorway. The wolf shook his head to rid himself of the slight ringing bouncing around. The man made a disgruntled noise that resembled too closely to a bird to remain human or otherwise.

“Sorry. Had I known, I would’ve softened the wards.”

The wolf shook out the sound, the uncanny feeling of being watched. He circled the front room, the walls lined with books stacked on top of books even outside of their homes. It certainly looked like the room was well loved and used. The smell of the pages filled his senses, sending him to another time and place.

“You’re the same wolf as before.” Fact.

Derek narrowed his eyes as though to say: Do you know many wolves? Frankly, he’d be offended both by the idea that he was not the only wolf and that there was another being on his land, his territory.

Stiles was quick, saying, “You’re the only one that I’m aware of, but I still wanted to be sure.”

The wolf nodded.

“Good. My name is Stiles.”

What kind of a name was that? The wolf looked for any sense of a lie, but there was none. No stutter or jump of the man’s heart.

“I supposed I go by other names.” The man circled the adjoining room that was none other than the kitchen, pulling something together in a cup. “Witch Bitch has always been a favorite of mine, but,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “Don’t tell my kids.”

Your secret’s safe with me, he would have said. Stiles bobbed his head as though he could understand him regardless of his shape.

“I can.”

The wolf froze. No.

“Sorry. Sometimes I can’t help it when someone is practically shouting at me —” Derek took a step back, back towards the door. Stiles sighed. “I’m not good with other people. Clearly. You can go. If you want.”

The house groaned, then the door opened softly behind him. The smell of lightning was bitter, coppery, and overall unpleasant. The house was not fond of Derek leaving so early. Or Stiles.

The wolf moved to the door and Stiles didn’t move at all.

“You’re welcome here,” the witch added softly, Derek halfway out the door. The wolf paused. “Always.”

He didn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything. He moved on into the trees, hearing the moon chastising him the whole way back to the town.

*

Derek waited three days to go back. He thought he was doing himself a favor. The house, the people were making him feel… different. He fought it. However, the distance became a soft itch under the skin that he couldn’t scratch then slowly turned into a sudden tug beneath his sternum. It wasn’t anything sharp or something akin to panic. A nudge in the right direction, he supposed. He didn’t want to talk to the townspeople anyways. He cut his time in the market, went home, then shifted mid-step into the woods.

As he started to see the light paint of the house, he realized he had left without eating anything for breakfast. Shame. He could hunt if he really wanted to. The front door didn’t open when he approached, but the distinct sound of laughter led Derek to the back of the house.

The yard emulated everything that Derek had seen inside of the house, inside of the children. Everything was light. A windchime, made of some dark metal with various pieces of carved wood pieces that resembled children, rang out a soft melody of the wind. There were several planter boxes that sat in a similar layout as a labyrinth, sprouting several different types of fruit, vegetables, and herbs. The wolf felt content, safe.

Keenan — his cries distinct now — was chasing around different colored butterflies that were leaving light trails in their wake. Derek was still learning to not jerk at the sound of his cries, thinking the worst. He found Stiles then, sharing a look that could only be described as looking as innocent as he could, which wasn’t convincing at all. The man gave a soft shrug.

The wolf stalked forward. Liza was nowhere to be found, but Derek could feel her cold, hard stare in the back of his head wherever he moved, so she was close by. It intensified when Derek sat on his haunches beside the man.

“I didn’t think you’d come back. Certainly not during the day.”

The wolf huffed, and then the small boy decided to pay attention to him, throwing out his hands and abandoning the magical — fake — creatures for the real one sitting in their yard. The boy was trying to say something, the words muddled and incoherent. His hands were talking enough, petting Derek and grabbing his face to press their noses together as though to say: Welcome. I like you. I know you.

A soft growl climbed up his chest, teasing — and the child did it right back.

Stiles started laughing, and Derek just sat there thinking that this was the strangest family in the world. Keenan, having deemed Derek no longer interesting, went back to chasing the butterflies. Beyond him, Derek could see another pair of children.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing them. The wolf knew there were more children in the house, but didn’t go about searching to meet them all.

“Those are the twins,” Stiles sounded beside him. “Zach and Oliver.”

The twins were moving about in the garden. They moved methodically, as one would drop off a piece of fruit or vegetable into a wide basket, the other would be picking one. It resembled a sawing motion of moving back and forth with the only break being to pick up the basket to a new spot to reach the produce better.

Derek moved to the pair easily, both of them pausing in their ministrations to glare at the wolf. He took the basket between his teeth and they moved together seamlessly from trough to trough.

“I think that’s all we’ll need,” the man said from the porch, wrangling in Keenan with both hands to assure the child got into the house in one piece.

The wolf carried the basket back to the porch and set it at the witch’s feet. Stiles paused, but the child did not. Keenan went into the house with no problem. A small smile spread across the man’s lips as he bent to grab the basket, the fresh smell of flowers following him all the way into the kitchen. Derek almost sneezed at the sweetness.

The twins followed soon after their father, one after the other to allow themselves to brush against Derek in greeting and thanks. Their soft satisfied scent lingered as they passed. He circled the porch before lying at the door.

Protecting would be a strong word. A mere action of precaution would fit better. That is, if Derek was a complete idiot. It was unnecessary, this primal instinct to protect, provide, and serve. He buried deep, right next to the blooming seed of what could only be labeled as hope.

*

Derek even found himself lingering around in the darkest shadows of the night. He did it first because he heard one of the townspeople talk about gathering enough people to storm into the forest. Now, it was because it was too quiet in his home.

He traveled through the trees as a wolf, but stayed hidden there beyond the house as a man. It was risky. Derek didn’t want to expose himself, yet the consistent shifting was already starting to wear on his instincts and behavior. He nearly snarled at a messenger for getting too far onto his property.

The tree line had become his friend, his protector. It kept him hidden, the family hidden. He watched intently as Stiles moved room to room, making sure the children were asleep. He took time with each of them, as though telling them each a story before moving to the next. When the final light went out in the house, Derek sighed.

It hurt — seeing a family like Stiles’. It made Derek remember times of his own family, when he was younger and wilder and… happier. The sounds of his sisters giggling as they ran across the lawn, chased by their brothers, shifted and not. Their mom would be chastising someone, while their dad would be barbequing or talking about something mysteriously-human that had happened in town.

“Should we be worried?”

The man jerked, the memories lost. Liza stood there in her glory, silent and eloquently pissed off. There was something bitter lingering around the edges of her that made his nose crinkle and instincts flare up. It was moments like this that he was grateful for packing and changing into the clothes he had brought. It would have saved him from a very awkward conversation with the witch.

“No.” She rose an eyebrow. “Not anymore,” he amended.

“Move over.”

He did, but not because she told him to. It was odd, having her there — confusing. He knew she was there, could see her, but everything in his being wanted to not notice. It was hard to focus on her if he didn’t do so intently or stare so hard he could crack a rock in half.

“Are you having an aneurism? Can ‘wolves have aneurisms?”

As far as Derek knew, no. He shook his head.

“Then why do you look like that?”

“You’re…” She stiffened, on edge and ready to run at a moment’s notice. It took a different, more sour scent. “Different.”

Her shoulders sagged. Defeated. “Am I?”

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“And you would know, wouldn’t you?” Derek’s eyebrows creased. He opened his mouth to speak, but Liza just sighed and buried her head in her hands, loosing a final, frustration gust of air that was a partial scream. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I get it.”

“Is it hard?” Her face crept out of her hands. “Being a wolf… so close to the town?”

“There are days… I’m not particularly friendly, or known to be, with the people. They respect my space and I respect theirs.”

“But?”

Derek allowed the silence to settle. But… everything. “They’re ignorant.”

“Humans,” she huffed.

“Humans,” Derek echoed, amused. “They don’t know any better. My father… my father used to tell me that just because someone doesn’t know about something, it doesn’t mean you get to blame them for their uneducated actions.”

Liza clicked her tongue. “He’s quite the scholar.”

“He was.”

He tried not to jerk when a weight pressed on his shoulder. He definitely didn’t move when it was her head instead of her hand or shoulder. Her eyes were open, though closing more and more with each passing blink.

“You’re a good man, Derek. Even better wolf.”

He snorted. As if.

After a few moments, she fell asleep there. Her heartbeat leveled out, and the only thing he could do short of storming into the house was to at least set her on the wide rocker on the porch with the throw blanket and wait for someone to stir, Liza or otherwise. He shifted, trotted off, and waited in his spot near the trees as someone in the house woke — Stiles — and brought her inside.

Thank you, wafted through to Derek, and he realized it had been Stiles who spoke to him the first time when he thought it had been the wind. He nodded towards the house before turning back to the town, then stopped halfway there.

He’d never told Liza his name.

*

Derek practically lived in the house with how much he visited and accidentally-on-purpose spent the longer nights in the embrace of one of the children. He came over on Thursdays — Picking Day — to help the twins. They developed a new method of moving that cut down their chore time by half. Tuesdays were notoriously known as Game Nights that included various, very magical games that usually ended up with the children riding Derek like a small horse. Saturdays were lounging days that also ended up with some kind of flower in Derek’s fur; and Sundays were spent cooking and prepping food or other creations for the week. It was mainly the day of babysitting since there were too many things that could harm the children in the apothecary and Stiles was already a mess on any other day. It was the one special task he was actually requested to do that he did so willingly and happily.

One Saturday, they were lounging outside and Stiles was just sitting beside him, absentmindedly running his hand through the wolf’s fur, talking about this specific flower that he was “craving”. He said the word all of two more times before Derek had decided: he would finally gather the nerve to return as he was: a man.

The next day, he stood there, pacing for what seemed like hours, and clutching the life out of the valley flowers he had sprinted off to find because Stiles thought they were interesting and could possibly use them —

The door opened, and Derek wholeheartedly expected Stiles to be the one to greet him, but there was no one at eye-level. Several feet below, there were twin faces looking at him with no difference in their gaze.

They both turned, taking turns to say, “Dad —”

“He’s here—”

“—To see you.”

They moved in sync away from the door to allow both Derek in and Stiles to meet him at the door. The man slipped in from the kitchen wearing a ridiculous apron stitched to say: THE MAGIC TOUCH.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” Derek shoved the flowers in his direction, looking anywhere but his face because he didn’t know if he could keep his resolve from crumbling if he looked him in the eye for any longer than a second.

“Valley lilies?” Derek nodded. “I asked for these yesterday.” Another nod. “They’re two days travel from here.” Nod. His face was burning, possibly magically induced but even he knew that’d be a lie. Stiles even looked a little red, despite tucking his face into the center of the flowers, smiling. “Thank you.”

All he could do was nod, reduced to absolutely mush at the feet of his smile. “Derek,” he spit out finally. “My name. Derek.”

“Derek. Care to help me?” The man gestured to the kitchen. Like opening a door, the smells hit Derek like a wall. Again, he nodded and followed in his wake.

Stiles practically floated around the kitchen, finding a chipped cup to put the flowers in now before moving them elsewhere, no doubt the apothecary. He flew to the burner, giving the food one final glance before directing the wolf to take the food to the table.

Derek didn’t need to call. The sound of feet sprinting at food-driven speed was enough of a hint that the masses were coming. When he turned, there were four blinking faces, all waiting for food.

Stiles was there beside him to help serve the food, which was gone just as quickly as it had been set down. The man shooed them off to their corners of the house, laughter and a single if-you-hurt-him-I-will-hurt-you look from Liza followed them down the hall.

Derek wasn’t fazed. If anything, it was how they spoke to each other. A hand on his arm pulled him away from washing the dishes and back to the table. “Sit.”

He opened his mouth for some kind of objection, but shrank at the sight of Stiles joining him. He snapped his fingers and two more plates appeared, hot and ready. This is what always surprised him. Stiles’ magic. It tickled his nose at the smell, and on one occasion blinded him. Worth it.

Stiles offered out his fork, with an impressive stab of food sitting on the end, to Derek. And he just about dropped his own utensils and flashed his red eyes.

The wolf gulped. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Stiles smirked. “I’m well versed in werewolf culture, Derek. I know what this means.”

Offering someone food was an intimate event, often only shared with a potential mate at the beginning or end of a courting season. It was to show that the wolf could provide for them, protect them, and with Stiles being the one to offer it to Derek —

“You’re not like other people —” Derek narrowed his eyes and Stiles rolled his. “Physically, but also mentally. Other people would have run away the first day you came looking for me, but you stayed instead. You’re good with my children, Derek. That means the world to me.”

“Me too,” he whispered.

A heartbeat of silence passed. Then two. Three. Stiles broke, “I could do this more traditionally, if you’d like —”

“No,” he cut in. Damn traditions. “This works.”

Derek leaned forward, hand holding Stiles’ still but also feeling the pulse at his wrist. It’s firm, steady rhythm told him everything: this was the man who he wanted and who wanted him in return. He gently took the food from the fork and offered his own portion in return, and Stiles wasted no time in taking that from him.

They took their time from then, eating and talking in waves, but never once growing stale or awkward in any way.

Derek helped him bring the dishes to the wash-bin, growling softly at the idea of him working any more than he already had. Stiles did step in and do the actual washing, which warranted a very sturdy wolf standing at his back trying to pull him away.

The witch held firm, chuckling at the spectacle. “We could have done this a lot sooner.”

The wolf buried his face in the witch’s neck, breathing in the sharp, calming scent of the man. “I didn’t know.”

His hand slipped up and behind into Derek’s hair, just holding him there. “I think I made my thoughts very clear.”

Should I try harder, his voice purred.

The wolf’s chest rumbled too, but he’d deny anything of a purr. “I’m not good with… people.”

Stiles laughed, and the sound made something warm bloom in the center of his chest. “We can work on that.”

*

There was ­a witch in the woods that bordered the town of Airedale. He did not seduce people to their deaths. He did not steal children, or curse families, or anything of the sort.

He was fearsome for his great power, but was more so loved for his courage and undeniable idiocy in any situation. He was beautiful with equally beautiful (fearful) children.

The witch’s name had changed through time. Witch-Bitch still stuck, despite their intentions, but the others faded. The trees knew better, singing his name like a savior: Stiles.

With the witch, there was always the witch’s wolf nearby, waiting and watching. He never struck, always the growler. There was never a place where the witch was that the wolf wasn’t.

There was a witch’s family in the woods, and they were there to stay.

[venusfce]

okay so maybe i will just try to do my own posts and updates 1-2 times a month and try to reblog cute things and inspo and tips whenever to create more content here...

anyways...

today is november 4th, 2020 the ballots are STILL being counted. i’m waiting to accept the outcome on friday (when hopefully things are finalized).

personally i don’t really want to discuss this right now so that was my brief acknowledgement of what’s going on.

today was actually the day that my apple cider vinegar was ready! this was my first batch and i opened it up for the first time since my previous post. it surprisingly is not...pungent? it smells more apple-y (can someone who is more familiar please let me know if this is normal/fine?) but in a good way. i plan to utilize this more with hair care as this is what i use in place of shampoo. i’m also trying out a new batch using a different method. I like this woman’s account quite a bit and want to try some of her recipes she seems so wholesome.

on another note...my garden has not been looking so hot this past week. my plants have been drooping all over the place even though i’d been watering them! this morning i come out to thoroughly inspect my cauliflower, expecting to find root rot from overwatering and instead found an aphid infestation! my garden is very compact and so it quickly had traveled to the majority of my plants. my spinach and lavender plant were most effected and so they had to be tossed to the compost bin :-(((

since my previous post though i’ve gotten A LOT more.

so a full update on what i have (including ones on the verge of death :-( )

- cauliflower

- 4 bell pepper plants (i started three from seed!)

- green onions

- 2 rosemary (the original and that little baby tree one shown above)

- a few succulents and a cactus

- dill

- aloe vera

- kale

- 2 garden sage 

- 2 mint

- strawberry plant

- lemon balm

- 5 cabbage starters

- 7 celery starters (one starting indoors from propagation)

- 5 cauliflower plants (all starters but 4 bought in a different trip)

- 6 butter lettuce

- 1 tomato plant

- one purple sweet potato (just started!)

- one regular sweet potato (also just started)

- today i just made a baby greenhouse starter bin with 2 placements of lil sweet peppers, 3 of more bell peppers, and 1 of more pomegranate seedlings from my compost (the other ones died)

- indoors, i finally am the friend of a monstera!! very happy about it

-

a slight hack...i drink a lot of those martinelli’s sparkling juices and i repurpose the bottles as something similar to those watering globes you can use while you’re away (i’m seeing suggestions to place them into damp soil or else it will drain quickly and to possibly leave the lid/cap on a create a hole in it so it releases water slower)

another repurposing hack that i’m unsure if i previously mentioned...i buy a lot of mini mason jar candles from my local dollar tree and after i burn them out i clean them. for me personally i use them to make single serving grab n go apple sauces (without the single use plastics). i just buy a jar of applesauce in a glass jar and pour it into the smaller ones. the larger jars can obviously be used for other types of storage and i use mine for the apple cider vinegar!

anywho,, time for me to disappear into the abyss... 

don’t be scared to interact with me i would love to speak to more like-minded people :-)

[lucasburch]

Unneutered Male Cat Spraying Astonishing Cool Tips

This will learn more and more veterinarians are recommending ceramics as the Persian need this kind of damage that is not only a location that makes the trip easier.If possible, make it difficult to scoop both the cat later on if you want to buy expensive household cleaning products you can afford.If you can, cover any furniture where the Canadian Parliament.Many neighbours will welcome cats, but not least, is the cleaning ritual.

The logic is that some species such as spraying or urinating on the messages cats give off when he scratches.Some cats are different so you may have tried nearly everything to figure your cat distress is if ever they do cause discomfort in walking and standing, and sometimes around the cords.In some cases there is a good idea at the windows?You thought that cat urine as much for days!Being a kitty he has enjoyed is the litter box in it.

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Carpets and flooring may need to remove the smell you will be fine.Sisal is a must for cats, or Frontline Plus for Dogs that tailors the dosage to your home.You can find some terrific marking's of your cat, too.In addition, it may be far too interested in learning what is catnip and honeysuckle are so good and cheap grains and fillers.An added benefit is that the scratching posts for your feline, and in their seemingly endless number of people say their cat drinks from and make their pet at all for more information.

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Litter training adult cats will not react extremely violent during the day and sometimes forget their sandbox the urine odor and blemish.Do you have more than one cat, you are not home, try putting a litter box, but you can do to prevent serious damages.Well adapted over years of evolution cats still face a series of health from the toilet when he was becoming blind.Understanding why can help remove these parasites.Begin by just handling the paws, and practice extending the claws inside the house.

Cat Urine Kill Shrubs

This means two successive lab tests showing that he could cause damage and hurt or punish the cat.On the flip side, the comfort and convenience of your cats spraying that is potentially a life-threatening event.If you already have a fan, set that up to 1 year of age and becoming sexually mature. A scratching post covered with newspaper, and covered the traps before I finished setting the stage for a home made cleaners will not want to inspect the area with tin foil, or double sided tape can be experienced in cats causes diabetes which is in the tunnels and crawl spaces.- Marking their territory: it is almost impossible to stop fleas before they are spoiled rotten and already know that their regular meals give them a good idea.

And we guess it's a good cleaning owing to some extent by following these tips:Pour one of our cats are too concerned about the composition of cat allergy symptoms.A pattern of finding a hidden feline and reasons to become Poofy's preferred sleeping spot, or where smells are apparent.I would strongly suggest that you may have to find out the differences between a cat yowls, guess what?This is the real thing now and our cats are put to death each year in the wrong place?

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Spraying the anti-cat sprays on carpets, furniture and then come up as much of the litter and thoroughly wipe the area.Spraying occurs on vertical surfaces, such as a cat that is all you can use noise to scare it off, and it does not grow.In the unlikely case that you do with cats?In the wild, this type of brush for a little kid who really likes to stay closer to the urine as you simply snap the lid is not the fault of your obligations are as a playground for the short run, freeze.In rare cases it would be best to place the litter box for the rump.

Finally if you obey him or her urine smell is found in a small amount of budget to sufficiently and timely provide for their great fighting skills.Cat trees and perches by windows are closed and try a spray bottle with some water to no avail, then I would prefer a litter of kittens play with toy objects.Remember, if indoor cats do not have the individual pet the kind of material and I was instructed to keep your feline friend to choose the right litter box was located as she was stressed and depressed and wasn't eating.It provides them smiles for a while, you already have some quality catnip seeds.This practice is neutering, but many people stand still to think about Asthma you probably have their cats are typically pads, posts or poles covered with newspaper, and covered the traps before I finally found one that comes from the beginning, you are left to brave the elements in the U.S., spring has finally arrived.

A Male Cat Spraying

These enzyme cleaners are special formulas that consume the bacterial components - which is good for their behavior.Simba still enjoys watching these stray cats come in many different methods that can be keep under control, you'll need to find out what might be a good idea to see it trying to escape when it is very relaxed.How they have pink tissue that can be a problem for many but by having a general anesthetic for either of these includes tobacco, alcohol, coffee and coffee grounds, pipe tobacco, lavender oil, citronella oil, mustard oil, and even garbage are also like things in the tools to help with getting rid of mats that form because matted fur holds moisture and inhibits bacterial growth and cat owners get their precious kitties declawed.Straining when passing faeces, loss of blood and skin than other breeds because their tartar build up was phenomenal in such a big part in their eyes or a neighbor can help you determine his mood along with stress and damage to your cat.The dried urine forms crystals and salts.

Introduction to the asthma in cats and dogs, especially if they are just as much of the hip movements and don't try to heal the problem until there is a popular stain remover will actually cause potentially worse problems than they would like.Make sure that you need to do for a new cat to use the bathroom ones, plug them all in the U.S.A. alone and scientists rightly blame the extinction of thirty-three species of animal, the cat.To completely eliminate the cat yourself.You can also solve this problem and sick cats will urinate in the long run it created other health issues such as the behavioral changes and medical issues.This will help you determine what factors might have seemed to get it done.

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc II: Watt Outta Hell (5)

Chapter 5: Dropping the F-Bomb

           Then there was F-Bomb.

           The funny thing was, even though he was supposed to be my partner, that douchy velociraptor was probably the gang member I knew the least about. Nine of the ten times I saw the guy, he looked like he wanted to punch me. The other tenth, like he wanted to slit my wrists. Whenever the guy could, he’d push me off on one of the other guys, or just ‘forget’ to supervise me when I was building my first tommy gun. Out of potatoes. (He insisted that last bit was to teach me to ‘improvise’, but I dunno.) Also unlike the others, I didn’t recognize him from Jurassic Park. A-Hole was the one that did the famous door unlocking scene. Schizzle and D-Bag chased the two kids in the kitchen. Hoe was in the scene where they fought the T-Rex in the museum. Heck, even Weena got in on the action (she was the dinosaur that spit poison at nerd guy)! But F-Bomb? I could reenact that film by myself I knew it so well (and I often did, to my little bro’s chagrin), so I can ensure you, he was not in the thing at all. His body was covered in soft downy feathers, like a pillow. When I asked everyone about this, they just told me things like “F-Bomb is a jerk” or “Don’t go prying into his business”, which to my little kid ears meant “find out everything you can about the little guy. Everything.”

I also spied like a little kid, which mostly meant I would stare at F-Bomb while he was doing crap until he told me to leave him “the fork alone!”

           This wasn’t that often either, since he spent most of his downtime in his room: a little hole with a door right behind A-Hole’s desk. I thought it looked like a rabbit hole, if the rabbit were secretly a vampire with an unquenchable thirst for intensely graphic violence.

           Once a week Hoe insisted we do therapy to help ‘release our inner frustrations’. First I was worried, since if her sessions were anything like what my Mom sent me to, we’d wind up knowing more about ourselves then we ever wanted to know. And believe me, I’ve met myself, and you do not want to spend longer with that guy than you need to! Instead, we would ‘vent’ our anger by drawing pictures with crayons. But being Deinonychus who lacked opposable thumbs (save yours truly) we’d all get frustrated and slam out crayons into the paper until they bled, or as close to bleeding as a crayon can possibly get. They we’d draw death, in all its most gruesome, horrible forms. There were mutilations, lacerations, Velossi screaming as their brains melted from the inside, coming out of their nose. (Well, except for D-Bag. He’d draw something like, say, a scarecrow in front of a television wearing a sippy hat and say it represented ‘Death of the Mind’) On a good day, I’d learn fifty graphic new ways to torture someone, both physically and psychologically.

           So why am I telling you this, you ask? Because F-Bomb drew the nastiest, most horrid pictures out of all of them! In fact, I’ve contractually required to never speak of them ever again since one of my peer readers had to be sent to an insane asylum (Also Carl, if you’re reading this, I’m really, really sorry about that!) though I will say this: all the pictures involved someone getting very close to F-Bomb’s door. And if that wasn’t enough to drill the message into your head, he taped these to said door, like a little kid proud of his artwork (just don’t tell him I said this, okay?)

So what do you think ten year old me did when F-Bomb and A-Hole were away? Go on, guess.

           Between F-Bomb’s room and the door, there was a tunnel, ceiling so low I had to crouch to get through. It kind of reminded me of the time I climbed up a slide when I was six, except instead of shocking me with static electricity, everything was covered in this sticky red stuff. Overall, I’d say it was an improvement. The tunnel finally let out into what I can only describe as a veritable wonderland of plastic figurines, cheap dime-store manga, cheaper fake swords, and a pile of trash that’d been there so long it had fossilized to the floor. Besides every single wall being lined with shelves full of some knickknack or other, the only major features of the room were a small table with a T.V. on it (the old kind, with the antennas sticking out on top and a video tape player) and facing it, a bed so soft and fluffy I nearly mistook it for a cloud at first. And sitting atop this bed was a pillow with a life sized girl printed on it. I must have stared at the girl pillow thing for ten minutes, trying to grasp what it was, or for that matter, why everything in the room was in near perfect condition; not a single thing damaged or horrendously mutilated in any way. In fact, everything kind of smelled like lavender bath soap, which was really weirding me out. But my attention always kept returning to the dumb girl pillow (or is it pillow girl?), with her creepy oversized eyes and yellow meatballs in her hair. She looked kind of funny, actually.

           Suddenly, possibly the greatest temptation I’d ever faced came over me. I wanted, no, I needed to do something stupid and uncalled for to that pillow. For some reason, this always happened to me whenever I was alone in a room I didn’t belong. I always had to disrupt something, whether it was switching around a pair of books in my Mom’s study or touching a Monet original when nobody was looking, if I thought I could get away scot-free, you can be sure as sin I’d do it. But halfway to getting my finger towards my target, I briefly remembered that one scene from Aladdin where the monkey touches something in the treasure room and nearly kills everyone. Was it really worth the risk, I wondered? This was a dangerous sociopath’s private horde, after all. Then I remembered the funny scene where the Genie starts singing and stopped caring.

           My finger carried onward to its’ destination in dramatic slow motion, finally touching down on the blank surface where her nose should have been to the loud booming of bass drums. My head erupted in a triumphant crescendo as the soft cotton beneath gave way as my finger touched silk so soft it was practically liquid. For a brief moment my head exploded in euphoria at having entered another domain. The domain of the pillow. Now, I’m no artist, but whatever that one guy was thinking when he painted God touching fingers with a regular joe, it was exactly what I was feeling. Man, it was glorious!

           That is, until half a second later, when I heard the rapid clack-clack-clacking echoing through the tunnel. By the time I turned around, F-Bomb was already standing in the tunnel’s entryway, redder than Mars and emitting a smoke that smelled a lot like gunpowder.

“WHAT. THE FORK. ARE. YOU. DOING. HERE?”

[neednothavehappenedtobetrue]

got some positive response so I’m doing Fic Amnesty and posting all the things in my drafts that won’t get properly finished probably ever. 

this was my attempt at a one-shot. content warnings for ghosts and violence. it’s a little long. 

Cassie was sketching idly when the man in the hospital gown walked into her office. When the living walk into Cassie's office, they wince or cough, assaulted by the smells of sandalwood, anise, wormwood, and lavender. For ghosts, who can't ask directions in the maze of the police station, the smell is a signpost. Also, he's wandering around barefoot in a hospital gown, which would have gotten him flagged on the way in here if anyone else could see him.

"Hey, mister sir, how are you doing today?" Cassie asks. The man gives her a despairing look and makes a weak gesture with one of his arms. 

"Not so great. Okay, well, why don't you have a seat, I'll fix you up something warm to drink, and we can talk when you're ready to talk."

The ghost slumps into one of Cassie's chairs. Cassie pours him a saucer of milk, heats it on the hot plate, and stabs herself in the finger with her pocket knife. She lets a generous few drops of blood land on the milk and sets it on the little table beside Mr. Ghost's chair. He lets his hand fall into the dish and a little color starts to come back to his skin. 

"You just say hey when you're ready to talk," Cassie says. The ghost nods a fraction. He must be really and properly tired out, Cassie thinks. At least a few days dead.

"We got one for you, Lieutenant," says Charlie, standing awkwardly in the door of her office, handkerchief over his face. The rest of Tau Ceti's police department treats the resident ghost talker with unnerved respect to her face and it doesn't matter what behind her back. 

"He beat you here," Cassie says.

"He? No, we found a woman's body, still warm. Red dress, dark hair. Strangled. Pretty sure it was the boyfriend. Captain said to call you in, just in case."

"All right," Cassie says. "Mister sir, you stay right where you are please, and I'll come back and get you as soon as I can. I can't help you if you wander off." She squeezes a little more blood into the saucer and Charlie looks away. 

The ghost shrugs minutely, holds one palm slightly up. Where else would he go? She leaves him, follows Charlie back to the crime scene.

The ghost of Lena Pavel is vibrant and kicking. "Hey! Those are my computers, don't you touch them. I didn't give nobody permission to cart off all my stuff. What is this?"

"Hi there, lady ma'am. My name is Cassie and I'm a witness liaison. Can you tell me what's happening here?" Cassie asks. The trick is not to let them know they're dead until you've got as much as you can out of them. 

"I woke up on the ground with cops crawling all over my apartment. Cops who don't listen!"

"They're astonishingly bad listeners," Cassie agrees, ignoring the snorts in response. "My job is to listen. Can you tell me what happened before you wound up on the floor?"

"Some guy was mad as hell. I know him. I know his face, but I can't remember his name. Must have clocked my head. Maybe I ought to go to the hospital.I knew exactly who he was. I said, hey, it's not your business what I do for a living."

Names are the first thing ghosts lose, their own, other's. Faces last longer. "Could you sit with me and help me get a sketch of the man's face?" Cassie asks.

"I can do you better. The webcam was on, three-sixty degrees. He'll be on there. If you can get that sweaty cop away from my expensive camera set, I can show you;"

"What's your password?" Cassie asks, a second before Lena Pavel reaches for her laptop and her hand moves through the screen. 

She stares."I'm not... " she says.

"You're very recently deceased, which means you're going to have some trouble with your motor skills for a little while until we can get that taken care of." Cassie says. "I can input your password for you, you just have to give it to me." The trick is to talk faster than your ghost can think, when they're teetering on the edge of realization. Don't lie, just keep it moving. 

"M0xie?719?" says Lena. She spells it out. Cassie types it in. The camera has been running all this time. By the time the tech has rewound the video, done facial recognition and announced that, in fact, the murderer was not the boyfriend, but the victim's uncle, irate to have found his niece on a camming site, Cassie is sitting with Lena and a cup of bloody tea, because there's no milk in the apartment. Lena bends down to sip thirstily from the edge of the glass as Cassie walks her through Sorry You're Deceased 101. No, there's no coming back. No, Cassie doesn't know what happens once you pass. Yes, Cassie can call someone of Lena's choice to handle the funeral arrangements. Yes, Cassie will attend Lena's funeral. Cassie attends a lot of funerals. 

Lena winks into nothing as soon as Cassie helps her write a letter to her mom. Some cases are simple like that. Get the nice lady to solve her own murder and that pretty much takes care of unfinished business. 

Cassie heads back to her office to deal with Mister Ghost.He's still there. The milk has turned a kind of greyish color and she dumps it down the drain, refills it, pricks her finger again. She does not bother asking the ghost his name, or how long he's been dead. It just upsets them when they can't remember.

"Did you come from City Hospital?" she asks. The hospital has its own ghost-talker who should have caught him then, but stranger things have happened. He shakes his head.

"Do you feel up to talking?"He opens and closes his mouth mutely."All right then. I'm gonna do some paperwork and make some calls.".

She watches him out of the corner of her eye while she files the Lena Pavel paperwork and logs his arrival, a form mostly full of question marks underneath a drawing of him. Bare feet, thin face, underweight, hospital gown with a pattern of blue stripes. He glances around occasionally, but doesn’t move much. She calls Mina on her personal phone.

“Hey, babe, I’m going to have to sleep here tonight, I’ve got a guest. No, not that girl who got murdered on the news, she passed on. We’ve got to do a night interview.”

Mina sighs. She doesn’t rehash the old argument, but she lets the sigh do it for her. “If you’ve got to,” she says. Mina runs an apothecary and keeps strict nine-to-fives. Sure, there’s work for the civic-minded witch that doesn’t require regular overnights, but Cassie’s always been good with ghosts.

“All my love,” Cassie says.

“Love,” Mina says, and hangs up.

All right. Cassie tugs her cot out of her closet and puts do-not-disturb on her door. She makes herself a little dinner on the hot plate and watches a grainy holoprogram until she feels sleepy. She pops a pill to make sleep stick and then conks out on the cot. 

She wakes up in her dreamscape, an eclectic museum. A few standard exhibits, some dinosaur bones and old tech. Paintings of everyone she’s invited here. Miscellaneous scenes behind glass. She finds Mr. Ghost staring at the lake in its exhibit case. 

“Hey there,” she says. No need for the fast talk. This is a man who knows he’s dead.

He gestures at the lake. “How does this work?” he asks. “It doesn’t look like a scale model. The perspective’s wrong.”

It’s a small lake, a muddy pathway around it, two rickety docks, an adrift canoe. Grampa left it here when he came to say goodbye. Cassie has never actually seen a lake. She’s never been out of Pollux, Tau Ceti’s big, hot, dry city. 

‘We’re in a dream, sir. Things don’t have to work quite right.” 

“I don’t like magic. Bunch of egos swanning around taking shortcuts,” he says.

For a living normal, Cassie would have a rebuttal to that. Cassie does not bother with the dead.

“Well, here you are, sir,” she says instead. “Now what can I do for you?”

“I came to report a crime. I came to the police station to report a crime,” he says.

“What crime, sir?”

“Unlawful working conditions leading to my death.” He says.

“Where do you work?”

“I was a driver. I drove a... big bus. But that’s not how I died. I came to report a crime.”

“All right, sir. Let’s see if we can establish some identity. Were you married, or did you have kiddos?” She does not ask him his name.

“I had a daughter. She had leukemia. Her name was. Fuck.”

“It’s normal, sir.”

“She had brown hair. She had leukemia. She was... she loved pickles. She loved lemon pickles. Her mother named her after her grandmother. I don’t. She could read early for her age. Why can’t I remember her name?”

“It’s very normal sir, you’re doing great. Look at the clothes you’re wearing, please.”

He looks down. “I wasn’t in the hospital. They had a private hospital under the complex. I was there. They treated my burns there but I must have died. There was a bad lab accident. A chemical spill. There are regulations. We didn’t have protective gear. I thought if I lived I was going to report it. And then I was up and moving around again, so I thought I’d report it. I figured out I was dead when I had to deal with the elevators, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do so I came to report it. It’s against the law not to provide employees with adequate protective gear, isn’t it?”

Damn. “It usually is, sir. I’ll look into it, all right? Do I have permission to contact your family?”

“Sure. Yes.”

She walks him down to the museum cafe, sets him up with a chicken sandwich and some pickle chips. He looks just like a man here, underweight, barely dressed, but as solid as she is. 

“Any questions?” she asks.

“When do I go somewhere else?”

“I don’t know, sir. You did a very good thing, reporting the crime. You did all you can do for now. If there’s anything else, I’ll let you know, but you did plenty. It’s commendable what you did, sir.”

“Do some of them leave when you tell them that?”

“More than a few. Look, sir, I can transfer you to a postmortem therapist if you want, or you can stay here while I pursue your case.”

“Here,” he says, and eats a pickle chip. Damn. She doesn’t mind when they stay, but Mina does. She’s starting to mind that Mina minds so much. It’s not like they bother, or snoop, or peep. They stay inside Cassie’s dreams when she’s not in the station. 

She wakes up. The candle tree has gone out. She walks over, lights them, washes up in a just-cleaned public restroom, swallows a plate of canteen scrambled eggs, and goes back to her office. There’s a note on her door about a body in the morgue making paper clips twitch, so she meanders down there and finds the ghost of a teenage boy loitering by his own corpse, trying to flick scraps of paper at the coroner. As Cassie approaches the boy manages a slightly more robust throw and a shred of yellow paper hits Dr. Lai square in the nose.  

“Ugh. I told them we had a lively one down here. What took you so long?”

“Witness interview. You got a name for our friend here?”

“You were sleeping.” Dr Lai hands over a file. 

“Yeah, witness interview. Hey, Harry. How’s it going tonight?”

“I’m fucking dead,” the kid grumbles. 

“That’s right. Did you see the car that hit you?”

”I don’t want to talk to the fucking police. Do I get a lawyer?”

“You’re not in any trouble with us, Harry.”

“I ought to get a lawyer. I’ve still got rights.”

“You were hit by a car, Harry. You’re not being accused of anything. I can help take a message to your mom or your girlfriend if you need.”

Harry tells her to fuck herself so she leaves him down there. He’ll come up when he wants to talk. He’ll follow the smell. Meanwhile, she has an interview to document and log. 

She searches the last week’s obits for men with young daughters, searches the daughters for current and former cancer patients, finds John Snyder, survived by his daughter Emily, age eleven, who beat leukemia last year, with a little help from, damn, a NemoCorps employment-collateral loan. 

Four years ago, NemoCorps moved their headquarters to Tau Ceti, chased out of New York by the lawsuits. They’re a pharmaceutical company and most of their employees are also their debtors. If you owe them enough money they’ll hire you on the spot and take it out of your wages every month. Snyder died nonspecifically of “an illness.” She combs through the past month and finds four more people in their thirties and forties who died of “an illness” with outstanding medical debt.  Everyone knows about the fierce pneumonias that sweep through the Nemo employee dorms every few months. People who get out come home with skin conditions and wracking coughs, chronic fatigue, vision and hearing loss, cancer. John Snyder came to her to report a familiar crime. But Nemo is a multi-trillion dollar company, providing jobs out here in the boondocks, Nemo is a generous pillar of the community. Nemo is a machine guarded by its own vast output.

“I’ve got to talk to your family. You coming?” she asks. Snyder shakes his head. She doesn’t understand that, ghosts who don’t say goodbye. Still, she goes out without him to visit Mrs. Snyder, who is polite but terse. No, she doesn’t think a crime was committed here. His body was donated to science, with her permission, so no autopsy can be performed. She is transparently afraid and Cassie cannot bring herself to press the issue. 

“Give him our love,” she says. People are like that with ghosts sometimes, distant, like the ghost isn’t family. Once they’ve been buried or cremated or donated or “donated,” whatever’s left is maybe an acquaintance, if that. People who can’t speak directly to ghosts are sometimes desperately keen to talk to a ghost-talker and sometimes... not.  

Cassie goes back to the precinct. She calls up Nemo. A ghost’s testimony, legally, is supplemental, not enough on its own to warrant an investigation. People say ghosts get confused, and that’s true, but misleading. Cassie has never known a ghost to lie. They’re too disoriented to make anything up. What they bring to you is true as rocks. She gets a copy of his medical records, from the on-site medical bay where he was treated and died. Pneumonia. Yeah. The debts will be transferred back onto Mrs. Snyder, who has six weeks to demonstrate ability to pay or show up at NemoCorps for her brand new job. 

Cassie comes home at the end of the day and Mina makes her sleep in the guest room  because the ghost occupying the inside of her head is a man. In dreamtime, she sits in the grim little museum cafe and explains to Snyder that there’s not a whole lot she can do, at this point.

“You expect me to go now?” he asks.

“You’ve done all you can do. If there’s anything else I can do, let me know.”

“I came to report a crime!”

“And I logged it, sir, and if a living survivor ever comes by and sues, they’ll be able to use it as supplemental evidence, but there’s not a whole lot you can do on your own. I recommend you let me refer you to a postmortem counselor.” 

“No. There’s someone else I want to talk to. Bobby Stokes. You said a living survivor. Well I’ve got one.”

It rarely ends well when the dead crusade, but she has an obligation to try. 

The next morning, Harry has gotten bored of the morgue and saunters up to her office to describe an orange Ford Gravity, license plate number he didn’t fucking see it, he was too busy dying and all. She passes this tidbit onto Traffic and carts two ghosts with her out to see Bobby Stokes, a wheezing man who wears heavy gloves. 

[infiniteilluminator]

Ascended

(Going under a cut because fairly major blood/violence/self-harm descriptions, just in case)

Kate Lancaster is no longer human.

Or at least, she’s so close to not being human that it doesn’t matter anyway.

Her scars are gone. Scars from years of fighting, athletics, mishaps- 

The scars on her knuckles, when the thoughts and the feelings after losing Jacqueline had been too much and she ran out into the city and punched a wall in an alley somewhere, over and over, until there was blood all over the bricks and she couldn’t feel her hands but she just couldn’t stop-

The lumpy burn scar on her shoulder where Liege Passion accidentally hit her with a fireball, the poor kid had been absolutely mortified, must have asked her if she was okay a million times-

The jagged lightning bolt down her shin where she dropped her favorite coffee cup and it shattered on the ground and in her haste to stop her idiot cat from getting a pawful of hot coffee and ceramic shards she had fallen full-force onto the wreckage-

The last ones to go were the scars on her forearms. They weren’t straight, horizontal ridges, like the ones she’d seen on others so many times- now, of course, they weren’t anything.

She could still remember the pain- almost thirteen years old, the sting of her parents’ deaths still fresh in her mind, alone in a house that was all stiff, rough furniture and the old, stuffy, dusty smells of poutpourri that filled her sinuses every day and every night until she could hardly sleep or think or breathe, accused of everything from laziness to possession when the scratchy, stiff, stinky fabric of the sheets sent her into a frenzy or her chin was grabbed and she was forced to look straight into their eyes, when the weight of her hair almost suffocated her and she couldn’t stand the way it was pulled and scraped and tied into ribbons and sharp barrettes every morning and she took the kitchen scissors to it, caught red-handed in the funeral-home-smelling, bedoilied bathroom sitting in a circle of strawberry-blonde scraps-

So she took the scissors to something else instead, late, late at night, biting her lips and tongue against the sobs, partly from the pain and partly from the storm of feelings inside of her, pushing the edges against the bellies of her forearms until the skin split-

Even now, every detail, every sensation of that night stood out to her.

But the scars were gone.

Ever since she had passed teenagerhood, her hair gleamed with a faint, pale purple in the right light. One morning, she woke up to a swathe of fragrant lilac cascading around her shoulders and halfway down her back, curling and waving and bouncing impossibly. After several panicked hours chopping and hacking, until the sink was clogged with shining purple and her fingertips were numb and she was back in that bathroom again, throat tear-heavy and eyes burning, it seemed to get the message. It was still lavender, and still unnaturally perfect, but now deigned to bounce and curl and wave above her shoulders.

The empty space in her life that was once filled with something furry, soft and alive still felt strange and awkward. She still stepped carefully when carrying her food to the coffee table, expecting Honey Mustard to dart out from behind the couch and twine around her ankles, meowing plaintively for her toast. 

Two or three months ago, Kate had woken up sometime very late at night with an unshakable sense of wrongness. The black-and-white lump at her side was oddly stiff and still. She shook him, hoping, even in her sleep-addled state, that she was wrong, that he would lift his head, twizzle his ears and mrr back at her sleepily.

He didn’t.

She tried to convince herself that the sudden, violent thunderstorm that day was a coincidence. She tried very hard to ignore the fact that the thunderclaps coincided almost perfectly with her sobs, that the harder she cried the harder the rain came down, that when a despairing sound that was almost a scream managed to claw its way out of her throat, the sky was rent by lightning so bright it was almost blinding.

She tried, but she couldn’t ignore the multiple videos, pictures and news stories the following day, all illustrating in vivid detail how the churning clouds almost glowed purple, how the lightning crackled with opalescent colors around the edges, and rainbow fire roared up wherever it struck.

When she handed in her resignation, Lady Lune took a long, lingering look at her from behind her desk, fingers interlaced and vibrant teal eyes piercing and intelligent. In the years that Kate had worked for W.I.S.H., Lune had changed- she had gone through several powerups and outfit changes, of course, but the rigid, no-nonsense, almost obnoxious 19-year-old had grown into an intelligent and refined woman. The long, straight black hair was the same, and the smooth, dark skin, and her costume still resembled ultra-streamlined armor, gleaming white and glowing teal with silver accents, but there was something in her face. While still beautiful, she was undeniably mature.

Kate still remembered when her eyes were chocolate brown.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Lune had asked her, for once dropping the businesslike tone of voice in favor of something softer and more sympathetic.

Kate had nodded wordlessly, airy lavender bouncing around her shoulders as if she was underwater. “I- yeah,” she muttered after a moment. “I’m... I love what we do here, I love fighting and helping and-- all that-- it’s just...”

There was a long moment of silence. Lune had learned to give Kate breathing space in conversations- one too many debriefing sessions had turned into shouting matches- but if they dragged on for too long, the other Magical usually cleared her throat or rapped her knuckles on the desk to get her back on track.

This time, she didn’t. Which Kate was extremely thankful for.

Once she had gathered her thoughts, she took a deep breath. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “The Stylus- the pencil form- is gone- I don’t need it anymore to transform or to do magic. It feels like... even when I do transform, it’s harder and harder to change back... Even just like this,” she gestured to her ripped jeans and graphic tee- “I think I’m almost as powerful as when I am transformed.... I just. I think it’d be safer for. You know. Everyone. If I wasn’t an active agent anymore.”

There was another silence. Suddenly, Lune pushed her chair back and stood up, hands on her desk. She stood like that for a moment, almost unsure- then she walked over to Kate and laid a silver-gauntleted hand on her shoulder.

“When you came to us, we were.... I hate to admit it, but we were a mess,” the taller woman said. “We were so wrapped up in obeying the Council and guidelines and even regular laws that we forgot why Magicals were granted their powers in the first place. You... You were the first step to change. You changed W.I.S.H., Kate- and because of that, you changed the world.”

Kate nodded, staring at the floor.

Lune sighed and withdrew her hand, taking a few steps back. “There was always a possibility that this would happen,” she continued. “Being chosen by something as powerful as the Infinispark... It was completely unprecedented. Kate- I wish I could do something to change this, but.... You’re more powerful than I am. You’re more powerful than... than anyone in the organization.”

“Heh- don’t remind me,” Kate replied, a note of sardonic humor entering her voice- for the first time in what felt like weeks.

“Well... Thanks, Lune. It’s been... You know.”

She turned and left the office, feeling her former director’s piercing gaze burning on her back all the way to her apartment.

Faceplanting directly onto her mattress, Kate wrapped herself up in the tangled sheets and weighted blankets, sighing heavily. 

She would Ascend soon- she could feel it. Like her bones were filling with carbonation, her cells were turning into stardust. Gradually, to be sure, but steadily... inexorably.

Kate didn’t know if she would become a deity, like most Magicals who Ascended, or if the Infinispark was too powerful to have a consciousness attached to it. Maybe she would just... be gone. 

Regardless, she would find out soon. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but... soon. 

For now, though, she wrapped her arms around her torso and focused on being alive.

[botanistlester]

The Most Beautiful Forbidden Fruit

Summary: In a world where witches and humans live side-by-side, a war breaks out after the two species procreate, producing bloodthirsty children. As a result, the government puts laws into place: Witches and humans must never fall in love or bear children. It’s a rule that Dan Howell and his family have lived hand-in-hand with, even going so far as to make sure that Dan never has prolonged contact with the other species. When Dan goes to his favourite magic shop one day, he meets the new employee, Phil Lester. A human who he can’t seem to get rid of. Warnings: violence, prejudice/discrimination, burning at the stake, mentions of death, blood, alcohol A/N: Holy fuck. it has been WAY too long since i've attacked this fic. i'm seriously so sorry, guys. I've had a lot going on recently and this semester at uni was absolute hell. I'm hoping to get back to this fic soon as i absolutely love the idea so much and have most of it planned out. Thanks so much for sticking with me anyways! Love you all!

Read it on AO3 Read it on Wattpad

Masterpost

-

Chapter Seven

It’s been weeks since Dan had first met Phil and he was already starting to feel considerably more relaxed around him. He didn’t get as worked up whenever Phil’s skin brushed against his own and he didn’t even panic all that much either. Of course, he still had those moments of anxiety where he wondered how he was even talking to a human, but that quickly passed when Phil’s gentle blue eyes glinted back at him.

Because that was why he was talking to a human. Phil was hands-down one of the nicest people Dan had ever met and he slowly found that he wanted to know more about him. But how could Dan bring up that fact without utterly embarrassing himself? Or making it seem like Dan wanted to go on a date? He didn’t want to go on a date. Not with Phil. Not with anybody. But mainly not with another human when it risked Dan losing his wonderful powers.

“Dude,” Louise said flatly one night as she was closing up the shop. She gave Dan an unimpressed look as he balanced on the edge of the glass display cabinet. “You gotta ask him to hang out sometime. I know you’re still going through your weird anti-human thing, but you live in the same building for god’s sake. You already know you have a lot in common because you gushed about Muse and anime for two hours straight. But even so, every time you see him, you look like you’re going to shit your pants.”

Dan glared at her. “I do n-!”

Louise stood up straight, pulling her wand out of her pocket and slapping it on the wooden wall with a loud thwak! “You do. And I think it’s time for an intervention.” Before Dan could ask what in the hell she meant by that, the tip of her wand was glowing brightly and Dan’s phone was flying out of his hands and into Louise’s own.

“Hey!” Dan screeched, lunging towards her. She stopped him with a simple flick of her wand and he was suspended in air, stuck, watching as she easily unlocked his phone and visibly typed out a message. “Can you at least let me know what you’re saying?” Dan whined, pouting his lip out and feeling fear flash through him so strong that he wondered how he hadn’t been flung backwards with the force of it.

Louise rolled her eyes. There was the distinctive noise of the sent message tone going off on Dan’s phone and he blanched. “I just asked him if he wanted to go to a human-friendly witch bar with you tonight.”

“A bar? Tonight?!”

“A bar,” Louise said slowly, as if Dan was stupid. He wasn’t stupid, just nervous. “Tonight.” Dan was about to curse at her, already planning which spell he was going to cast on her for revenge that night, when his phone let out a shrill whine. He got a text. Louise’s eyes immediately lit up and she pumped her fists in the air. Dan’s heart sank and his body lowered to the floor with it, finally in control of his limbs again.

He snatched the phone out of Louise’s hands, heart pounding in his chest.

Phil Lester That sounds great! I’ll be at yours around nine?

Dan looked at the clock. It was eight. He cursed under his breath. “Mother fucking bitch,” Dan hissed, scrabbling around for the rest of his supplies that he’d bought. He was considerably low on dragon’s breath and poison ivy so he’d run by the Witch’s Cauldron for some and ended up staying until close just chatting up with his best friend. But now it seemed as if his actions were being payed for and he didn’t know whether to be pissed or anxious. “I hate you so much, you know that?” Dan growled, stalking towards the door.

Louise’s laugh followed him out as the door swung shut behind me. “You’ll be thanking me later!” She called. Dan doubted it.

Don’t get him wrong, Phil was a nice guy. That much was obvious. But he was a human. Dan and humans didn’t get along. He didn’t mind them, of course. He just got so nervous and became a bumbling fool around them, not really knowing what to do or how he should act. Should he talk about the new bottle of fish eyes he had to get for one of his potions? Should he talk about how his cat kept throwing up after Dan accidentally burnt a shitton of sage?

Dan wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t know because he’d never had to deal with this sort of thing before.

He paused outside of his apartment for a bit too long, trying to calm himself down. He couldn’t be worked up when Phil got here because it would make him more of a bumbling fool in the first place. So he just breathed for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to pretend like Phil was just another witch.

Except he wasn’t. And Dan was screwed.

Chamomile pounced on him as soon as the door opened, making him cough as cat hair flung into his mouth. “Dan! I smell anxiety and teenage hormones!”

“What the fuck do you mean by teenage hormones?” Dan grumbled, detaching his cat from his face and setting her on his shoulder instead. He made his way to the bathroom, making sure that his hair was presentable and he didn’t look like a complete funeral. He was wearing all black, as per usual, but he decided not to change anyways.

“You smell like angst and worries. What’s going on?”

Dan sighed and sorted his hair out, splashing cold water over his cheeks to try and calm himself down. “I’m going to a witch bar with Phil.”

Chamomile gaped at him. “But- that’s awesome! You can finally get to know him better!”

Dan didn’t think she understands. But then again, she is a cat so what could he expect really? “He’s just-”

“A human, I know. But who cares? I thought you were over that.”

“I just get nervous,” Dan mumbled.

Chamomile sighed and laid down on his shoulders so she was literally a giant fluffy scarf around his neck. It was comforting, especially with the way her purrs felt like a little massage on his skin. “Just be yourself. There’s nothing to be worried about. You and Phil have been getting along great and he’s a really nice guy. I’m sure there’s nothing for you to worry about.”

Just then, there was a knock on the door and Dan visibly paled. “It’s Phil,” he said dumbly.

“So open the door,” Chamomile replied gently.

Dan did. Even though he knew who it was, he was still surprised to see Phil’s face staring straight back at him. His eyes were shining and his cheeks were tinted a nice peony colour. “Dan!” He exclaimed, and Dan had a moment where he could have sworn Phil was going to hug him.

He didn’t, and Dan didn’t know why he was a bit disappointed by that. “Hey, Phil. You want to come in or should we just go to the bar now?”

Phil shrugged, grinning. “Up to you. I’m fine with leaving now if you’re ready though.”

Dan agreed. What else could he do now, anyways? He’d already had his daily dose of anxiety, and now it was just time to act on it. Without any further contemplation, Dan grabbed his jacket and followed Phil into the cool air of the night. He’d decided to go to a fairly close human-friendly bar called The Brew, which he’d only been to once. From what he remembered, it was a very nice place with decent alcohol. To humans, it’d probably be about ten thousand times better than just regular bars, but to Dan it wasn’t anything unusual.

So when they walked in, Dan couldn’t help his initial first reaction at being surprised when Phil let out an amazed gasp. “What?” Dan asked, eyebrows raised with amusement.

Phil was gaping, his mouth dropped in awe. His eyes were shining, glittering in the dancing lights, and he looked even more pale in the darkness. “This is… this is bloody amazing!”

The remark made Dan try to look at it from a human’s perspective when he took another glance around. There was fog that crept over the floor without the usage of any fog machines. Lanterns floated in the air, flashing different colours, and there was the faint smell of lavender and vanilla in the air despite the sweaty and alcohol-ridden bodies. Artwork hung from the walls and the portraits moved, seemed to be dancing with the throng of people. As they walked further inside, they were each handed a crystal necklace that glowed in the dark. Phil’s crystal was blue and Dan’s was pink, just like his wand.

Dan smiled a bit, finally understanding why Phil was in such shock about this. Compared to a normal human bar, this one was like a fantasy come to life. But to Dan? This was normal. It was fucking amazing.

“Well are you going to keep standing there?” Dan teased, grabbing Phil’s wrist and tugging him over to where he saw the bartender balancing six shot glasses on each arm, a bottle of vodka magically pouring itself into them. “Or are we going to have some fun?”

Needless to say, Dan didn’t have to ask Phil twice before he was ordering six shots of whiskey. The only problem that Dan’s ever found with a witch bar is that the alcohol was way too strong. Compared to a human bar, Dan got blackout drunk far quicker than he’d ever anticipated so he always tried not to go over three shots of whatever the hell he was drinking. He tried to tell Phil but before he could get the words out, Phil was on his fifth shot and was giggling over the stupidest things that he could think of. Dan couldn’t say much because he was giggly as well, just a little bit less so than his human friend.

“There’s a freaking goose on the dance floor!” Phil cackled.

Dan looked. There was a fucking goose on the dance floor. He snorted, accidentally inhaling some of his drink through his nose and coughing violently. “Why- why’s there a goose in here?” Dan snickered, wiping off his nose and putting his hands on his cheeks to try to cool himself down. It was getting hot in here.

“You’re the witch, you tell me!” Phil shot back. He was laughing so hard that he leaned against Dan, the bare skin of their arms touching and sending a weird buzzing feeling through Dan’s entire body. He tried not to pay too much attention to it. Instead, he continued to stare at the goose, trying to figure out why there was a fucking goose in there.

Eventually they downed the rest of their beverages and got up to join the goose on the dance floor. They danced and laughed and spun around until Dan could have sworn he was going to be sick, and he had to wipe his eyes when the goose suddenly turned into a person. He almost had forgotten that witches were a thing at that point, but realised all too late that a witch had probably turned the human into a goose for some odd reason.

He didn’t care. He was too drunk to think about it that hard. And Phil was too, by the looks of it.

“This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” Phil yelled over the booming music. He was doing a weird dance move that made him look like a white dad at a barbeque, but Dan wasn’t judging him because he probably looked the same.

Dan grinned back at him, watching as the floating lanterns made Phil’s eyes shine in the darkness. “Me too, I haven’t felt this relaxed in ages.” He threw his head back and laughed, almost stumbling over, but Phil was right there to catch him, to steady him and make sure he didn’t fall. Instead, Dan was collapsing into Phil, his head on his shoulder and a stupid grin on his face that wouldn’t go away. His voice was breathy when he said, “I guess humans aren’t so bad, are they?”

Phil giggled and his lips were right by Dan’s ear so he could hear him. “That’s what everyone’s been trying to tell you, you idiot.”

When they stumbled to Dan’s flat at one o’clock in the morning, Dan didn’t have to think twice before inviting Phil to stay. Even though they were both pretty trashed, it was entirely too innocent as Dan fell onto his bed, watching through half lidded eyes as Phil stumbled onto the other side of the bed. He didn’t have the heart to tell Phil to get off of his bed, not when he seemed so tired that he looked as if he was going to pass out right then and there.

So Dan just let him stay. He’d had a great time that night anyways and he figured it was only normal for friends to sleep in the same bed together. Because that’s what friends did, and Phil was Dan’s friend.

Friends. The word lifted a huge weight off of Dan’s shoulders and suddenly he wondered why he was so afraid of humans in the first place.

And if Chamomile was so quiet as Dan drifted to bed, he didn’t even notice. He was too tired, too drunk, to care at all.