#anyway getting myself back into drawing slowly and whatnot

[sleepinglionhearts]

Libra, Libra, I'm always thinking of you 😊

[serendipitous-magic]

What is your writing advice for young people who want to write fanfiction and original stories in the near future?

If this is just Way Too Much, skip to the end (#16). My most important piece of advice is there. I also happen to think #5 is pretty good.

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1) Literally just write. Write whatever you want, and do a lot of it.

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2) You don’t have to post everything. In fact you don’t have to post anything. You can, don’t get me wrong, but it can be intimidating to sit down and think “I will now write something that other people will see and read and judge with their eyeballs.” Because that’s probably gonna lead to nerves and writer's block. Just write down the ideas that you have, the things you want to write, whatever’s in your brain that you want to explore and expand upon and make into something. And then if you want to, share it. Or don’t share it. I have plenty of half-baked ideas and documents and random story chapters and shit hidden away on my Google Drive that will never see the light of day, for a whole number of reasons. I wanted to write it but it wasn’t ~Spicy~ enough to warrant posting, or it’s only like an eighth of a good idea, or it’s like one scene with no story around it, or it’s just something incredibly self-indulgent I just wanted to write for my own enjoyment.

Point being, don’t write for other people. Don’t write so that other people can read it; write what you want, write for yourself, and then if you want to share it, do.

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3) You can pretty much ignore any and all of these for fanfiction. In fact, you can ignore pretty much any rules or guidelines you want for fanfiction. Fanfic is a sandbox. You don’t have to be a “professional writer” to post fic. No one expects you to be Stephen King or Margaret Atwood. Fanfic is just for playing in a fandom and having fun. If you wanna write a 50 chapter slow burn with very little plot aside from the OTP slowly getting to know each other, and no real stakes or central conflict, I guarantee people would read that. Really, fanfiction is the Old West of writing: lawless, wild, unpredictable, and free.

However, here are the rules you must follow:

-Separate your paragraphs. (I’m sure you know this already, but I’m gonna say it anyway just in case.) Do not post one big block of text. Make a paragraph break when someone new is talking, when the characters are in a new place, when a new event occurs that changes the scene, when a chunk of time has passed, and when there’s a major change in subject.

-I know it’s obvious, but... grammar, punctuation, and capitalization. They exist to make writing easy for readers to read, and more people will read your stuff if they don’t have to stop and try to figure out what you meant.

-Use tags and labels, as is possible with whatever site you’re using. Especially if you include possibly triggering content in your story. Again, I know it’s obvious, but it’s common courtesy. Bonus: tagging the themes and content of your story helps readers find it and read it :)

-If possible, limit the use of all-caps and exclamation marks / question marks. 99% of the time, one ! or one ? will do. If you overload the page with a lot of all-caps and long rows of exclamation marks or question marks, it hampers readability.

... That’s literally all I can think of. And, like I said, it’s all pretty basic stuff. You were probably rolling your eyes like, “Uh, yeah, Gwen, I know.” But that’s literally it. You can pretty much do whatever you want in fanfic.

That being said, here’s my advice for both fanfiction and original work...

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4) A quick and dirty rule for coming up with a plot, starting a story, keeping up pacing, or maintaining tension: figure out what dreams, desires, and goals are nearest and dearest to your main character’s heart (see #16). Then set up the main conflict to be directly in opposition to that goal. It doesn’t have to be in a tangible way, though it could be. But, if your main character wants more than anything to reach the ships on the southern coast of your world and sail to a new life, make sure the main conflict immediately prevents them from doing that - in fact, make sure to send them north. If your main character just wants to keep their loved ones safe, kidnap the loved ones. If your main character just wants to date their best-friend-turned-crush, make sure they think they have no chance - or, make them cocky about it, and make sure it makes Person B determined not to ever like them. You get it. Figure out what your character most wants, and then keep them from having that. Boom - your conflict now ties in with your character's motivation. It's like instant yeast for plots.

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5) If you’re anything like me, you want your first draft to be Good, despite all that advice about how the first draft doesn’t have to be good and it’s just to get words on the page, yadda yadda. And if you’re somewhat of a perfectionist (like myself), it’s easy to get stuck looking at a blank page because you don’t have The Perfect Words, and you want what you write to be Good the first time.

Here’s how I cheat that:

Instead of trying to write a Good First Draft from a blank page, hit the enter key a few times, skip a little down on the page, change your ink to red (or blue, or whatever - just something immediately identifiable as Not Black) and just thought vomit. Write whatever the hell you’re thinking, exactly as you think it. Don’t worry about it being readable, don’t worry about narrative flow for now, don’t worry about covering all the details, don’t worry about anything except either a) getting all the details of your idea out onto the page, whether that’s a lot or whether it’s just a sentence or two, or b) if you don’t have an idea yet, finding your way there.

Because this method is also very good for finding your way to ideas when you’re stuck in writer’s block.

Because of how human brains work, getting this stuff out onto the page - in all its messy, stream-of-consciousness glory - will likely spark more thoughts. As you write your original idea about the scene, it’ll likely spark more ideas. Creation begets creation. If you just start thought-vomiting your ideas onto the page, chances are you’ll think of more things as you go, and you’ll start filling out description or dialogue or tone or action or whatever, and pretty soon the scene starts writing itself.

Not sure where you’re going with the scene or which ideas you wanna use? Use a lot of ambivalent language in your “thought-vomit draft.” My pre-writing notes are chock-full of the words “maybe,” “perhaps,” and the phrases, “At some point...” and “...or something like that.” In this way, I don’t tie myself down to one idea; it’s just an idea, and I’m keeping it on the page in case I use it, but I might chuck it in the trash or change it or whatever.

And then, once your ideas for the scene (or story, or chapter, or whatever) are on the page, then go back to the top and start translating them into a “real” first draft. Use black ink, and start copy-pasting chunks of the thought-vomit up into the top part of the document and translating them into Draft 1. Separate out paragraphs where paragraph breaks should be. Add the correct punctuation and whatnot. Change “describe the lobby here - include potted plants, fancy carpet, blood stain, etc.” into an actual description of the lobby. Flesh it out, or condense, or whatever it needs. And if you’re still stuck, change back to red ink and ramble some more until you find a path that feels right, then plug that in. This keeps you from looking at a blank page, and it allows you to generate a kind of Draft 0.5, somewhere between a plan and a first draft.

You don’t have to use every idea. Like I said, jot down whatever comes to mind, put a “maybe” before or after it, and keep working. If the idea grabs you and you wanna keep expanding on it and exploring it, cool. If you just wanna jot it down so you don’t forget it and then move on, also cool. Red-ink draft / “thought-vomit draft” is your time to jump around in the timeline, add or finesse details at whatever point your brain moves to, etc. Don’t try to do it exactly in story order, because you will get tangential thoughts and ideas, and you will not remember to write them down five pages later when you finally get to taking notes on that scene. Trust me. On that note...

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6) Write everything down the moment you think of it. Seriously.

“I’ll remember it when I get around to writing that scene in a couple days / weeks / months (/years).”

You won’t.

Write it down.

Phone, journal, google docs - hell, my family regularly laughs at me for grabbing a napkin during dinner and scribbling thoughts down alongside pasta sauce stains.

And then, once you have it written down somewhere...

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7) Consolidate your writing ideas in one place.

Maybe this isn’t really your style, and that’s totally chill.

Buuuut, if you’re Type-A like me - or if you tend to be somewhat unorganized and you know you’ll lose track of your writing notes if they’re scattered across multiple notebooks, journals, napkins, phone notes, etc. - having one consolidated document of notes is a life saver. I keep mine on Google Docs so I can access it, add to it, and look through it for inspiration anywhere at any time. When I have one of those Shower Thoughts that I jot down on my phone or on a napkin during dinner, I set myself a reminder on my phone to type it up in my Story Ideas document later.

(Or, if the idea I had was for a story of mine that I’ve already started planning / drafting / whatever, I put it in the document for that story instead of the Big Random Story Ideas doc. You get it.)

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8) Have other ways to collect and save writing ideas, besides just writing stuff down. If you like Pinterest, make pinterest boards of your characters or stories or settings or whatever. If you’re big into playlists, make a playlist for your character / setting / story / etc. Or both. Or something else. I’m not good at drawing, but maybe you are, and maybe you like to draw your ideas. Whatever form it takes, having another way to save ideas and think about your stories is invaluable.

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9) Some writers can just start writing with no idea where the story is going, and they just kind of figure it out as they go. I envy those writers. And I do that sometimes for fanfiction, where the stakes are somewhat lower and the audience is reading more for scene-to-scene enjoyment (and to see their OTP kiss) than for a Driving And Compelling Narrative.

But here’s the thing: especially if you’re just kind of starting out, writing without some sort of plan is really, really hard, and will likely lead you into a slow, meandering narrative that will likely frustrate you.

Even if you think you’re someone that just can’t write with a plan (and again, I have the highest respect for pansters out there - I don’t know how you do it, you crazy bastards, but you keep doing you) - even if you think “I can’t work with plans, they’re too prescriptive, I just want to write and see what happens -”

Try at least making the most skeletal of plans.

Even if you have no clue what 90% of the story is, yet. That’s fine. But you need to have some idea of what you’re building to, even if that’s nothing more specific than a feeling, or a turning point for your character. Even if your entire plan for everything beyond Chapter 1 is, “At some point, Charlie needs to realize that Ed was lying to her.”

This is where those Draft 0.5 notes come in handy. Because, more than likely, working on your current scene that way will spark ideas for later scenes, which you can put down at the bottom of the document and save for when they become relevant. In my experience, the line between planning ahead and making a Draft 0.5 is exceptionally thin. One can quickly turn into the other.

If you’re really, really resistant to the idea of planning ahead, that’s okay. It’s not everybody’s style. But for the love of all that is holy, write down your ideas for future scenes, even if you’re a person that doesn’t like to plan and writes only in story order, because you will not remember that idea once you get to that scene.

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10) You don’t have to write in order.

Here’s the thing: I’m a person that can only do my Draft 1 in story order (meaning, chronological order). I just have to be in that flow; I need to write in story order for me to best channel where the character is at from scene to scene, both narratively and emotionally.

But my Thought Vomit Draft is another thing entirely. By using the brain hack of putting my notes in red (or another color, it doesn’t matter) and going down to the bottom of the document / page and taking notes there, and then integrating them into whatever plan I have, and then translating them into Draft 1 once I get there in the story - by doing that, I can get my good ideas onto the page (and expound upon them and let my muse carry me and ride that momentum while I’m in the moment of inspiration) without writing out of order.

Maybe that’s just me. But if you’re a person who really prefers to write in story order, that could be hugely helpful to you. It is to me.

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11) Emotion and motivation will do more for your story than technicalities of plot.

If your characters really care about something, and their journey through the (shaky or weak) plot is emotionally engaging, it will be a much more compelling story than a story with a “perfect” plot and unrelatable or unmotivated characters.

If your characters care about what they’re doing, and it means something to them, and their goals and actions are driven by dreams or fears or emotions that are integral to who they are, your audience will care too. If you have a perfectly crafted plot that hits all the right beats and has high stakes and fast pacing and drama - but your characters don’t connect with what’s happening in a way that’s deeply meaningful or emotional for them? You’re gonna have a hard time engaging readers.

When in doubt, prioritize character emotion and motivation over plot. Emotion is what drives story.

This power is highly exploitable. (Just look at pulp novels and shitty but entertaining movies.) You can even use it to glaze over plot holes or reinvigorate a limp narrative. Use it that way sparingly, though. It’s a band-aid, not a surgery. 

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12) Evil villains are hard to write - mostly because there are very few truly evil people in the world. (There are a few. Billionaires and several big name politicians come to mind.) But by and large, there aren’t that many evil people. There are plenty of bad people, but bad people have some good in them, somewhere in there. Trying to write an evil villain is hard, because they often turn very cartoony.

Here’s a tip: it’s much easier to write antagonists who aren’t evil. Even if they’re bad people. Of course, there’s no reason you can’t write a villain that’s just truly evil - a serial killer, or an abuser, or a billionaire, or someone who legit just wants to hurt people or blow up the earth or stay in control of an oppressed population, or whatever. But chances are, it’s gonna be really hard to make them feel real, and even harder to create a plot around them that doesn’t feel forced or contrived.

Instead, try writing an antagonist / villain whose motivations and goals directly clash with your protagonist’s - but not because they want to take over the world or see people suffer. Write an antagonist who’s chaotic good, but whose perception of the situation is completely opposite from your hero’s. Write an antagonist whose only desire is to save people, and who will do anything to achieve that goal - anything. Write an antagonist who believes in the letter of the law, and will hinder and oppose the hero’s methods even if they agree with the hero’s motivation. Write an antagonist who got in way over their head and did some things they regret, and now they don’t know how to get out, and they’re doing their best but whatever they set in motion is too powerful for them to stop now.

Write villains who are human. Write a killer who thought they were doing the right thing by taking their victim out of the equation, who vomits at the sight of the body and sobs over the grave they dig. Write a government leader who truly believes she’s doing what’s best for her people in the long-term, even if it might hurt them in the short term, and is willing to endure the hatred and belligerence of the masses if it means securing what she thinks is a better future for her people. Write a teenage bully that thinks they’re the one being picked on by the world, and they’re just fighting back, standing their ground. Write a scientist who will break any code of ethics and hurt anyone he needs to - in order to bring back his baby sister from the grave, because he promised her he’d protect her and he failed. Write an antagonist who is selfish and self-centered and capricious - because in order to survive they had to look out for Number One, and that habit ain’t about to break anytime soon.

Write villains who aren’t even villains. Write antagonists who oppose the hero because of moral differences. Write antagonists who are trying to do the right thing. Write antagonists who treat the heroes with kindness and dignity and respect and gentleness.

They don’t have to be good. They don’t have to be Misunderstood Sweethearts who “deserve” a redemption arc. They can be cruel and nasty and dismissive and callous and violent and etc. etc.

Just hesitate before you make them Evil-with-a-capital-E. Because evil is hard to write, and honestly, boring to read. Flawed human beings with goals and motivations that directly oppose the main characters’ are much easier to write and much more interesting to read.

Ask why. Why is your villain trying to take over the world? What does that even mean? Are they trying to create a Star-Trek-like post-capitalism utopia, but they know that won’t happen in a million lifetimes, so they’re trying to do it by force? Are they actually super in favor of human rights, but they got very impatient waiting for the world to do anything about poverty and war, so they decided to take it into their own hands? Are they determined to fix the world - no matter the cost? Are they terrified and overwhelmed, but committed to see it through to the end? Or - maybe they’re just doing it on a dare. Maybe they don’t really give a shit about world domination, they were just a mediocre rich white guy who decided to fuck around and find out, and now he’s kind of curious how far he can take this thing. And now he’s kind of an internationally-wanted criminal, so he’s kind of stuck living on his hidden private island in his multi-billion dollar secret base, strapping lasers to sharks’ heads for the hell of it. Gross, selfish, uncaring, and dangerous? For sure. Evil? Depends on your definition. See, now we’re getting somewhere.

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13) It’s tempting to let the plot control the characters. It’s easy to drop your characters into a situation and see how they react. But here’s the thing: that doesn’t drive plot. In fact, it bogs down pacing. Instead, try to build you plot off of your characters’ actions and decisions. Let your character build their own situation. Not to say it should go they way they wanted it to go; in fact, usually, their grand plans should go to hell very quickly. But having the characters take action and make decisions, and letting the plot develop based on that, is much easier to make compelling than making a rigid series of events and then trying to herd your characters into them.

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14) Having trouble justifying a character’s actions? Consider having them make the opposite decision, or having them approach the situation in a different way. For example: you need your character to go meet the bad guy, for plot reasons, even though there’s no way it’s not a trap. If the character goes, readers are gonna be groaning with their head in their hands, because c’mon man, that was really fucking stupid. But he’s gotta go, because the plot needs that. Two ways you might handle this: a) He knows it’s probably a trap. He decides not to go. The plot conspires to get him near the villain anyway. Or, b) He knows it’s a trap. But he needs to go, for (insert reasons here). So, he approaches it in an unexpected way. He brings backup, recruiting a side character we met earlier in the story. Or he arrives on the back of a dragon, because ain’t nobody gonna fuck with a dude on a dragon. Or he goes - early, and ambushes the villain. It may work, it may not. He may get himself kidnapped anyway. But it moves the plot along without having Stupid Hero Syndrome.

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15) This is a legit piece of advice: if all of this sounds overwhelming, literally just ignore it and write what you want. For real. Writing should be fun, and every single writer operates differently. If you’re sitting here like “I’m getting stressed just reading this,” just flip me a good-natured bird and get on with your life. I promise I won’t take it personally. Same goes for literally any other writing advice you see. Lots of rules and guidelines can very quickly make anything thoroughly un-fun. Just write. If you’re passionate about it and you do it for long enough, you’ll start figuring out the tips and tricks on your own.

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16) Here’s the best piece of advice I can give you: know your characters. More importantly, know what’s important to them. Build their personality and decisions off of that, and build your plot off of their decisions.

I see a lot of character building sheets that ask a shit-ton of questions like “What’s their most prized possession?” “Do they like their family?” “What’s their favorite food?”

And while these are good questions, my problem with this type of character building is that if you start there, with the little stuff, you’re building on nothing. IMO, to make a truly strong character (not strong like Inner Strength, strong like effective), you need a strong foundation.

Here are the things you must know about your character:

a) What are their greatest fears / deepest insecurities? And I don’t mean “wasps” or “heights.” I mean the deep shit. I mean fears like “living a meaningless life,” or “turning out just like their parents,” or “that no one will ever love them,” or “being powerless.” You may say, “But they’re really scared of wasps! They fall into a wasp nest when they were little and got stung so much they almost died!” Great! That’s a fantastic bit of backstory. They should absolutely be afraid of wasps, and that should absolutely be an impediment later in the story. But dig deeper. What about that event actually scarred them? Was it the helplessness? Stumbling around, swatting at the air, not being able to do a single thing to stop what was happening to them? Was it that they were alone, and no matter how loud they screamed, no one was coming? Was it the bodily horror of feeling themself turn into an inhuman creature as they swelled up from the stings, unable to move their fingers or face normally anymore?

And don’t forget insecurities, because those factor in, too. Are they deeply insecure about their identity? Do they believe, deep down, that they’re ugly? Did they grow up poor and they’ve always been really touchy about that? Why? Dig deep. Figure out what really, really bothers them.

b) What are their hopes and dreams? What do they truly want out of life? What do they consider the most valuable to their experience here in this thing called life? Is it the freedom to forge their own path and be independent? Is it the approval of their family or peers? Is it a home? Is it knowledge, or understanding? Spiritual fulfillment? Is it deeply important to them that they contribute to their community, or protect those they love? What do they need in order to feel truly and deeply fulfilled in life?

Figure out those two things (each one encompasses several things, btw, you don’t have to stop at just one for each), and then use that to inform how they behave and the types of decisions they make within the story. 

It also informs character behavior and personality. 

Let’s say we have a character who’s afraid of helplessness. They’re probably gonna be the person that always wants to do something, try something, no matter how hopeless the situation seems. They’d despise just sitting and waiting, probably, because it makes them feel powerless. They might even be the person that makes rash decisions and acts impulsively and puts themself in danger unnecessarily, because in their mind it’s better than being at the mercy of fate. This is one way you could use a character’s personality to inform their decisions, which in turn helps to inform plot.

Or, let’s say we have a character whose greatest fear is being left behind or forgotten. We may have a chatterbox on our hands. They might be obnoxious. They might love the spotlight, constantly vying for attention no matter the situation, because deep down they’re so afraid that they’d be forgotten otherwise. Or, it may go the opposite way. They may be so afraid of people leaving them that they’re terrified of bothering people. They don’t want to do anything that could annoy people, anything that might give people a reason to leave them. They might be exceedingly polite, quiet, accommodating. A push-over, really.

These are two nearly opposite types of personalities, both stemming from the same core fear/insecurity. You can go a lot of different ways with it. But if you build on that strong foundation, you’ll have a strong character, and a stronger plot.

Likewise, the structure of your story can and should inform the design of these character traits. If you need your characters to team up near the end, it may be impactful if you give your main character a deep fear of commitment, an insecurity about being unwanted or left behind, and make them highly value independence and freedom. That could make their team-up for the final battle very meaningful. Conversely, you can use your character’s deepest fears and desires to help design the plot. Is your character deeply insecure about voicing their opinions or taking a stand, because of trauma they faced in the past? Make them face that. Build that into the climactic third act. Give them the big inspirational speech where they stand up and talk about what they believe to be important, what they think the group should do. And then design that character arc to run through the story, giving you more handholds and stepping stones, more pieces of foundation on which to design the plot.

In this way, character should inform story as much as story informs character. It’s a feedback loop.

Bonus: if you build your character and your plot off of each other in this way, it automatically starts to build in the foundations of that emotional investment I mentioned earlier. If your character’s decisions are based on what they most want and do not want in life, you basically have your character motivation and stakes pre-built.

Note: you need to know these things about your villain, too.

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I’m genuinely sorry about the length of this, lmao. But you did ask.

Best of luck!

Edit: I forgot an important one:

17) Start when the scene starts and end when the scene ends.

What do I mean by that?

If your notes say “Danny asks Nicole out after school and majorly flubs it,” start the scene when Danny approaches Nicole after school. Better yet, cold-open the scene on “I was wondering if, you know, you’d wanna. You know. Hang out some time?”

Don’t start that morning when Danny goes to school, unless you’re gonna cover the school day in like one or two sentences. Don’t spend whole paragraphs going through the school day, unless it’s to cover other plot points first (in which case apply these same guidelines there), or if the paragraphs are there for a specific reason, like to illustrate how stressed he is and how it seems like every little thing is going wrong. Even then, trim the fat as much as possible. Expounding and describing everything Moment-to-moment is for the meat of the scenes, not the leading-up-to and coming-away-from.

Here’s my rule of thumb: study how and when movies cut from scene to scene. Movies have exceptionally strict, limited time for storytelling; they’re excellent examples of starting a scene when the plot point starts and ending when it’s over. If you can’t picture a movie showing everything you showed, start the scene later and end it earlier.

[toovirgins]

Le Rêve - Part 4

Summary: George reflection chapter. What more is there to say?

Warning: R-rated

“Ringo, have you seen me favorite pair of socks? The black ones?”

George tore through his suitcase in agitation, carelessly tossing the clothing into a second-carpet on the hotel floor. He groaned in frustration when an uninterested “uh-uh” came from the other side of the room, where Ringo was changing into his pajamas.

“I can’t bloody find them anywhere.” George let out a defeated huff and sat back on his heels with a pout.

“Where’d you leave ‘em last?”

“If I knew that,” George tried, ever-so-patiently, “I wouldn’t be tearin’ the room apart, now, would I?”

“Did you leave ‘em in John and Paul’s this morning?” Ringo asked in a tone of voice that implied George absolutely did leave them in John and Paul’s that morning.

“I don’t know why you never get things for me when you find them,” George muttered, though the words were less pointed now. He threw his suitcase closed.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Harrison. You’re a big lad now, you’ve got to be responsible for your own things.” Ringo shot him a grin. “Think of me as your personal… guide. I’ll give you hints and whatnot along the way, but I won’t do it for you.”

“Charming.” George rolled his eyes. He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to gather up all of the other strewn-about items of clothing. “Well, I’m off to go get them. I can’t get sleep without them.”

Ringo cocked an amused eyebrow as he began to hang his suit. “You’re an odd fella, you know that, George?”

“Bah.” George swatted away the comment and pulled the door open. “Be back in a minute.”

John and Paul’s room was down the hall from theirs, though it was really only a few steps. The hotel was small, the rooms far from luxurious. The hall was a dull mess of gray and beige, the carpet a crisscross pattern and the wallpaper about a thousand years old. He scoffed in distaste of the place. They were the fucking Beatles now, for God’s sakes. You’d think they could afford some better living. George kicked at a spider on the water-stained trim as he approached his mates’ room.

He had just raised his arm to knock when a strange sound caused him to pause his movements. Intrigued, George inched forward and pressed an ear close to the frame. What was the harm in getting a little listen?

There was… moaning. And cursing. George nearly rolled his eyes. It sounded like Paul—richer than John’s voice, and clearer, too. He also ran with the hardly faint memory that Paul was quite vocal in bed. He should almost know the lad’s sounds by now. Part of him wondered where John had gotten side-tracked off to, because he could have sworn the three of them went up in the elevator together.

He half-laughed to himself. This guy was too good. George hadn’t even the slightest clue where Paul could’ve picked a bird up on his way from the lobby to the room. Gonna be sick, my arse, he thought to himself.

As George waited outside of the door, he pondered his options. He could wait until Paul’s little rendezvous was over (which, judging by the sounds, was not far off). He could knock and give them a second to dress or hide the bird. And finally: eh, what the hell. He’d seen worse before. If the door was unlocked, he could just slip in.

Besides, George really wanted those socks.

Ultimately, he decided that sneaking in was his best bet. He’d slip past the door and slither unnoticed to the bathroom, and go—yes! He remembered now!—behind the toilet. Pick up the socks and leave as quickly as he came. In and out in a jiffy.

George reached for the doorknob and gave it a slight twist when an expression from inside stopped him cold.

“Fucking hell, Paul.”

Paul was in there; he knew good and well. The question was what was… the other voice doing there? The boys’ closeness had never warranted anything more than an “Oh, shit, sorry,” when walking in on one another and leaving as swiftly as possible. Was the other voice… watching? Just hanging around in there?

George’s pulse quickened, his grip beginning to slip from the door as he desperately fought the pounding confusion in his head. He had to have misheard. It couldn’t have been that voice. He was delusional, imagining things, that’s all.

The voice called out again, breathless, grainy: “Christ.”

It was unmistakably John.

George remained frozen in front of the door, unable to tear himself away. Faintly, he registered Paul moaning John’s name. John was in there. And so was Paul. He had heard them call out to each other… for each other…

“John, I can’t—” Another pause, and bedsprings creaked incriminatingly. “John, stop, I-I’m gonna come—”

Before a second thought could cross his mind, George threw the door open and stood gaping at the scene in front of him.

The first thing he noticed was the sheer look of terror on Paul’s face. This was almost comical, considering the obvious next thing to notice was that Paul was stark naked, a furious burn in his cheeks as he scrambled to cover his intimacies. Intimacies that John was—was all over.

John had been touching him like a bird should. George’s eyes raked over John’s form. The man didn’t look nearly as terrified as Paul. In fact, he looked almost… smug. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes bright and teetering on wild. He laid propped up on one elbow, making the hard-on in his trousers conspicuously evident. Despite throwing himself off of his mate as fast as possible, he looked completely at ease, glaring at George almost daringly as a shadow of a smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

George took this opportunity to switch stares back to Paul, sickened by whatever fucking game John thought he was playing. The ends of Paul’s hair were curled with the sweat that beaded on his neck and forehead. His hands trembled where they tugged at the bedsheet, which could have done more to hide him. There was something pleading in his eyes, something desperate. If only George knew what it was for.

There was nothing he could think of to say. Rather than waste time standing and waiting for someone to speak up, George turned on his heel and swiftly shut the door behind him.

—

George leaned with palms pressed against the door, chest heaving from exertion and overwhelming bewilderment. The scene had played over and over in his mind since the fervent escape. It was his fault, he knew—that was the worst part.

He had only been going to look for a pair of socks. And they were rather nice socks. His favorite, even. That’s all he had wanted. Socks.

George had heard about these kinds of people before. Seen some of them, even, in Hamburg. He was fairly certain that Brian was one. The ones in Germany always tried to make a move on him and the others, but he never saw why; he didn’t fancy any of them were that attractive, anyroad. George suddenly recalled a conversation, not so long ago, when John had gone on a slight rant about The Homosexuals in Hamburg, and Paul had nodded along disapprovingly. It was Ringo, eventually, who edged them out of the discussion: “Eh, come on lads. It’s none of our business what they do, anyway.”

What the hell just happened?

“Whasamatter, Georgie?” Ringo stepped out of the bathroom, words coming out garbled as a toothbrush dangled from his lips. He tossed it in the trash and turned to spit in the sink. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“J-John and Paul,” George stuttered, his mind working frantically to piece together what had just happened. It seemed to be the only coherent sentence he could form. “I saw—it was John… and Paul. With Paul.”

“No kidding,” Ringo gave him an understanding nod and a slight chuckle. “Intense fellas, they are. They give me a downright scare sometimes, too. Writing a song, then?”

“Ringo, you’re not hearing me,” George tried, his voice unsteady. “I saw them. Doing—together. It was both of them, with each other.”

Ringo’s brow knitted in confusion. George’s ramblings only seemed to perplex him more, draw him farther away from the conclusion. “I… Congratulations?”

George rubbed his forehead shakily. He wasn’t so much frustrated as just helplessly exasperated. There were no connections in his mind that made the situation make sense. He stifled a groan.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, mate.”

“They were shagging,” George blurted. On instinct, a hand flew to cover his mouth as soon as the words left his lips. The phrase sounded so bizarre, so wrong, and was yet the only thing he felt accurately characterized what he just saw. “Almost.”

Ringo blinked. “Shagging who?”

George began to pace back and forth across the small room. “John. Or-or Paul. Each other. They were almost-shagging one another.”

Ringo stared, looking just as baffled as George felt. “What do you mean?”

George continued slowly. “I went to go get my socks. I was gonna knock, but I heard something, and I didn’t know what it was. So I listened for a moment, and I just thought that Paul was in there with a bird. Y’know.”

Ringo nodded, no more convinced.

“But I heard another voice, and they were saying Paul’s name, and then Paul said it back, and it was John. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You went in?” Ringo didn’t sound surprised, just curious.

“I wasn’t thinking. I couldn’t believe it. I s’pose I thought I had to see for myself. And-and then I did.” His voice broke a bit. “I don’t know what to do, Ringo. What the fuck?”

“Where are they now?”

“I don’t know. I just left.”

Ringo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“We can’t.”

“We have to talk to them.”

“About what? D’you want me to go in there again and say, ‘John, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, what were ya doing in there, jerking Paul off? And Paul, ya bloody bastard, what were you doing enjoyin’ it?” George ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck. How are we supposed to talk about this? What about the band?”

“Hey.” Ringo’s voice was gentle as he took a step closer. “One thing at a time, mate. We’ll worry about the band when the band gives us something to worry about. Right now, we need to go promise them that we won’t tell a soul, and that we’re not judging them really, but that they need to be more careful, and—”

“Be more careful?” George was bewildered. “Ringo, they were in the privacy of their own room. How much more careful can you get?”

“Do you want to be the one to tell them to stop?” Ringo raised an eyebrow. “Because one, I don’t think we have the authority to do that. And two, if I know anything about John and Paul, it will only make them want to do it more.”

George pondered this for a second. “They’re going to kill me.”

“No, George, come on—”

“They are.” George began to panic. “I walked in on them. I never should have done it. I should have just left in the first place. I should’ve knocked before anything. Oh, Christ, Ringo. They’re gonna kill me!”

Ringo’s gaze was soft and sympathetic, but George could pick up on a hint of worry in the lines of his face. Not that he would blame him for it. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul and the fantasy bird George had originally thought. It’d be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, and it was decriminalized. It’d even be one thing if George had walked in on Paul with a random guy, period.

But none of that was the case.

“Look,” Ringo started, laying a hand on George’s shoulder to temporarily halt his pacing. “Let’s go back to the room. We’ll talk to them. I don’t know about what, yet, but they need to know that I know."

“Okay.” George sighed. “Yeah, okay.”

—

Paul was sitting up, staring off into the distance and frantically nibbling at his thumbnail. His expression was hard, the other hand drumming nervously on the bed beside him. He was almost dressed, but everything carried an air of distractedness: his fly was down, his shirt haphazardly buttoned, his tie draped across his shoulders. He barely acknowledged when George and Ringo entered, lazily casting his gaze in their direction.

“Paul,” George tried, attempting to take hold of the conversation early. Maybe, at least, if he was in control, it would be easier for both of them. No more surprises.

Paul blinked up at him, looking dazed. He didn’t speak.

“I’m not mad.” George spoke quickly: reparations for earlier. “I-I was just shocked. ‘M not angry at all. I didn’t know how to…” He cleared his throat. “Not make it… worse?”

“Hm,” Paul affirmed.

“Where’s John?” Ringo asked suddenly, tentatively, as if he were afraid to stir Paul.

“Fuck if I know,” Paul shot in response.

George and Ringo exchanged a look. This was certainly not the picture George had left only minutes earlier. The air itself was hostile, heaving with McCartney’s own breaths until the others swayed uneasily on their feet.

“We can talk about it,” George offered, despite every nerve screaming at him not to do so. It was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do, but he couldn’t conjure up any other consolation.

“What is there to talk about?” Paul’s voice was cold. He was refusing eye contact.

“Paul,” Ringo tried again, taking a step closer. “It’s all right. George and I, we don’t care if you guys…” He trailed off, looking at George pleadingly.

George filled in. “…Want to be together.” The end of his sentence unintentionally lilted up, posed as a question.

Paul had the audacity to look at them now as if they were mad. “What?”

George watched confusion wash over Ringo’s features, mirroring the perplexity he felt on his own face. He tore his gaze away and focused on Paul, who looked nothing short of furious. The two men stood awkwardly, neither making a move to speak, which George figured was a smart decision. Let McCartney talk his way out of this.

“What?” He said again. George shook his head.

Paul pushed himself to his feet, his eyes sparkling maliciously. “No, George, tell me. Just what do you think you’re implying?”

He began advancing towards them. Though part of him knew, deep down, that Paul would never actually get physical with him, George flinched back noticeably into Ringo, making the older lad stumble as well.

Something changed in Paul’s expression at the interaction. The fury melted into fear, and then, almost… despair. He reached out for George’s arm, then seemed to think better of the choice and pull his searching hand back.

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracked as he retreated. “I’m sorry.”

“Come now, Paul, it’s all right.” Ringo’s voice was unsteady, but his words were comforting and secure. He took a tentative step and placed his hand on their friend’s shoulder. “Just tell us what’s going on.”

“I don’t know, Ritchie,” He near-wailed. “That’s the problem. I don’t know what that was. What happened.” Paul raked a hand through his fringe. “I can’t tell you. And now John’s fucked off to God-knows-where, and he was already in a bad state. Oh, shit. This is bad.”

Again, George and Ringo exchanged a nervous glance. Paul could be moody, manic, bizarre. The lad could go seemingly weeks without expressing a single intimate thought or feeling. He could also have outbursts, usually at John, about the smallest of things. George had always believed it to be pent-up frustration and emotional suppression, but this? This was no typical McCartney venom. This seemed like something entirely different.

“I’m not queer,” Paul suddenly asserted, mostly to himself.

“I believe you,” Ringo lied through his teeth. When Paul’s gaze was cast downward again, Ringo gave George a helpless shrug. “But we can’t just sweep this under the rug if you want to move forward. We have to find John, too, and talk about it. A-and make sure it doesn’t get out, or that you’re caught again. Or—”

“I need a smoke,” Paul interrupted.

And with that, he pushed past the two and disappeared out of frame, leaving George and Ringo trembling in his wake.

[lloftvlly]

something i never really talk about but felt like ranting about right now.

hi, i’m may, i stan fictional villains, and i have a shitty autoimmune disease.

i don’t make a big deal of it because i don’t think it’s defining who i am but i won’t pretend it’s not a huge part of my life. 

just a little backstory. my disease started to kick in in my teens. it started very slowly and snuck up on me. the first time i noticed something was off, was when my right knee started hurting. back then i didn’t think of it as much though, just maybe i was getting hurt at the concert i was at a a few days prior (it was good charlotte, my friend is a huge fan and dragged me to their live it wasn’t bad but lol). it started to bother me when the pain in the knee didn’t go away after i kept applying some cooling gels and whatnot and my knee kept swelling up. my cousin, who’s a doctor got me some cortisone cream too and it helped a bit but you can’t use this for long. so as soon as i quit using it the pain was back just as bad, if not worse. 

i started seeing doctors and they were just confused. i got my knee punctured and liquids drained by doctor 5 times. (long-ass needle goes under your kneecap and liquid gets pulled out)  this procedure hurts like shit but it always gave me a little relief for a few days. but after that it still got progressively worse. it started to also affect my left knee and my right wrist and eventually my lower back. and at this point i was taking a lot of pain meds to at least be able to have pain-free days. in the mornings i couldn’t get out of bed, i couldn’t walk. i had to always take pain meds in bed, wait until they kick in, then force myself to get out of bed and try to walk. always stiff, always having to keep my legs moving if i don’t want them to turn stiff like rocks again...  my knees were too weak to keep me on my legs for long so whenever i was in situations i had to stand a lot, i would threaten them cos i would have to find something to lean on and that wasn’t always an option.  shitty fucking situation.

i kept seeing doctors who were not sure what it was. idk how many times i left a doctor office and then had a mental breakdown, crying cos no one could tell me what’s wrong and i just wanted it to be taken care of. like lit felt like i was left so alone with my pain and no one did anything to help me with it. i even felt like i wasn’t taken serious enough. one doctor even made some comments that it might all just be in my brain. because i am also diagnosed with GAD and clinical depression he was like “this could be part of that.” such bullshit. sometimes doctors don’t take you serious for having mental illnesses is what i learned from that. 

anyway, things were looking up a little after that. 

about 7 years into living with pain i was finally getting a diagnosis. all this time it had been psoriasis arthritis, an autoimmune illness that attacks my joints. the reason why it took doctors this long is because this condition rarely ever comes without the skin condition psoriasis. i didn’t show it on my skin, and even my blood tests seemed to not show the results doctors needed to diagnose it. the only reason doctors did find out, was because i had googled my symptoms a lot and i brought up the idea to my doctor that this would be it. plus my grandpa and my aunt have the same disease and it’s something genetic. honestly without me telling the docs i think i have psa i think i wouldn’t have a diagnosis even now. 

idk what changed on the day i got my diagnosis and why it suddenly showed in my blood tests also. but i was relieved to say the least, knowing what was rly going on with my body. but the thing is, i lived 7 years undiagnosed with it and now have to live with the consequences of that time: these being, i was always walking cautiously because of the pain in my knees, it ended up in me now having a crooked walk, i can’t stretch out my legs completely anymore, neither bend them completely. it’s now just something i have to live with, that i won’t prolly never walk normally again. i’ve ruined my posture thru that, and now have chronic back pains caused by it and i get lots of migraines that result from the back (idk how it works i aint a doctor) 

now i am on strong medication called mtx, it’s kind of a med that many ppl are critical of, because of its strong side effects and it not being rly good to the body. i have my blood checked all 6 weeks cos i gotta make sure they don’t slowly kill me lol.  but for me this med is rly saving my life like holy shit. i do physical rehab in a program whenever i can, i stayed there for weeks before and it was kind of nice. the issue with my medication, however, is that i have to pause them whenever i even have as much as a small cold. since they suppress my immune system or whatever, i can’t take them when i am sick or i won’t ever have a immune system to get me back to becoming healthy again or some sciency shit idk lol. 

either way that brings me to now. i had a fever not long ago and had to pause my meds again. mtx stays in the body for like 2 weeks or so, if you pause any longer than that, your body is set back to the state it was before you started therapy on this medication and mtx takes up to ten weeks to even take effect. meaning, when i pause it, i am set back to before i started the medication and have to wait at least 6 weeks for them to kick back in and make the pain slowly go away again. now, currently i am in one of those in between times before the meds work again. i am in quite a lot of pain,  i can barely get out of bed. not only do both my knees rly hurt but so does my back. and i am like /: well that sucks. 

it’s hard to focus when you’re in pain. as i am right now. i try really hard to focus on anything other than that but no matter what i do, my mind’s always going back to the pains in my back and knees, my wrists feel surprisingly fine and thank fuck cos i need them to write lol. point being, my focus is gone. i wanna write, i wanna create, i wanna draw but it’s rly hard man. i feel whiny and like overly dramatic... nothing should keep me from writing, realistically. look, i mean, i just typed out this wholeass essay. i honestly think i am blocking myself. i’m like ‘woe is me.. i have some pain’ and somehow almost use this as an excuse, i guess, to be a lazy pos. 

someone gotta tell me “stop being a bitch and get to work” so if you read this and if you would lol. just don’t pls, for the lov of king shiggy , don’t feel bad for me or say anything to pity me. that’s not what i want /at all/. i’m a badass for living with this pain, lemme feel like one at least lol.  if you can sympathize that’s nice but i didn’t write this to make anyone feel bad for me i promise. i don’t feel bad for myself either, i honestly think i am lucky in many ways that i get to live in a country with free health care, get to work from home, get to be a lazy pos when i am in this type of situation without having to worry about anything rly. 

i’m also writing this rant to kind of push myself. get out of this stupid slump DO SOMETHING. 

anyway, that’s all. 

also: if anyone got stories to share about their own experiences and they want me to hear it, please do. ithink we all have things we struggle with. 

[tsukishitstain]

hi !! can i plz have a matchup ? :: i’m fine with either bnha or haikyuu,, not really picky— whatever is easier for u!! :) i’m 5’0, have long dark brown hair which rests at my a$$ (LMFOAHSJ) i like to sleep, eat, binge-watch anime, talk to myself (crazy check😻😻) read && write!! i

i see you being a great match with

TSUKISHIMA!!!

i feel like you’d already be friends with like hinata or one of the other guys on the team and they’d introduce you to tsukishima

and since you’re probably more outgoing than tsuki you’d definitely be the one to like make an effort to get to know him, talk, interact, and whatnot

he’d be quiet at first and like even tho he wasn’t thrilled with your presence he didn’t mind it either

i could see you being consistent and like just slowly inserting yourself into his life😹😹😹

even in the beginning of the platonic relationship you two have, it’s never awkward

i feel like the atmosphere would be like so non serious and light hearted w y’all

INTJ’s (tsuki’s mbti) and ENFP’s are like meant for each other😄it’s science at this point

there would be something that draws y’all to each other even if y’all aren’t aware of it

i think he’d be drawn to your playfulness and sense of humor (he also thought your height was adorable)

WAIT WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE

and that’s with his pre time skip height

LET THAT SINK IN

okok anyways let’s get back on track

your feelings towards each other would be pretty obvious so it doesn’t take long for y’all to start dating

let’s get into the dynamics of the relationship

okay let’s address some potential issues first

tsuki has a tendency to be a bit insensitive so i could see him unintentionally upsetting you

like okay maybe normally you wouldn’t be hurt by his snarky comments but let’s say you came to him after a particularly bad day

he wouldn’t even think twice about his sarcastic comments before they came out his mouth

also he would probably get overwhelmed by all of your affection at some point in the relationship

like let’s say he had a particularly bad day

you being the wonderful gf you are, you’d try to cheer him up maybe by joking with him and showing affection

and because his tolerance was already worn out from having a bad day he’d probably be like ‘jfc do you ever stop being clingy’

you’d just be like 👁👄👁 oh

hed also always think he’s right in any and every argument y’all have

i could see you getting really irritated w that

& you probably aren’t the biggest fan of criticism or conflict and tsuki just straight up tells it as it is

this man sugar coats nothing during arguments

✨on a brighter note✨let’s talk about the pros of the relationship

because tsukishima is the way he is, you could literally joke around w him 24/7 and he wouldn’t be bothered by it

this man dealt with hinata so his tolerance is high

he’d be such a good listener like you could just rant about something and he’d listen while doing some homework or something

he’s not the type of person who’s sensitive to conflict or criticism so i don’t see the arguments you two have escalating into anything too serious

also i can see you having good communication skills regarding the relationship

if there was something on your mind, i feel as tho you would be able to bring it up

also you’d be so affectionate w him that he wouldn’t even know what to do

like you’d genuinely be the first person that he allowed to show physical affection to

a/n: bruh i am so sorry that too me so long to do😭idek how i procrastinated that long like i am genuinely sorry lol but i hope this was good!!

[adobe-outdesign]

Re-Created: Chapter 7

After Joey passes away, Henry finds a way to make everyone look human again, one by one, using the Ink Machine. And this story is going to have a happy ending, even if he has to write it himself.

[Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6]

__________________________________

"On the count of three.” Shawn counts under his breath, but doesn’t move from his spot at the edge of the pentagram when he reaches the number.

“I thought you said on three.”

“I know! Now quiet. You’re makin’ me loose me concentration.” Shawn continues to stare at the symbol, unmoving.

“Take your time. I know it’s hard to go through.”

“I don’t need any time. I told you, I’m ready whenever.” The Irishman takes a step forward, then backs up again, swearing softly. He looks around the room. “And where the Hell did Lacie go? Kind of defeats the whole idea if she doesn’t bother to watch.”

A quick glance around the room confirms the Fisher’s absence. “I’ll go look for her.”

Shawn sighs in exasperation, stepping back from the pentagram again. “I wouldn’t bother. She’s probably more freaked out than I am about this whole thing.”

“So you are freaked out.”

“Shut up. Anyway, Lacie...” Shawn pauses, stroking his beard. “Lacie claims she remembers things. Says she remembers color and the studio bein’ open and whatnot. I always figured she was crazy, but then I heard what you were doin’ and...”

Henry glances back to where Lacie had been a moment ago. “So you think she remembers being...?” He can’t quite bring himself to say the word “sacrificed.”

“That’s what she claims. I didn’t believe her back then, but if she was right about the color and all that, then she might’ve been tellin’ the truth.” He makes a disgruntled noise, crossing his arms. “Tell you what. Hunt her down and tell her to meet me by the Machine. That way she doesn’t have to look at any of your freaky symbols.”

Henry debates on correcting Shawn on the proper terminology, then gives up and leaves him standing by the pentagram. He finds Lacie near Joey’s bookshelves, threading a bright purple ribbon through her fingers. She swings her head around, growling as he approaches.

“Shawn wants you to come watch. You can stay in the garage, if it makes you feel more comfortable.” Henry nods towards the ribbon. “You can keep that if you like. Not like Joey’s going to use it.”

She stares at him for a moment before turning away, pocketing the ribbon as the Ink Machine starts up.

“Guess Shawn finally went through with it,” he mutters to himself, starting his jog over to the garage. For a second it looks as if the Fisher isn’t going to follow, but soon he can hear footsteps from behind him. When they get there she stops at the doorway, evidently having gone as far as she was willing.

“Should we do something?” Allison calls over the roar of the Machine. There’s a pile of ink underneath of the Machine’s spigot in the vague shape of a person - Henry can see the start of something that looked like arms and a torso, but the figure doesn’t seem to be progressing any more than that. Henry shakes his head, trying to ignore the feeling of dread that was trying to settle over him. There was nothing they could do, really, other than wait. 

He glances back towards the doorway, but Lacie has already vanished.

It feels like forever before the ink finally starts to refine itself with more detail - hair, the wrinkles of clothes, individual fingers and facial features. Henry moves forward and cautiously offers a hand, Shawn taking it as the ink on his arm parts to reveal light yellowish-brown skin.

“You okay?” Henry asks as Tom powers down the Machine.

Shawn coughs a few times as Allison comes over. “I’m fine! I’m fine. Stop crowdin’ me. Christ, one little holdup and you all come swarmin’ over like a bunch of flies,” he complains, clinging to Henry’s arm like his life depended on it.

“That was stupid,” Allison scolds, giving him a once-over. “You almost didn’t get out of the ink at all.”

“But I did,” Shawn insists, holding up his newly-formed limb. “And besides, look, me arm’s fixed! Lacie, back me up on this.” He looks around the room expectantly. “Lacie?”

Henry looks back to where the Fisher had been standing. “She was here. She left sometime while you were still forming.”

“Then find her and tell her I’m okay! I’d do it myself if I didn’t feel like I was going to pass out.”

“Allison, Tom, can you take him to the infirmary for me? I’ll look for Lacie and meet you down there after.” Henry practically pours the man off his shoulder and onto Tom, who grunts under his weight.

He locates Lacie within minutes - she hadn’t gone very far, merely moving from the garage into the bedroom. She’s standing so motionless he would’ve missed her entirely if he wasn’t looking.

“Hey, Shawn’s-”

The Fisher lets out a feral-sounding snarl, swinging her head backwards to look at him.

“Lacie?” he asks, backing up towards the door. The creature takes another step towards him, making a strange garbled sound. It was like the first time they had met - except this time, Shawn wasn’t there to help.

“Shawn’s okay,” he says slowly, taking a step back towards the door as Lacie takes another step forward. He scans the room for a weapon out of the corner of his eye but it’s mostly empty, save for a hat rack in the corner and a framed photograph on a nearby nightstand. He had killed dozens of Fishers before, but taking one down without a weapon was another thing entirely. “Can you understand me?”

“Liar,” she rasps.

He slams the door shut at the last second, a heavy thud resounding from the other side as the creature’s head strikes the wood. For a second he wonders if he should shove something under the knob, then decides against it. She would still need to be able to leave once she was lucid again.

“Shawn’s okay,” he repeats, just to make sure she hears it. Then he turns and flees back into the studio before she has time to open the door.

_____________________________________ "Do you think she’s actually aware of what’s going on?” Allison asks, shoving the makeshift door aside. They had met with Henry in the infirmary a few hours ago, talking about what had happened while Shawn slept sprawled-out on a nearby cot.

“Who knows? It’s impossible to tell what those things are thinking,” Tom growls, nudging the door back in place with the head of his axe. A loud snarl interrupts their conversation.

"Oh- uh, hello, Lacie. When did you get back?” Allison asks, setting her wrench on the work table awkwardly. Lacie stares at her silently from her spot on top of the far cot, then swings her head back around to face Thomas, snarling again.

“Tom, what did you do?” Allison whispers, grabbing his arm.

“I didn’t do anything,” he grumbles, but his tense posture and narrowed gaze suggests he knows otherwise.

“You insulted her. Why else would she be making that noise?” The Fisher stands up from the bed, head swinging loftily.

“How should I know? Maybe she’s just loosing consciousness again. What is that, the third time this week?” He says it like he’s talking to Allison, but he’s still glowering at Lacie, as if challenging her.

“Tom,” she warns.

“What? It’s true, isn’t it? Sooner or later she’ll just forget everything. If she’s not going to even try to do anything about it, then I don’t feel like waiting around just to be attacked.” He draws his axe up into both hands as the Fisher makes a guttural noise.

“Tom!”

Lacie rushes forward to attack as he raises the axe-

“BOTH OF YOU, STOP IT!” Allison commands, throwing herself between them. Lacie stops short and Thomas takes a step back as he allows the axe to fall back to his side. “Tom, you need to leave.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again as Allison gives him a stern look. He grumbles something under his breath, storming off and roughly pulling the makeshift door closed behind him.

“Lacie, go-” Allison starts, but Lacie has already retreated back to the cot, sitting with her back to the actress.

“Sorry we’re late. Boris wanted soup.” Henry pushes his way through the doorway, Boris’ snout appearing over his shoulder. “Is everything okay? We passed Tom in the hallway and he seemed angry. More than usual, I mean.”

Allison shakes her head. “Lacie and him had a bit of an argument, and Tom said some things he shouldn’t have. He can be a bit harsh sometimes.”

“I’ve noticed.” Henry looks at Lacie, still sitting with her back to them. Liar, she had called him. He wonders if Joey and himself were the same in her mind.

There’s a scratching noise at the door along with some loud squeaking. Lacie moves her head so it’s facing back towards the door as Henry and Allison exchange a look.

“Careful.”

“Yeah, I know,” Henry grunts as he shoves the board aside enough to peek out. A Striker stands in the hallway on all sixes, watching him intently.

“Uh... hi,” he offers, slightly unnerved by the thing’s human eye. It stands up on two legs, the teeth on its head chattering softly. If this was the same Edgar he had met earlier, it certainly wasn’t acting like it - the feral disposition it had sported was completely gone, replaced with what was either curiosity or fear.

“Do you... want to come in?” Henry ventures, nudging the door aside enough for the spider to slip through. It does so, dropping back down onto six limbs as it sneaks in, watching Henry as if it expected him to try to attack him any second.

“You sure this is safe? We haven’t exactly had a good record with these guys,” Allison points out, rubbing Boris’ back as he cowers in fear on top of the table. Lacie makes an irritated-sounding garbled noise from her spot in the corner and Edgar quickly darts over, joining her on the cot. She gives him a small scratch on the side of the head, avoiding his second pair of teeth.

“I think it’s fine.” Henry watches the two for a moment, then goes over to the bag of items that he had taken from Joey’s apartment. He pulls out a Rubik’s cube, the bold colors sticking out in their sepia environment, and sets it on the floor. “You want to play with this? It’s a toy. Try to get the colors on one side.” He slides it across the floor with his foot and the Striker grabs it with its extending arm, turning it over in three hands.

“That’ll keep him occupied for a bit.”

“Smart,” Allison remarks. Henry turns his attention back to Lacie, who had moved her head at some point so that she was once again staring at him.

“I’m gong to try to smooth things out with her.”

“Good luck,” Allison offers. “I’ll try to get Boris to get off the table.”

Allison turns her attention to the cowering wolf while Henry walks over to the cot, kneeling on the floor so he’s closer to her eye level. Edgar scampers away from him, retreating into the far corner of the room with his toy.

“Are you okay?” he asks Lacie, not really expecting an answer. “I’m sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Wasn’t scared,” she rasps, with an edge to her voice that suggested he should drop it.

“Right. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m not going to force you to do anything. I’m sorry if it came across that way.”

Lacie remains quiet, and he stands up from the floor.

“Now.”

He pauses, turning back, not sure if he heard that right. “What?”

“Do it now,” she growls, turning her back to him.

He stands there surprised for a moment, trying to process what he just heard. “Are you sure?”

She’s silent for a while, evidently still thinking it over. “Yes”, she finally utters.

“Well, I’ll need to find Tom and have him set up the Ink Machine. So I guess I’ll do... that,” he offers awkwardly, quickly dismissing himself. He finds Tom a few hallways down, leaning against a wall.

“When Shawn gets that ink maker of him set up, tell him to make some damn cigars,” he grumbles.

“Lacie agreed to the ritual just now,” Henry states, ignoring the comment. “What the hell did you say to get her to do that?”

Tom only shrugs. “The truth, I guess.”

_____________________________________

It takes a while, but Henry finally manages to locate something of Lacie’s in Joey’s stuff - a small memo announcing the progress of some Bendy Land attractions. He passes it off to Tom to use in the Machine, then gets to work on drawing the pentagram. Most ink creatures weren’t interested in watching, but that not the case with Lacie, who was inspecting every brush stroke.

“Here,” he offers, passing Joey’s notes over to her. “Make sure I’m doing it right.” It was a pointless request - he already had the pattern memorized by heart now - but he had a feeling it might make the mechanic feel less on edge.

He finishes the symbol with Lacie’s approval. She pulls the ribbon from her pocket and tosses it to him, Henry nearly failing to catch it as it drifts through the air.

“I’ll give it to you later,” he promises, backing away - if she felt he wasn’t much different than Joey, then keeping his distance from the pentagram was probably a good idea. “Don’t force yourself into it. There’s no rush.”

The Fisher paces around the symbol twice, inspecting it, then stands completely still for a bit as if she was bracing herself. Finally she steps forward, letting out a startlingly human-sounding scream as her body melts away. Henry forces himself to let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, running over to the garage.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches.

“Nothin’, yet,” Shawn points out. Normally the Machine started churning out ink immediately, but the room was dead silent, the air still.

“I thought you were supposed to still be in the infirmary,” Allison chastises.

“I’m not gonna leave Lacie alone! Besides, I’m fully rested,” the Irishman retorts, looking like he was struggling to stay awake.

“Is that normal?” he asks Tom, ignoring the two’s bickering.

“Happened like that the first time,” he says vaguely.

Henry jumps as the Machine roars to like while Thomas just stands there, unflinching. A thick mass emerges amongst the flood of regular ink, which wreathes around on the floor, trying to refine itself into something. He watches, transfixed, even though he doesn’t want to - in a way, he feels like he owes everyone that much.

The ink refines itself down into individual features - curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, a long nose, broad shoulders. Lacie starts screaming as soon as she forms a mouth, though whether it’s out of pain or fear or both isn’t clear. Allison runs over to her as the ink parts to reveal skin, Shawn quickly following.

“Is she all right?”

“I think she’s in shock,” Allison replies firmly, pulling light yellow hair away from the woman’s face. The screaming had stopped, but she was lying on the floor, breathing in short gasps.

“Lacie girl, it’s okay. Snap out of it!” Shawn reaches over, gently shaking her ink-stained shoulder.

Thomas finally reaches the group, Henry trailing behind him. “Here, move her onto her side,” Tom instructs, reaching out towards her.

“Stay the Hell away from me!” Lacie abruptly jerks upward, kicking out and slamming a newly-formed boot into the mechanic’s face. Allison rushes to Tom’s side while Shawn grabs Lacie’s arms, holding them behind her back and pulling her away from the man.

“Tom, are you okay? Here, let me see.” Allison attempts to move the mechanic’s hand away as he clutches his face, swearing.

“Goddamn it, I’m fine. Just bruised me,” he growls, removing his hand to reveal a steady stream of ink running from his nose. Allison chastises him, pulling a rag from her belt as she starts to tend to the wound.

Henry wanders over to Lacie, unsure of what to do. Her response to Tom seemed to have snapped her out of her shock, and she watches him from the corner of her eye as the animator crouches down beside her.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine! Get off of me,” she demands, and Shawn obediently removes his grip on her arms. She attempts to stand, nearly falling, and Shawn grabs her again for support. She casts her gaze towards Tom, but doesn’t seem to be interested in offering an apology.

“Everyone should get down to the infirmary,” Allison directs. Tom was still bleeding, Shawn looked exhausted, and Lacie looked like she might pass out at any second.

“Uh... yeah. Do that,” Henry mumbles as everyone else gets up, feeling completely useless. He jogs to catch back up with the others as they reenter the studio but hangs back, trailing behind the group. Lacie slows her pace, joining him.

“Here’s your ribbon.” Henry hands it back to her and Lacie takes it, removing her hair tie and knotting the ribbon into a makeshift ponytail holder in its place. 

“Purple’s my favorite color. I haven’t seen it in a long time,” she says in way of explanation. Henry nods, pretending to understand. He had always been colorblind, even before the studio - the supposedly purple ribbon looked more like a dull blue to him.

She meets his eyes for a second, then looks away. He notices for the first time that one of her eyes is still missing, an empty eye socket with a small yellow X in its place.

“Sorry for attackin’ you earlier,” she drawls. “And for sayin’ you were as bad as Joey. That ain’t true.”

“I don’t think you ever said that.”

“It’s what I was thinkin’, and you know it.” Henry trudges along, unable to think of a retort. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. If you need anythin’, just ask.”

“If you don’t mind... I’d like to talk to you later. After you’ve rested.”

“Don’t need to rest,” she objects, clearly struggling to stay conscious. “But sure, we can talk.” She picks up her pace to rejoin Shawn, leaving Henry behind.

[cynicalkairos]

Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting

CHAPTER FOUR

Word Count: 3178 (i’m sorry in advance)

Warnings: Language, Yelling, Angst, Mentions of Painkillers

Summary: Emma helps Henry deal with his emotional, mental, and physical devastation and work through it.

A/N: Wow, okay. And I said the last one was long. Anyway, I apologize in advance if Ted or Henry seem ooc, but, again, this is how I perceive them dealing with emotions and sadness.

Previous || Next

“Fucking piece of shit!” The sound of glass breaking resounded into the hallway. “How the fuck can someone make a pair of fucking tongs flammable?”

When Emma heard these loud exclamations of profanity, she sprinted to the lab, fearing that something horrible could have happened. She found Henry standing in the middle of glass shards and spilled liquid, cradling his hand in pain. She stepped carefully around the glass and examined the mess, asking, “Professor? Are you okay?”

“What kind of fucking question is that?” Henry asked through gritted teeth. His jaw was clenched together tightly and the wince in his eyes disclosed the extent of his pain.

“Just calm down. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not! The shitty mechanics in my hand cause a fucking firework show every time it moves.”

Emma held out her hand and placed a hand on his wrist gently, trying to appease him. “Can I take a look?”

Henry looked up at her and sighed after a moment, averting his eyes back to the ground. “Yes, fine, whatever. As long as you don’t make it hurt a shit ton more.”

Emma nodded absently and brought it closer to her. After looking through the many survival books that Henry had, they found a book about medical care with limited resources. They managed to figure out that the bone in Henry’s hand and pinky was, in fact, broken and required a cast. One cast and a splint later, the only thing left to do was hope for the best for proper healing without medical professionals treating the injuries. The cast was made of paper mache and made rather crudely, while the splint was just a couple leftover popsicle sticks and some tape.

The cast, despite all the gloom and despair that permeated from the professor, was signed by the various occupants of the house, wishing the best of luck for recovery or taking up spaces by doodles. Charlotte wrote down the routine for taking the pain medication for Henry to serve as a reminder for the professor. Emma wrote a note, reassuring him that everything would be fine and whatnot. Bill wrote down some inspirational quotes from musicals that he knew Henry would appreciate. Alice drew a pretty drawing with flowers and butterflies. Paul just wrote his name with a small smiley face.

Even though the people around him tried to alleviate the sadness within him after his fight with Ted, the hole of blank space left a void where he knew Ted’s name would be. Henry tried focusing on the positives like the rest of the drawings on his cast or what Ted would write on his cast, but every time he thought about it resulted in him thinking about the fight and what he said.

Emma saw nothing unusual with the professor’s injuries and carefully let go of his hand. “Did you take any painkillers?”

“I took some on Tuesday.”

“Professor, it’s Thursday.”

“Ah, that must be why it’s being a little bitch.”

“I’ll go get you some,” Emma assured him and left without staying long enough for him to deny her help. When she returned, she handed him the pills and a glass of water. “Take these. It should help.”

Henry didn’t bother to look up and nodded through clenched teeth, downing the pills and the water effortlessly. His eyes darted back and forth as if he was scrutinizing each shard of glass. He then checked his splint and cast again, dissatisfied with the results. “The painkillers will dissolve soon enough. I need to clean this mess up in the meantime.”

“No, I got it,” she said, stopping him from moving past her by placing her hands on his shoulders. Emma saw how Henry gripped the counter beside him tightly with his good hand and leaned on it to support himself. After seeing this happen before, she recognized one of the professor’s spells of dizziness from exhaustion and steadied him. “You— sit down before you collapse.”

“No, I’ve got to—”

“Professor, please, just take a break.”

Henry looked up at Emma and nodded weakly, walking over to the nearest chair to sit down. On the way, he was mumbling incoherent phrases probably cursing the millennial generation or something of the sort.

As much as it hurt her, the Henry Hidgens sitting there now was different from the man that she thought of as one of her closest friends. This version of him was easily irritable and cursed frequently, traits that never appeared in Henry before or, perhaps, around her. Even though he tended to forget to sleep or eat, Emma noticed that this characteristic was only amplified after the fight. When she would wake up during the night because of various reasons, she often ventured to his lab to check on him. Previously, Henry’s sleep habits rooted in his continuous working, but now, he barely worked. He simply sat in the corner of the room either crying or nursing his hand. Whenever she tried to bring it up to him, Henry would brush it off with a dismissive comment or answer vaguely. Either way, he was in pain, both physically and emotionally.

Emma hated seeing him in this state. The combination of pain, sleep deprivation, and regret took a toll on him in the form of disregard for himself and taking his frustration out on others. Previously, Henry was subtle when expressing or dealing with his frustration, but the only difference now was that he did not hide his annoyance from anyone. He snapped at anyone when he left the confines of his lab, but the other people in the house knew that he never meant any words that he said. If he started to get too out of control, Emma would help him calm down, but even then he would apologize and then retreat to his lab for another long period of time.

They sat in silence as Emma pondered the last week and cleaned up the floor. When she was done, she studied him. Henry sat with his head in his healthy hand, dozing off from the sudden stillness, but every time he was almost fast asleep, he woke up with a jump. This sequence of events happened over and over again until Emma sat next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at her slowly, his age truly settling in his face. He just looked uncharacteristically… old. The man that she witnessed do graceful leaps into the air with perfect execution looked as if he would fall apart at any second with the softest touch. Henry then took his free hand and placed it on hers, before reassuring her by saying, “I’m fine, my dear. It just hurts.”

“The painkillers haven’t kicked in yet?”

“Yes, but it’s not that,” he said grimly, a bitter smile spreading across his face. “I feel like shit for saying those things to Ted. It was selfish of me to accuse him of not doing anything. In fact, I realized that he performs the most important task out of us all… and willingly as well.”

Emma furrowed her brow, thinking of what that was for a moment. “Really? What’s that?”

The bitterness in his smile morphed into fondness, shifting his glance from her to the wall. “He keeps me sane, Emma.”

“What the hell does that mean?” She asked incredulously. “I practically stopped you from kicking Paul’s ass a couple of days ago when he drank the last of the coffee.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he replied, shaking his head. “Yes, you do a lot for me and you mean a lot to me, my dear. I thank you for that, but… Ted’s effect on me is like a painkiller that works far better than all the fucking morphine in the world combined. All he could do is smile and I forget all of my worries about the potentialities of the apocalypse. In all sincerity, Ted’s one of the reasons I fight to stop the shit that happens out there.”

Emma watched as Henry’s eyes lit up when he talked about him in a way that she hadn’t seen since he talked about him before they were together. He seemed to zone out into the fondness of his memories, but he snapped out of that mindset with a few blinks, before looking at Emma once more.

“And despite how much of a bastard I was toward him, Ted— fuck, I’m so fucking love with him and I hate myself for being such a goddamn fool for not telling him before. I lost him and I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Emma pursed her lips and took in a deep breath. “Well, I know what you’d do.”

“You do?” Henry looked up at her in surprise. “And what would that be?”

“All of this. Exactly what you’re doing right now. You’re sitting here alone when the person you love is out there probably blaming himself for the exact same reasons you are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Emma said with confidence. ‘For the past week, I’ve watched him empty every bottle of liquor that he can. Now, I know you had a lot of alcohol in this place, so I think you can do that math about his alcohol intake.”

Henry sighed and nodded slowly, running his uninjured hand over his face as an attempt to wipe away the tears. Before he could reason with her, Emma continued, saying, “Don’t you give me any bullshit, Professor, but tell me one thing: why were you fighting in the first place?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“I think it’d be good to get out.”

“Well, if you must know,” Henry started, breathing in as he felt the painkillers begin to work.

———

Henry woke up that morning with a jump, startled by a nightmare that disturbed his sleep. He felt the sweat on his forehead and his body and his lungs gasping for air. By this point, he couldn't recall exactly what the nightmare was about, but he knew that it was bad. Most of the time, he could tough through nightmares, but after looking beside him, he knew the rest why.

Ted was not there.

Once the initial shock disappeared, the confusion settled in. Ted never woke up before Henry and even then, left the bed. His lover was the type of person not to leave the confines of the bed unless either Henry was getting up or the world was ending. Finding his bed without Ted caused him to leap out of bed the best he could and rush to get somewhat decent, before heading downstairs.

Henry knew Ted was down there by the smell of the coffee brewing. He followed the scent and found Ted, not only drinking coffee but even making breakfast. This action only piled onto the preexisting confusion. Along with not waking up early, Ted never made breakfast simply because he’s a horrible cook and other people woke before him to do it.

Henry walked over and poured himself a cup of coffee, then walking over to Ted. He pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and leaned against the counter next to the stove.

Ted looked over to him and smiled, reaching over and taking his hand. He gave it a squeeze while saying, “Morning, babe.”

“How’d you sleep?” Henry asked after taking another sip.

Ted shrugged and resumed his cooking. Henry glanced over at the pan and the eggs did not look burned. It looked…almost edible, perhaps good, surprisingly. He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. Henry then put his mug down and picked up the spatula next to him, pointing it at Ted. “Who are you? What have you done with my Teddy bear?”

“What the—” Ted said, glancing up at Henry. He then pointed his own spoon at his partner. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

“It’s only a question, love. Answer and everything will be fine.”

Ted slowly turned off the eggs so they didn’t burn and approached Henry, spoon still directed at him. “Make me.”

———

“Woah, Professor,” Emma interrupted him, looking at him with wide eyes. “If you two fucked, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Henry looked like he was experiencing a mixture of horror and amusement and caused Emma to burst out laughing. She watched as the professor turned from pale to a deep red and attempted to formulate a reply.

“Geez,” Emma tried to placate him. “I was just joking.”

Henry rolled his eyes, annoyed but relaxing again. He sighed, before saying, “To address your concern, we didn’t. Get your mind out of the fucking gutter.”

Emma tried her best to stifle back the laughter, but a small chuckle escaped her lips. She couldn’t help it. Anyway, go on.”

Henry nodded and looked back down at his injured hand, playing with the frayed edges once more. He took a deep breath, continuing, “Yes, well, we just had a little fun—”

“That sounds like you fucked, Professor.”

“Okay, we messed around—”

“Still seems like you fucked.”

“Good god, Emma! Stop talking!” Henry snapped, gripping his cast with such strength that he pulled a small chunk of the paper mache out. They both were silent momentarily before he calmed himself down. He mumbled curses at himself for acting in such a way to Emma, while standing up and tossing the piece into the nearest garbage can.

Emma watched him sadly. She wasn’t mad at him or blamed him for yelling at her, but she was certainly shocked that it happened. Then again, Henry, especially now, could be very unpredictable. Emma wasn’t trying to rationalize his uncontrolled anger. She knew that he was trying to do better and he’s in a lot of pain, blaming himself for everything around him. Thinking back, Henry was always like that. Even when he was just her teacher and she was just his student. Before they were friends. Before everything that happened.

Henry returned and sat down, clutching his hand in pain. It hurt and Emma knew that it did, despite the pain medicine taking effect. “I apologize for yelling, Emma. I raised my voice and it was completely uncalled for. I—”

“I know, Professor. It’s fine,” Emma said, placing a hand on his shoulder and feeling him place his on top of hers gingerly. “I know, but you need to talk to him. The guilt, regret, whatever it is— it’s destroying you.”

Henry looked up with wide eyes and paused. He gulped and began toying with the ends again, saying, “I know, but I can’t talk to him.”

“Why?”

“I have reason to believe that he wouldn’t want to see me again after all I said.”

Silence rose again and Emma felt Henry squeeze her hand gently, before putting it on his lap. For the first time in a while, Emma noticed how truly tired he was. The darkness under his eyes appeared darker and emphasized the shadow of his eyes. His cheekbones and jawline were more prominent, but not in a healthy way. The lines on his face seemed deeper than usual, especially the one around the grimace forming on his lips. Based on his appearance, she knew that one thing was for certain, despite how sad or depressing it was: Henry Hidgens had given up.

She didn’t know what exactly, but the drive and the passion that he once had disappeared. Emma remembered the times when she all but dragged him out of the lab to eat or sleep and the times when she would go to check on him and not find him in there but with Ted watching a movie on the couch. Regardless of where that drive was or what it was aimed at, the idea remained simply that, at this particular moment, Henry had no reason to do anything without Ted.

“Professor, what makes you say that?”

“I might have…run into Ted once.”

Emma, who was currently focused on a piece of glass that she neglected to pick up on the floor, sprang up and looked at him with wide eyes. “Hold the fuck up. What?”

“You heard me,” he replied dejectedly, averting his gaze to anywhere but where she was.

“Are you serious? Did you talk to him?” Emma asked, only for Henry to respond by opening his mouth to speak, shutting it, and then finally shaking his head. “Well, what happened?”

Henry hesitated for a moment, before saying, “It was the day after the fight happened. I was going to get some more medication from the kitchen when I saw him in the living room, retrieving alcohol. To put it simply, I froze. I wanted to go talk to him, apologize to him, make everything right again, but I couldn’t. Something was holding me back. Looking back on it, it was the dread that Ted would break up with me and never talk to me ever again, which quite frankly is impossible due to the status of the world right now.

“Anyway, I figured that if I was fast enough, I could get the medication and tried to move as quickly as I could. On my way to the kitchen, I accidentally slammed my bad hand into the cabinet door, making a loud noise and a lot of pain on my part. Ted turned around and looked at me. It felt like forever that we were just standing there, looking at each other. Then he picked up the alcohol and ran back upstairs.”

Henry looked at Emma and put his hands in his lap, sighing. “Before you get on my ass about not talking to him, I couldn’t face the fact that he could reject me. If I marched up to him at that moment, I don’t know what I would’ve said. I could have made the situation worse for all I know. I’ve never had a good reputation with…emotions and relationships, so processing our fight was something that deprived me of sleep, stalled my experiments, and halted my life at the same time. All I wanted to do at that moment was kiss him until both of us forgot everything, tell him how much I love him, and ask for his forgiveness. But, by the way, he looked at me, I think he was in the right state of mind for any of that either.”

The tears began to stream down his face again and he quickly apologized, before standing up and leaving the room hurriedly. Emma wanted to follow him, but she just watched him leave, knowing that he needed some time to think.

Once he left the room, their conversation solidified to Emma that Henry was spiraling downward at a rapid rate and it wasn’t going to be long before he made a rash decision and her fears would come true. At this point, the only person that could prevent him from doing anything irrational was Ted and, even then, Emma dreaded the possibility that Henry was too far gone.

———

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed reading this. I probably edited this chapter maybe three to five times. I just like making Henry suffer a bit.

Also, I know I had to cut the backstory about the initiation of the fight short in the story, but I’ll just tell you the rest for fun.

So basically, they stop play fighting making out and they have breakfast. Then when Henry went down to the lab, he saw that his specimen that he went out and retrieved earlier was gone. He found it in the trash can in an unsalvagable state and knew it was Ted’s doing. Henry then confronted Ted about it and things escalated from there.

[kbstories]

And with this third chapter, the fic is complete!

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Recovery, First Kiss, Fishing (non-graphic)

No additional spoilers apply.

>>Read on AO3

<<First Chapter

<<Second Chapter

The coffee comes out of the pot piping hot, quickly warming his mug and filling the morning air with its scent.

Arthur downs it in big gulps, wincing as it burns down his throat. The bad taste in his mouth is gone, though, and his queasy stomach settles with something to digest. The cold sweat he wakes up in every morning, or the tremor in his hands, well – recovery, as it turns out, is one tough son of a bitch, much more so when your alcohol supply is out of reach.

A sigh worms its way out his mouth, clouding white in front of him. There's precious little for him to do in camp – he can barely raise his left arm higher than chest height without pulling some wound or other – and most of the gang's inner workings come along well without his input.

This must be the longest Arthur's been off duty in... a while. It's disorienting, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, additionally to Miss Grimshaw's care – a duty she caries out with a gruff undertone in her voice but an indulgent glint in her eyes –, Charles has been watching him like a hawk, grumbling about his hard work going to waste otherwise.

Arthur would be the first to admit that drinking himself into a stupor a week into his mandatory bedrest was not his brightest moment. It definitely beat sitting on his ass all day long, doing fuck-all to earn his keep.

At this rate, he'll end up going to the dogs like Uncle. Isn't that a fun thought to entertain?

Even now he can feel the man's gaze on him, all the way across camp. Arthur raises his mug in the general direction of Charles's usual post, and plants himself on one of the logs surrounding the camp fire. See, I can be good, too.

A lazy salute is his meagre reward. Arthur shakes his head, only noticing the smile on his own face when he goes to light a cigarette. Drawing deep, he exhales slowly, finding himself enjoying the bite of nicotine on his tongue instead of merely going through the motions.

Maybe he can ask Hosea for one of them crime novels he's been so involved with lately. How was the author called again? Arthur flicks the excess ash to the ground, chasing the name on the tip of his tongue. Nope, gone. Never been his strongest suit, books, but Jack's seems interested too as of late, and with how things have been, the boy deserves some hero's tale or other to dream of.

… not one of Hosea's, then. God knows the kid sees enough blood and death as is.

Gaze lost in the fire and with nowhere else to go, Arthur's thoughts drift like smoke in the wind. To Jack, and how somewhere in this mess, he became Uncle Arthur to him. About that boy Kieran, so desperate for somewhere to belong it's painful to watch at times, and John, who had it all and disappeared who-knows-where all the same. Dutch and Hosea and that ever-shifting dream they keep chasing.

And yet his fingers itch for... something more, something to touch, to hold on to, like a pen or a gun or–

A genuine connection, to tether his very being to something bigger than himself. What if, Arthur thinks.

What if, what if.

He blows another puff into the sky and watches it disappear into nothingness.

*

“Okay. Hunting. Nothin' fancy, just a doe or two. Need practice with that bow, right? Takes a lifetime to master, an' all that–”

“No.”

“Oh for... One ride. To– to the general store in Rhodes, or, uh, to the tree line and back. A glimpse at the fields.”

Charles hitches his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. “No”, he repeats, the low, serious timbre of his voice crumbling with veiled amusement. A searching gaze is leveled on Arthur, the kind to reveal every weakness hiding under his skin.

“Is that what it takes, Morgan? Two weeks in camp?”

“Ain't beggin' yet”, Arthur mumbles under his breath and throws Charles an unhappy look – Charles, who is currently sitting cross-legged on his saddle stand, confident as a king and entitled like one, too. Behind him, Dyani sniffs Charles's hair and pushes it around with her nose, rubbing his shoulder in the process.

It took Arthur weeks of constant work (and treats) to get the hang of the Andalusian's fickle temper and here they are, chummy like old friends. Traitors, the lot of them. Arthur's shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way.”

The statement isn't immediately followed by action, however. The mere thought of wasting more hours walking a line into the dirt, watching people come and go and feeling their sympathetic eyes on him is revolting to an almost physical degree. Arthur stares at his cot, just a few feet away, and can't bring himself to move.

“Arthur.”

Just his name, without pity. He closes his eyes and rubs his neck, staring at his boots as he struggles to find the right words.

“Just feelin' useless, is all. Can't do nothin' for weeks now an' with the O'Driscolls and whoever else breathin' down our necks... Ain't the man I am, Charles. To sit around an' wait for things to happen.”

A rustle of movement makes him glance up. Charles hops to his feet, easy as anything, and Arthur barely registers he's throwing something until he's grabbed it. A fishing rod? Arthur tilts his head with a frown.

“But you–”

“Teach me”, Charles says simply, and all Arthur can do is shut his mouth and nod, trying (and failing) to ignore how warm his chest feels.

*

Little by little, the smooth lines of graphite connect, fill in blank space, spill over the shadowed fold between the pages and beyond.

The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of water against lacquered wood, the sting of a wound, still healing – it all fades into the background, there but muted as his attention is bracketed by the edges of his journal.

With the sun warming his back, Arthur draws.

In front of him sits Charles, leaning back just as he is, feet propped up against the boat's curved hull. Rod and line in place, his eyes are alert and search the surface of the lake for any movement, the very picture of endless patience. The breeze plays with a loose strand of his hair before he reaches up and tucks it away.

Charles fishes, and Arthur draws... him.

(Arthur's sketch of Charles by @ISpitznagel)

His shoulder doesn't allow him to sit as he usually does, legs folded close to his chest and journal balanced on his knees, angled away so nobody can see what he's working on. The members of the gang quickly learned that whoever tries is more likely to catch a fist to the jaw than a glimpse at his sketches. What is to others a collection of landscapes and animals and the odd person, to Arthur, well...

Things in his life don't have the best relationship with permanence, as it were. He'd rather commit what he can to paper before they inevitably disappear too.

Charles asks later, “What do you think of when you draw?”, when the light has grown too weak to keep going and Arthur reached for his pack of cigs to occupy his hands instead. Arthur, who drew in his lap instead of on his knees and knows that Charles saw.

He finds he doesn't mind one bit.

“Depends”, he mutters, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow boat allows, bumping against Charles's hip. “Sometimes nothin', sometimes somethin' I can't put words to just yet. Just keepin' track of things, in my own way. Makes 'em less unfathomable, if I may borrow one of them fancy terms.”

Charles snorts, “You may”, his grin there and gone in a flash. He's set aside the fishing rod – with the bucket they brought along filled to the brim with fish, there wouldn't be anywhere to put them anyways –, merely watching Arthur smoke now.

“Never was much the artistic type, myself. Looks all a bit like magic to me.”

Arthur grins back, offering him a cig of his own. Charles shrugs and takes one out of the box, leaning close to the match Arthur lights for him; his face is momentarily lit by its flaring tip, his eyes reflecting the embers' glow.

Their fingers brush and Arthur hums, exhales another smoke-filled breath into the night sky.

“Well I'd show you how, Charles, but if you take to it as quickly as fishin', what unique skills would that leave me with?”

Charles shrugs. “I can think of some”, he counters easily, another step in this dance of theirs that they slip into on nights like these. Teasing words wrapped around tender spots and soft-spoken secrets. Arthur takes the compliment for what it is, shaking his head fondly.

They smoke. Arthur tells Charles of the time he went fishing with Jack, months ago now; how hard it had been for the kid to focus on the fish, and less so on picking flowers.

“Seems the creative sort, you know? Better to let 'em make things. Kid's too young for all this crap we keep puttin' him through.”

“Does Marston know, though?” Charles sighs. “Some days it seems to me like you're more of a father to that boy than he is.”

Arthur frowns, rubs at his chest and that dull ache that, years later, is still there.

“Well, in some ways... Can't up and leave for a year an' expect things to remain the same, I guess. But John cares, or at least I think he does.” A pause. “'cause that's the thing, ain't it? Dutch taught us to give a shit 'bout family an' whatnot but, John an' I, we ain't got the same charisma he does. 's one of those things that's easier said than done.”

For a while, Charles says nothing. Just sits and smokes, looking into the distance. Turning some thought or other in his head, Arthur assumes. Eventually: “Guess you're right. Just doesn't feel good, seeing a kid on the run. Too much of that, as of late.”

“Ain't that the truth”, Arthur nods, righting himself to shake off some of the somber mood weighing on his shoulders. Smirking, he nudges Charles's knee with his own. “Just glad he stuck by that when them O'Driscolls got me. Didn't know I was even worthy of the best damn rescue squad we got.”

Charles's eyes snap to his then, narrowing a fraction. “Huh?”

“Dutch, I mean. An' you.”

“Oh.” That peculiar expression vanishes, Charles's face all-too-neutral. “Guess so”, he repeats, and Arthur draws back a little.

“Did I, uh–“ Glancing down, Arthur fiddles with the burned-out stub, staining his fingers with ash. “Didn't mean no offense, Charles. Been complainin' a lot but I wouldn't be here at all without you. Just wanted to let you know, 'm takin' none of that for granted.”

Suddenly Charles's hand is there, giving Arthur's a gentle squeeze. “Hey. That's not what I meant. Was just somewhere else, there.”

Automatically, Arthur squeezes back.

“Point still stands. Thank you.”

A quiet chuckle reels him back in, as it always does these days, “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, you know that”, and Arthur can't not look up at those words, searching his expression for– What, exactly?

What if, what if. The distance is gone, Charles's gaze warming further as Arthur's thumb brushes over the scarred back of his hand, feeling the calm rhythm of his pulse against his.

“What are we doing, Charles?”

The question is soft, said without any idea where it's headed: a road untraveled, missing from every map yet waiting to be explored.

Charles blinks, taken off guard. He opens his mouth, hesitates, admits, “Whatever you want us to”, sounding just as vulnerable as Arthur feels.

A split-second decision: Arthur tugs, Charles follows, catching himself against the boat. “Arthur”, he whispers, close enough Arthur can feel his breath on his face.

Arthur rasps, “Tell me to stop”, but Charles never does; he leans in, interlacing their fingers in the same moment their lips meet, tentatively – Arthur's eyes flutter shut, his fingers find the collar of Charles's shirt blindly, pull him ever-closer as he melts into it.

They barely part between one kiss and the next; Arthur murmurs Charles's name with the little breath he can catch, and “Fuck”, as Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he tastes smoke. His blood sings, throbbing in his veins in a dizzying rush, all the more prominent when Charles's thigh slides between his, caging him in–

The white-hot flash of pain comes so unexpected Arthur gasps, twisting his shoulder away from the pressure. Charles flinches, leans back, “Shit, sorry”, he pants out, mouth spit-slick and eyes wide.

Arthur can barely hear it over how loud his heart is, drumming away in his chest– “'m okay”, he says because Charles looks like he needs to hear it, but he doesn't let go, not yet.

“Come back. Please?”

Charles sways like he's drunk, nods – presses his forehead against Arthur's, noses brushing, but his tone is cautious, now. “We– This is not wise. You need time to heal.”

Arthur laughs, more than a little husky. “Do I look like I care about wise right now? Fuck, Charles.”

Charles's voice isn't faring much better; he hums a low “mmhm” before he kisses Arthur again, fleetingly. “Fuck me, indeed. I swear I had pure intentions with this.”

“You hate fishing. Dunno why you tried to convince me otherwise.”

“... I do, sorry.”

They share a smile, and Arthur shakes his head, tracing the curve of Charles's lips with his thumb.

“I don't mind. I prefer the alternative, too.”

>>Read on AO3

[tarotdeckshuffle]

IgNyx Day Three!

Sorry it’s so late, but here’s my entry for day three! This chapter is Ignis’s flashback to the day he met Nyx. Hope you enjoy!

Word Count: ~3000

Prompts Used:

“More than you’ll ever know”

Flirtation

Who’s the better chef

Rating: T

Prefer to read this on AO3? You can do so here!

Taglist: @idiotflowerex, @laststory1013, @sayaoqueen, @jophinabean, @mysme-already,  @ffxvignyxzine

If you like what you read, please consider supporting me on Patreon or buying me a Ko-fi!

Spectral: Chapter 3

It was the night of Ignis’s twentieth birthday. With the age came all of the conflicting emotions: he was years beyond being an official adult, but still discovering what that truly meant. 

The bros had thrown him a “surprise” birthday party. The three of them brought Iggy an a new restaurant in one of the darker corners of Insomnia. Ignis had been given an address to find, which took him hours. Upon entering the dark corner lot of a building, he was bombarded by the sounds of kazoos and confetti from his friends. The whole scene seemed a bit childish, but it warmed his heart to know that they had done this for him. 

As for the restaurant itself, the young chef found the food amazing! Together, the four men spent hours sipping coffee and tasting everything on the menu. The hour grew late as the meal wrapped up. Outside, a car waited to take them home, or so Ignis thought. 

Gladio and Prompto were already in the car as Noctis started to crawl in. Without thinking, Ignis moved to side in after him, but Noct shut the door! Shocked by the rude behavior, Ignis stared at the car for a moment. 

“You thought that was everything, Specs?” Noctis asked as he rolled down the window. “We have one more present for you! But you’ve got to find it!” He threw a notepad out the window before rolling it back up. 

“See ya!” Prompto cheered as the car drove away. 

In a darkened alleyway, Ignis stood alone. The neon “open” light of the restaurant flickered and went out next to him. 

Left with little else to do but satisfy his curiosity, he flipped open the notepad. On the first page was a horribly drawn map. Among childish looking buildings was a winding line. None of the lines were straight and the buildings looked indecipherable. Random symbols and shapes with numbers next to them didn’t help matters. In the lower corner was a doodle of someone with upright pointy hair. Next to that, Prompto had signed his name. 

Ignis felt like he was walking in circles, trying to decipher which direction he was supposed to head in. He turned a corner, so focused on the map that he almost didn’t notice the three figures standing in the shadows. 

“You’re lookin’ a bit lost there, sonny,” the tall figure in the middle cooed as they came forward. 

“Not in the slightest,” Ignis growled, putting the notebook away in his back pocket. 

“Oh, don’t try to be tough, boy…” the left figure, a boulder of a person, chimed in. Light glinted off of a blade the third person produced from their belt. 

“You seem like a good kid.” The middle figure spoke. He had come into the light. “How ‘bout you just hand over your wallet and whatnot and we avoid all of the...unpleasantries. Wouldn’t want that pretty face of yours gettin’ nicked up!” 

Ignis knew there was no escaping the situation, but he was determined. He summoned a knife into his left hand, already calculating how to strike. 

“Stupid move, kid,” the bladed figure hissed, lunging forward. He was fast, coming straight on for his attack. Ignis braced himself, prepared to block the blade. 

Clang! 

The sound of metal colliding echoed through the alley. But Ignis’s blade was untouched. 

The mugger’s blade was caught on an ornate kukri, held by a figure cloaked in elaborate black armor. Ignis recognized the outfit at once; they were a member of the KingsGlaive. 

“Three against one? C’mon, that hardly seems fair!” A man’s voice rang out from under the hood. With a flick of his wrist, the Glaive sent the mugger’s blade flying. 

Caught off guard, the disarmed man turned back to his friends. The mountain came to his rescue, charging at the Glaive. 

But Ignis wasn’t going to let this Glaive have all of the fun. Scanning his surroundings, he found a nonlethal solution. 

The Glaive bent low, preparing to strike the organs of his attacker, but the large figure was stopped in his tracks! A trash can lid smashed into his face, thrown by Ignis with otherworldly accuracy. His would be savior turned back to him, nodding. 

The two of them faced the third attacker, ready for a joint strike. But the third figure whimpered before turning and running away down the street, followed by his two lackies. 

“They just don’t make muggers like they used to,” the Glaive commented, removing his hood. “Still, what’s a kid like you doing in this part of town?” 

But Ignis didn’t hear the question, he was too busy admiring his hero. The man was older than he, with tanned skin and braids, much like the northern islanders. His face was ruggedly handsome, framed by a two day shadow. The whole scene was capped by his dark eyes, sparkling with kindness and mischief. 

Caught in the moment, Ignis missed the next thing he was asked. The Glaive was looking at him with one raised eyebrow. Clearing his throat, the young advisor tried to play off what had happened. 

“I’ll have you know, I am no ‘kid’.” He hoped the look he gave was commanding. 

“Really? Then how old are you?” The Glaive smiled at him as he teased, drawing a rosy blush to Iggy’s cheeks. 

Drawing on his most authoritative title, Ignis responded, “I am the advisor to the crown prince!” 

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The Glaive taunted. 

“Fine. I’m twenty. I was out here to celebrate my birthday with friends.” Somehow, Ignis felt childlike revealing his information. 

“Ah! See, that wasn’t so hard! Well, interesting place for a birthday party…” The Glaive looked around, surveying the dark street. 

“Yes, well, it didn’t all occur here. After eating at an establishment over there…”

“OH! The Craving Coeurl?! That place is amazing! Who was cooking?” The Glaive interrupted.

Slightly taken aback, Ignis took a moment to respond. “I...don’t know.”

The Glaive frowned, “Well, I think you would’ve had Valen...they’re a way better chef, anyways…” 

Ignis waived off his contemplation. “Regardless, my friends sent me on some sort of scavenger hunt with an indecipherable map…” 

The Glaive perked up! “Scavenger hunt? That sounds fun! Strange place to send you, though.” 

“I’m not entirely sure where it is they intended to send me,” Ignis replied, pulling the notepad from his pocket and holding it up for the Glaive to examine. 

He leaned in to study the small pages, coming close enough that Ignis could hear his breathing. “Oh!” He exclaimed, “I know where they want you to go! This map isn’t so bad!” 

“Really?” Ignis turned the notepad to reexamine it. “It looks simply atrocious to me.” 

The Glaive shrugged. “Eh, I’ve seen worse.” For the briefest moment, his eyes had a hint of sadness to them. 

“How about I take you? Make sure you don’t get into any more trouble,” the dark man offered, holding out his hand. “Unless of course you want more trouble. I can offer both, but that’ll cost extra,” he added, winking. 

Ignis blushed as he stared at the hand before him. “That’s completely unnecessary! I can handle myself and...” 

“I’ll warp us there,” the Glaive offered.

Ignis admitted to himself that he had never had the chance to use warping magic before and that it looked tantalizingly thrilling! This stranger could be his chance to! Although he seemed rather arrogant, the man must be fairly decent, he was part of the KingsGlaive, after all. 

“Only for the sake of brevity,” Ignis replied, taking the outstretched hand. 

In a moment of swift grace, he was pulled into the Glaive. “Hold on tight,” his hero said, smiling down at him. 

And suddenly they were off! Ignis felt the air be forced out of his lungs and his stomach make flips. Magic sparked on his skin and his eyes were distracted by all of the blue light. The experience was thrilling but nauseating. Just as he thought his body couldn’t take any more, everything stopped! Suddenly he was standing on a third floor fire escape, clutching onto his savior, gasping for air. 

“First time’s always a doozy,” the Glaive commented, completely unphased by the ordeal. 

“Indeed…” Ignis replied as he desperately tried to regain his balance and ease his stomach. Seeing his struggle, the Glaive grabbed onto him, needing both arms to fully catch him. 

All Ignis knew was that he was suddenly wrapped in the arms of this handsome stranger. The man smelled of salt water and earth. Every muscle in his arms could be felt even through his uniform. He seemed so much larger this close. 

Slowly, the young advisor looked up to see the face of his savior. The Glaive wore a concerned expression with an evident pink blush to his tanned face. In his mind, Ignis found the man more human in that moment than he ever expected. He wasn’t as conceited as he once thought. 

The Glaive cleared his throat and pulled Ignis to his feet. “Ready?” he asked, still blushing. Iggy simply nodded. He barely had time to grab onto the man before they were off again!

The feeling of magic on Ignis’s skin was different this time. He was prepared for it, forcing himself to exhale as they warped. This warp was longer, though. By the last second, Ignis felt himself starting to black out. 

And suddenly he was in the cold night air with a dark sky above him. They had landed on a rooftop. Ignis leaned heavily on his hero, fighting to stand against the will of the blackness he saw. The Glaive caught him. 

As Ignis’s senses returned to him, he realized how close they were: their faces were inches apart, mirroring each other’s shock. 

“Seems you have saved me once again,” Ignis commented, trying his best to be smooth. 

“Only because you keep falling for me,” the Glaive responded, returning a sly grin. 

“You could say you’re very ‘catching’” the advisor played. But he was screaming in his mind. Had he truly just tried to flirt using a pun?! A pun?!

But the Glaive just giggled. “I’ll let you have that one, birthday boy. I couldn’t follow it up if I tired.” 

Ignis’s heart was put at rest but his blush continued, at least he had not fully blown his first chance. 

It took three more warps before the duo set foot in their destination, a penthouse room in the fanciest hotel in Insomnia. Neither of them seemed to mind the journey, as they clung to each other the whole time. By the end, Ignis was able to act unphased by each warp. Now, they stood on the balcony, waiting for someone to unlock the door.  

“By the way, the name’s Nyx,” the Glaive burst, holding out a hand to shake. 

“Ignis,” he replied, taking the warm hand offered to him. “I should thank you. I could not have done this so...efficiently...without you.” 

Nyx simply stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Well, at least I’m good for something: efficiency!”

“I didn’t mean…” Ignis stammered, clearly embarrassed. 

“I know, I know,” Nyx finally stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes. “Thanks for everything...Ignis.” This time, Nyx smiled at Ignis, not due to some situation or a joke, but at the person before him, leaving the young advisor shocked and blinded by such beautiful radiance. 

It was a kind smile, bright from the glow Nyx gave off, all surrounded by the glow from the stars and city lights. 

Ignis’s eyes grew wide in that moment. Before, he had thought this Glaive a decent and interesting person,if not a bit conceited, but one he could likely become friends with. Now, he saw beauty, kindness, and strength in the man before him. He saw a man that always had an island breeze at his back and the weight of selflessness on his shoulders. 

The whole world went silent and Ignis lost touch of his body. He knew, from then on, he would never meet anyone else like this man. 

Nyx turned away to stare out over the city. “Tonight was fun. Want to do it again, sometime?” 

In his mind, Ignis wanted that more than Nyx would ever know. Before he could respond, though, the balcony door was opened by Noctis. Turning back from his diverted attention, the advisor meant to introduce his new friend, but Nyx was gone, having disappeared into the wind. 

That night was a memory that would stay with Ignis for years to come. He compared every other lover to his mysterious savior. On days where Ignis’s mind wandered through rainy streets without his body, he went so far as to wonder if Nyx would approve of the man he had become. 

In the following years, Nyx was relegated to a mere rumor, for Ignis. The advisor heard tales of a heroic Glaive, one who never tired of warping, was a bit of an ass, but little else. He never caught a glimpse of his once savior, as all the Glaives wore their masks in training.

No matter how hard he tried not to, he still thought of the Glaive. His heart hurt as he convinced himself that it was a naive influence that he felt that night. Nothing more. 

It was all just a memory, until now. 

[toast-tit]

Starry Night

Tom x reader

Request: Y'know how Buzzfeed did those videos where two friends try to paint each other while drinking wine? Well, my dream date involves that exact concept and it's pretty fluffy and sweet. So, if you like it and have the time I would love to see you do a fic like that with either Tom and Reader or just Tom and Harrison. Like bromance fluff needs more hype imo

Warnings: Good ol’ fluff

Summary: Power outages can lead to the best nights ever.

A/N: This is the first time I’ve gotten a request and I felt so happy omg. Thank you to the person who requested it and I hope this suffices! And honestly that is like the perfect date wow I need to find me someone to do this with.

~ ~ ~

The whole building’s power was out and we were left in darkness. We probably would’ve been fucked if my grandma didn’t send me packages of Yankee Candles every year for my birthday. Tom found them in a box in my closet and lit a few of them, so now tjhe apartment smelled of apple and cinnamon.

Tom opened the fridge and took out a half empty bottle of wine whilst I grabbed two glasses. He filled both of them up halfway and we clinked our glasses, smiling sweetly at one another as we did so. I was never much for wine, but when Tom and I first started dating, it became my new favorite thing. When he was gone shooting movies and whatnot, it was my only reminder of him (and it helped that sometimes I got so drunk I imagined him in front of me.)

We both looked out the window from my living and watched the storm take over the city. My head rested on his shoulder and I watched as lightning brightened the dark sky. “I love this,” I said quietly, “I love everything about tonight.” “You love the severe storm causing a power outage?” Tom chortled and I shook my head. “I love the intimacy of the darkness. I love the warmth from the candles, and I love that you’re beside me, experiencing this with me.”

Tom wrapped his arm around me and pulled me tighter just as thunder boomed loudly. He was warm and smelled faintly of cologne; he was the human embodiment of home. I closed my eyes and dozed off for a little bit until he moved his arm once again and walked away from the window.

“You still have your paints, right?” He entered my room, going through my closet. I nodded and leant on the doorframe and watched as he searched, “Yeah, why?” He found them and lightly tossed the box of my paints a few feet away from him before standing up. He then grabbed the paints and led me out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room.

Tom opened the box and looked at each of the paints. “I watched this video the other day of these two people painting each other’s backs and whatnot. I’ve wanted to do this for a while and tonight’s the perfect night for it,” he grabbed a palette and started putting different colors of paint in each singular space. He looked up and met my eyes, searching for approval. I sipped from my glass and nodded, “I’m down. Who’s going first?”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” He arched an eyebrow and held out his fist. The two of us battled it out two out of three times, which I ended up winning. Contently, I placed my glass away from me as I slid off my shirt and handed it to Tom, who threw it on the handle of the sofa. I turned around and asked him to unclasp my bra and he did so, his fingers lightly skimming my back. I layed down chest first and opened my phone, playing some quiet music as I felt the paint brush begin its little strokes.

The lighting, the pitter patter of the rain, Tom’s soft humming, and the paintbrush were all so relaxing. Most of the time he was painting me, I battled for consciousness as I felt fatigue hit me. Luckily, thunder made its presence known and jostled me awake. Tom felt my being startled and he chuckled softly to himself as he continued painting.

“Hey Van Gogh, what are you painting on my back anyway?” I asked. Tom clicked his tongue and said, “It’s a surprise. I’ll take a photo and show it to you when we’re done.” I rolled my eyes and took a swig from the glass. As long as he wasn’t drawing anything obscene, I was fine with the curiosity.

After another few minutes or so, I heard Tom put the palette and brush down, “Voila!” He told me to lie still as he took out his phone and took a photo. I sat up and asked to see it, but he wagged his finger, “Can’t see it until we both have painted backs.” I rolled my eyes and smiled as he took off his shirt and layed down where I did.

I couldn’t think of anything to paint on him for the longest time. Finally, as I watched the night sky be illuminated by the lightning and I took notice of the stars, I figured why not give it a shot at the Starry Night painting. I started out with the dark blues, brushing across his back hastily as I tried to make the whole sky.

Ten minutes later, Tom’s breathing slowed down and I knew he was asleep. I stopped painting for a second to check on him, catching him resting on his forearm with his eyes closed. “Are you finished?” He mumbled and I giggled. “Just making sure you’re alive,” I leaned in and kissed the pulse point on his neck, “Unfortunately yes.”

Tom lazily smiled and flipped me off. I shook my head and continued working on the painting, which was turning out surprisingly well. I finished a few moments later and I stood up, dusting myself off. For an amateur artist painting on skin, it looked amazing. I took out my phone and took a photo. The flash was somehow on and it woke Tom up. He slowly sat up and asked, “Can I see?”

“I don’t know, will you show me what you painted on me?” I asked. “Show me yours first, I really need to pee,” Tom stood next to me and waited for me to reveal his back. Reluctantly I did and he took the phone from my hands, staring at it in awe. “Y/N, this is incredible! It puts mine to shame!” He exclaimed and my face felt hot. He wrapped me in a warm embrace and buried his face in the crook of my neck, “Thank you for not drawing a penis.”

I snorted and pushed him off of me lightly. “Now, show me mine,” I said, practically jumping in anticipation. Tom rolled his eyes before unlocking his phone and heading to the bathroom. I turned my back to him and opened the photos app, trying to find the photo. After clicking on it and turning up the brightness a little to see it, I nearly dropped the phone.

In bolder black paint, my back said: Will you marry me? In between the words were a heart with Tom and I’s initials inside and the date we began dating. I quickly turned around to go question Tom when I found him behind me on one knee, holding a velvet box.

“I guess one thing I didn’t account for when I was proposing was the fact you’d be shirtless, Y/N. Makes it a little harder to focus,” he smiled faintly and I did too. Tears were threatening to spill from my eyes and I was shaking from head to toe. Was this real? Was he actually proposing to me? “Tom...” I was breathless and speechless. The only words I could think of was his name.

“Y/N, I knew that you were going to be my wife since the day we met. The way you cussed me out because I took your parking space was phenomenal and I wanted to wife you then and there,” I wiped a tear from my eye and laughed. He laughed too, which caused a tear to fall as well. “You were also the one who had the balls to make the first move, which I’m eternally grateful for. To tell you the truth, I bought the ring after our one month anniversary. You were just the one for me and I knew that I would be drunk on you for the rest of my life. You’re my soulmate, Y/N,” his voice broke in the last sentence.

I fell to my knees and I cradled his face in my hands, wiping away each tear as they came. “I love everything about you. I love the way you find the biggest of meanings in the smallest things, I love when you wear your hair down on a windy day and it gets blown over the place, and I even love your competitive side, even if it costs us a new coffee table because you get irritated in Monopoly. You somehow find a way to make me love you more every single day and I can’t wait to find that extra ounce of love tomorrow.”

His lips were practically on mine and I wanted to kiss him, but I wanted to hear what he was about to say next. Curiosity has made me a fool, but I was glad I’m only a fool for Tom. He chuckled and I felt his whole body shake as he asked, “Do I even need to ask the question?”

I kissed him deeply, crying as I did so. I pulled away and I looked into his eyes. They were bloodshot and so were mine. A blanket of happiness covered me and I was high on euphoria. I hated how I couldn’t fly because that’s where my mind and heart were: in the sky. “Yes...yes yes yes yes yes yes!” I kept repeating the word until Tom shut me up with another kiss. I lost my balance and I fell onto the floor.

The two of us stood up and we tried to recollect ourselves. Whenever we made eye contact though, we would burst into a fit of giggles. Tom opened the box and pulled out the ring. It was absolutely stunning and my breath was taken away when I saw it. With a shaking hand, he put it on my ring finger. As I looked at it, I immediately knew it wasn’t coming off at any given time. I knew that for the next two days, it was all I was going to show off.

Tom held my hand and put it to his mouth, kissing it gently. He turned the music on my phone up and he placed his arm on my waist. “Would you like this dance?” He asked and I nodded, at a loss for words. And so, for the rest of the night, the two of us stayed in my living room, swaying along to the music and listening to our hearts beat as the storm carried on.

[wombathos]

the lawyer, the witch and the minotaur

Here’s my 2018 Buffyverse Secret Santa gift for @aesthetically-turnt - because I just got really carried away with the concept of a Lilah/Tara pairing (thanks for that prompt). Merry Christmas, and hope you enjoy!

12.5k words, read here on Ao3 or below the cut.

The thing is…

The thing is that Tara has been dead for a while. All things considered, it’s not too bad. Well, she would rather not be dead. Wouldn’t most people? And she had been quite young. And it had all been so very sudden, with Tara standing in the room with Willow - her Willow, reconciled and happy and whole for the first time in forever. She had felt the bullet, in a weird, disembodied kind of way. Thinking back, she wonders whether she had died the moment the bullet impacted. There was an after-bullet: in a vague sort of way she can remember falling down and Willow being there and weeping, but all the pain she would imagine came with a bullet just kind of… didn’t.

And then she was dead.

But now, it’s all soft. And comforting, because there’s nothing here too hurt her. It’s not as much fun as being alive was. It doesn’t hurt either, which is nice. She doesn’t understand exactly what this is, where she is and where she’s going. If she’s going anywhere. There are no gates, no old white guy with a beard. No demons and hellfire either, which she’s sure would come as a surprise to some people. But it is peaceful, and she is grateful for that.

She does miss Willow, though. She hopes that everything turned out all right. Then again, Willow never needed anyone, least of all Tara, to protect her.

***

The thing is that all of this changed. Much like being wrenched out of life in the first place, this is sudden too. That vague nothingness that had surrounded Tara became something - and it’s hard to explain because there isn’t really anything to look at. No swirl of colours, no white blankness either. But now, the nothingness has solidified. It has become a door.

And Tara sees it, even though there shouldn’t really be a Tara who is able to see it. It’s all very confusing, but the door somehow has shifted her perspective. As if the door being something, that forces her to be something too. And she’s staring at the door. Because she can see it. She can see.

That’s when the door opens. That’s when Tara sees the woman standing there, dressed in what she imagines to be quite a fancy suit, with a mane of brown hair falling down and curling up again, looking distinctly unruffled as if this is something she does every day when she stretches out a hand into the nothingness and the shiny pink lips stretch out into a smile.

“Come on then. I don’t have all day.”

***

The thing is, Tara doesn’t know exactly how she ended up on the other side of the door. She looks have a body to cross through the door, for starters. She’s also not sure whether it is her choice. Did she accept the hand? She finds herself staring down at perfectly manicured nails, that hand grasping another one which she ends up recognising as her own. Does that means she chose to go through? Or did the woman pull her through?

“Merry Christmas, Miss Maclay.”

Tara stares at the woman. And she stares some more. And then she reaches for the only word she can think of.

“Huh?”

***

“I suppose it’s arguable whether it’s actually Christmas if you’re dead,” says the woman in a conversational tone as she looks Tara up and down.

Which means… there is a Tara to look at. Tara looks down, takes in grey denim and a thin blue jumper. She was wearing this… She reaches up to her heart, draws her finger away. It is stained red.

“Yes, that is rather unpleasant,” says the woman. “Considering all of this is only corporeal in the very loosest of senses, I suppose you should be able to change that. Focus hard, or something. Isn’t that something witches are meant to be good at? Psychic projection and whatnot?”

“What is this?”

The woman’s smirk broadens. “Good to see you still have some sense about you. It makes all of this easier.”

“What - Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

A titter. “And polite too! It really is Christmas.” The woman adjusts her scarf - soft and purple and carefully wrapped around her neck - seemingly content to make Tara wait just a little longer for anything approaching a proper answer. “Let’s see then. Well, first of all, you’re dead. Now I know this may come as a shock -“

“I know that,” says Tara. “I meant, what is -“ She gestures around her. She gazes around her to see what looks suspiciously like a corridor. “This.”

The woman blinks. “That was easier than I expected. I really thought we’d take longer to get over the whole ‘death’ thing but I guess we can skip straight to the bit where you help me out and then get to go back to whatever you were doing.”

“I - what?”

“You help me out,” repeats the woman, slowly. “Do the world a service, that kind of thing. There’s a few benefits you can secure, too, in terms of insurance against paranormal incursions on your regular death experience. If you’d feel more comfortable signing a contract, then I have several papers prepared too.”

“A contract?” says Tara, able to feel her brain gradually dissolve.

The woman produces a leather bag which she definitely hadn’t had a second earlier and pulls out a thick wad of papers. “Yep. All in order.”

She holds them out. Tara does not accept and instead simply stares at the papers, then at the stranger again.

The woman rolls her eyes. “Oh, there’s no clauses that involve selling your soul or anything. That’s what people always worry about, which is a reasonable thing to worry about but really isn’t necessary. But it’s just to formalise the arrangement, show you what you’re going to get out of it and that you’ll be returned back safely. We can always continue without.”

“Who are you?”

The answering grin is all teeth, some unnerving combination of cocky and dangerous. “Lilah Morgan, attorney at law. Well… I was, anyway.”

***

The thing is, Tara had not expected - as far as she had been expecting anything at all - to be bailed out of limbo or heaven or whatever it had been by a lawyer, of all people. And this lawyer isn’t making a lot of sense: when you’ve just been wrenched back into some sort of a manifestation of a physical reality after an indeterminate time in an inexplicable void, it takes you a little time to be ready to deal with things like contracts again.

Tara isn’t at her best right now. So when the woman - Lilah - tells her to follow her, she does so, without really thinking about it. They are walking along what is indeed some kind of a corridor, bleak with no particularly interesting features that distinguish it from normal corridors of the sort one would come across in the land of the living.

“I’m confused,” says Tara, unnecessarily.

The woman considers her with an air of patience. “That’s understandable. I imagine it’ll take you a bit to wrap your head around all the details.”

Tara is less worried about the ‘details’ than she is about the ‘what the hell is going on’ bit, but she declines to mention this.

“What is this place?”

“I suppose you could call it the afterlife,” says Lilah. “Though that term isn’t particularly useful in an explanatory sense, is it? You are dead, after all. This is after life by definition.”

Tara blinks a few times. “You’re right. It isn’t helpful.”

The woman seems to find this funny. Tara doesn’t.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To a connection point, of sorts. The closest place - well not place since none of this is geographically construed in the regular sense but you know what I mean - to the real world, if you will.”

“You want to… to bring me back?”

“Oh. Well, no. Sorry,” she says, looking genuinely apologetic. A little, anyway. “No, it’s more that we need a place to get the connection straight, so to speak. Give an access to whoever might need it. I’m a little vague on the details myself, if I’m being honest. All I know is that I need to get you there.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

“I have time.”

Lilah laughs. She seems to do that a lot. “It doesn’t really matter. Come on, we still have quite a way to walk.”

***

But that really isn’t good enough, Tara decides after a few minutes.

She stops.

It takes Lilah a moment to notice, but then she turns around to look back at Tara.

“Is something the matter?”

“What do you want?” asks Tara, deciding to get to the crux of the matter.

Lilah gives her an odd look. “I told you -“

“I want an explanation.”

The odd look deepens, and Tara thinks Lilah might be surprised. After a moment, she sighs.

“Come on, I’ll explain as we walk.”

“No,” says Tara, and saying the word makes it feel like something important has returned to her. She doesn’t know what it is and it probably doesn’t make any sense, but it makes her feel more like herself again. “Explain to me first what you want.”

“Fine,” says Lilah with a shrug that is just a little too casual for Tara’s liking. “I want to undo a spell. Or rather, my employers want to undo one, though for all intents and purposes it’s quite the same thing.”

“A spell?” repeats Tara, unsure of what she had been expecting. “You want to use my magic?”

“I’m not here for your power, I’m afraid,” says Lilah. “Oh, it’s considerable. Don’t get me wrong. Just, in this particular instance, it’s your link to a particular hotheaded force of nature that has gotten the attention of the folks on top.”

Willow.

“What do you want from her?” asks Tara, feeling her fists curl up into tight balls. No way is this woman getting Tara to do anything that would in any way -

“You’re linked. Magically, I mean. She summoned up a great deal of dark magic trying to get you back -“

“She did what?”

“- which kind of leaves its mark. Well, yes. And then went on a bit of a rampage, from what I hear. Anyways, she then went on to do a very specific spell with a whole bunch of consequences which I need you to undo.”

Tara’s mind is still reeling from all this jarring new information so she seizes on to one of the few things she is reasonably sure of. “You can’t just undo spells that have already happened. That’s not how magic works.”

“Not with the living it might not. Here, however? Things are a little more flexible. See, we’re not so much undoing it as making sure that it never happens in the first place.” Lilah winks. “I’ll explain more if you come along.”

She starts walking again and Tara seriously considers for a moment turning around and letting this strange and quite possibly malicious woman wander off on her own. But where would she go? Tara groans quietly, well aware that she simply does not know enough yet. So she follows the woman again, determined to get at the answers she needs.

***

It’s not easy getting anything useful out of the woman, but there’s another quite crucial question that really needs answering.

“Why would I help you?” asks Tara. Because she’s getting quite close to turning around, out of frustration if nothing else. They are still in the corridor, which feels unending. Maybe it is.

“Kindness of your heart?”

Tara just looks at her.

Lilah smirks. “Fine, then. If you want to be all difficult about it…”

“Then what?”

“Then I could always ask you what else precisely you’re intending on doing. You didn’t seem to be very busy.”

“And if I told you I’m sure I’d figure something out?”

“Then I’d have to inform you that my employers rerouted you from your initial final destination - a particularly nasty hell dimension. And if you don’t cooperate… Well, let’s just say there’s some folks who’d be thrilled to have that decision revoked.”

Tara’s heart sinks. She isn’t even quite sure why. Probably because the idea of being sent to a hell dimension doesn’t sound at all appealing, but the alternative of helping a woman she really doesn’t think she should trust isn’t great either.

That’s not all, though. There’s a sense of disappointment, almost. So she had died… and she had been judged… and she had been found wanting.

Which shouldn’t be a surprise, really.

Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.

“Do you know… why?” asks Tara quietly, not really expecting an answer.

“Why?” repeats Lilah, glancing at her and then giving her a harder look. “You… Oh, it wasn’t because of anything you did, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“It wasn’t?”

Lilah laughs, but trails off at the expression on Tara’s face. “You’re… Look, from everything I’ve heard you were… you know, good. It’s just because of what I said earlier, about your girlfriend using a hell of a lot of very dark stuff to try to suck you back to the material realm. It leaves a mark, and it left one on you too. She summoned powerful demons and did her best to piss them off. When she failed… they were ready to take their revenge.”

If anything, this makes Tara feel worse, as the cold realisation burns her, creeping into her lungs and scratching at the back of her throat. The idea that Willow - her Willow - might have accidentally damned her is too horrible to seriously contemplate. So she takes the only avenue open to her: denial.

“You’re lying.”

The lawyer smirks at her, before shaking her head. “I can’t lie,” she says. “Literally, cannot. I don’t know what it is about this place, but somehow the rules for… communication are different here. Passing on mistruths is a major no no. Makes it so much more tricky in my line of work, I can tell you.”

This is not what Tara wants to hears. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Many things don’t. Sometimes they don’t have to, as long as the overall story works. So accept it and move on.”

“You could be lying about… not - not lying.”

“Right.”

“How do I know you’re not?”

“You could always try lying yourself.”

This strikes Tara as a good idea and she’s irritated at herself for not coming up with it. Given the circumstances, perhaps it is understandable. “I am -“ she starts, then cuts off. She physically cannot bring herself to say the word ‘alive’. It is more than a little disconcerting.

Lilah looks smug. “See? Told you.”

“How do I know it’s affecting both of us?” asks Tara. “For all I know, it’s only me who’s stuck truth-telling while you’re free to lie however you please.”

“You’ll just have to trust me, I suppose,” says Lilah, then chuckles at Tara’s expression. “Even if you don’t think you were headed there already, trust me on this: you will be sent to a hell dimension if you follow me. Just a small job, then you have the rest of forever.”

Tara is about to ask more questions, but Lilah instantly cuts her off, pointing at a door.

“See that?”

She does, but just stares at it before answering. The corridor, that expanse of boring nothingness she had almost believed would end forever, ends there. “Where does it lead?” she asks, not sure if she really wants to know.

“Depends,” says Lilah. She hasn’t stopped walking and they’re getting steadily closer to the door. “Hell, if you head the wrong way.”

“Hell?”

“The underworld proper. When you were… diverted, you were sent to a sort of limbo zone. Thing is, it’s buried pretty deep. Not deep in a geographic sense, mind.”

“But you’re taking me to hell.”

“Hopefully not. There are shortcuts, ways to skip most of it. And on the other end, a connection point. Which is all we need.”

Tara is not following any of this but she doesn’t have time to get any answers, because now they’re at the door. Lilah stretches out her hand to grasp at the handle - which looks all cheap and plastic-y and not particularly important or hellish - before turning around and winking at Tara.

“This should be fun.”

She wrenches the door open.

***

There’s a gust of wind that ruffles their hair when Tara steps through into a kind of cave. She looks around. It’s badly lit, but she heads to the first thing that catches her eye.

A plain wooden door marked with a ‘2’ that shines with an odd green light Tara might have described as neon.

“Not that one,” says Lilah. “Definitely not that one.”

Something in her tone of voice makes Tara back away a bit, and she follows Lilah to an even more unassuming gap in the corner of the chamber. There’s no door, just a place where the stone looks a bit crumbly and the light doesn’t reach. Tara probably wouldn’t even have noticed it.

But before they can slip through the gap, someone appears.

***

He looks like a teenage boy with wild, faintly greasy black hair. His jeans are all ripped up and he resembles a million similar specimen Tara has run into over the years, but he’s wearing a rather silly Christmas jumper with a big, smiling reindeer on it accompanied by the words ‘Jingle Beelz’.

Lilah looks like she’s suppressing a grin. “Hello, Beelzebub.”

Tara makes a small choking sound. When the boy looks at her, she got out - “Beelzebub?”

“What, not live up to your expectations?” asks the boy in an ill-tempered way.

“Eh…”

The boy glares at her. “Go on, then, have a laugh.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she says, quite honestly.

“Oh, I’ve heard it all before.” He grimaces. “It’s bad enough to be stuck in customs for three hundred years without having that arse Mephistopheles deciding that what we really need is another infernal human celebration. What is the point of these jumpers anyway?”

He is looking at Tara as he said this, and Lilah is enjoying herself too much to step in. “They’re… meant to be funny?”

“Funny?” spits the boy. “What’s funny about this monstrosity? People have burnt in hellfire for thousands of years for lesser crimes of fashion.”

“Who came up with ‘Jingle Beelz’?” asks Lilah.

“Gressil,” says the boy bitterly. “And he’s so very friendly with good ol’ Meph these days, of course he thought it was hilarious. Oh, never mind. It’s not like I care what a couple of humans think anyway. Sometimes you just need some meat to talk at, you know?”

“Indeed.”

“And wherever you think you’re going, don’t.” The boy sniffed. “Just so you know. This is as far as you get.”

“What a shame,” says Tara, about to turn around when a firm grip held her in place.

Lilah smiles sweetly at her. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve got the paperwork.”

The boy eyes them both with a frown, then groans. “Let me guess. Wolfram and Hart?”

“Yes. We met a few years back, actually - at a gala. Don’t think you’d remember… So if you’d just take a look at the file -“

“I’m afraid we’re not able to take requests just at this moment,” the boy intones. “It’s Christmas Eve, you see. Come back, new year of 2103 and I’m sure somebody will be able to process your request.”

“We have a right for audience, especially since you don’t get leave for human holidays,” says Lilah, still smiling at the demon.

The boy gives her a rueful look. “What if we’ve changed the rules?”

“You haven’t. Unless you want me to contact my employers -“

“Fine,” snaps the boy, taking the papers from her. “Thousands of years building up a reputation for leading men astray through their pride and gluttony and then I’m banished here for a simple misdemeanour just to set an example,” he mutters as he flips through them. “I missed the entire industrial revolution, for crying out loud. The demons they send down these days barely make any effort… Don’t even really care about humans…” He looks up, gaze settling on Tara. “You’re a human, aren’t you? Surely, you’d want the demon exploiting your deadly sins and leading your species to its own damnation to really have put some time and effort into the whole thing, right? You’d want someone who actually knows about the societies they’re ruining, right?”

“Eh…” says Tara, not feeling like she is going to get any more articulate any time soon. “Yeah?”

“Exactly. Well, this request is ridiculous. The human died, she’s serving out her RDE. And I’ll note that Wolfram and Hart already got a request through to redirect her from a hell dimension.”

“Like I told you,” mutters Lilah to Tara. To the boy, she says - “This is a short-term engagement. Besides, my employers only brought her here in case they needed her again.”

“That’s not my problem. Rules are rules. I’d be better disposed to your case if you hadn’t already gotten special waivers. Besides, she’s a witch and they don’t ever do anything else than burrow away at the veil between life and death, causing the rest of us no end of trouble. As I once said to my good friend James, a living witch is nothing but trouble.”

“I don’t want to bring her back to life.”

“But you want to bring her into contact with the living. A magical link to a witch? Sounds dreadful.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

The boy snorts. “I very much doubt that. This witch… Willow Rosenberg? Oh yes, I remember her. All sorts of dark magic about this one, seems determined to rip out every dead soul one by one. Awfully blunt about it, too. If you’re trying to sacrifice her then good luck with that, but otherwise…”

“No!” exclaims Tara.

The boy’s dispassionate gaze fixed on her for a moment before he looks back at the file. “Mind you, I did get a taboo-breaker a few years back where she invoked my name… Nothing real, I’m afraid, so I couldn’t actually do anything about it but she did say ‘I worship Beelzebub’ which was rather nice of her… Still, there’s no way I can allow this. So if you could just leave….”

“And what will you put down as your reason for denying the request?” asks Lilah.

Tara suddenly wonders whether squabbling about paperwork with a demon is something this woman does regularly, and then decided that it probably is.

“I don’t need to put a reason,” says the boy. “I made the decision, and that’s that.”

“Actually, you need to make an official declaration. So that we can try to have it overruled.”

There was a moment of silence as the boy considers Lilah with narrowed eyes.

“Do you want to be tortured for all eternity?”

“My soul isn’t up for grabs.”

The boy raises his eyebrows.

“Standard perpetuity clause.”

“Oh, how irritatingly human of you. I don’t actually need your immortal soul, you know - I’m not Mephistopheles. I’d just ram in some hot pokers, cut out your tongue, make your listen to Daft Punk all day. That sort of thing.”

“What’s wrong with Daft Punk?” asks Tara.

The demon looks a little taken aback by the question, but then shrugs. “Nothing, I’m sure. But this one doesn’t like them, so it’s part of the routine.”

Tara looks at Lilah, who shrugs in an apologetic sort of way.

“I just think they’re a bit irritating.”

“Right,” says Tara. She turned to the boy. “And you know her taste in music?”

“I know how to torture her,” he says, sounding increasingly irritable again. “What kind of demon do you think I am?”

“Of course,” she says weakly, pretending like this made sense.

“The point is,” says Lilah, “we have papers. And if you want an inquiry, I can make your life to hell, pun absolutely intended.” That earns her a particularly vicious glare from the demon. “So unless you want to stick around customs for another few centuries, by which time humans will probably already have managed to destroy themselves…” She trails off, voice laden with implications.

Beelzebub glares at her some more. But somehow, that is that.

***

The gap doesn’t lead to some spectacular hell-scape. Instead, it’s more corridor for them.

Tara is almost glad, because she’s not sure she can process anything else just now.

“Are you all right?” asks Lilah, sounding amused.

Tara can’t immediately reply, so settles for nodding.

They walk in silence for a few minutes.

“What was he?”

“Beelzebub? A demon.”

“But he -“

“Not just any old demon. One of the archdemons. I suppose you’d call them Old Ones.”

Tara exhales sharply, earning her another amused look from Lilah.

“Not bad, right?”

“He doesn’t look it. And surely I would’ve heard -“

“He’s been grounded, remember? Trust me, he thinks customs is -“

“But he looked -“

“- beneath him too. Yes, well, some of these demon types enjoy looking ordinary. Side effect of being extraordinarily powerful is that you don’t need to boast about it. The ones that look entirely ordinary? They’re the really dangerous ones.”

Tara thinks about all the demons and other assorted evil she’d faced over the years, and can’t help but think that the scary-looking ones had been dangerous enough already. Then, a new troubling thought strikes her. “What exactly is powerful enough to ground an Old One?”

Lilah shrugs. “They do have their own system, you know. Beelzebub has always been a bit of a rule-breaker, from what I’ve heard. He must have done something to irritate the others enough to keep him confined here.”

This makes sense, but is quickly followed by a new, equally unsettling, thought. “But if you were able to get past him…” A lump formed in her throat. “Who exactly did you say your employers were?”

Lilah’s mouth quirks but she doesn’t answer.

“Wolfram and Hart,” repeats Tara. She has never heard of it, though that doesn’t have to mean much. “Are you -“ She breaks off, incredibly irritated at herself for not having considered this quite obvious possibility earlier. It’s just that Lilah looks so ordinary and…

“Very much human, I assure you,” says Lilah. “Unlike my employers.”

“They’re demons?” A beat. “Old Ones?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re working for demons?”

“Haven’t we all,” says Lilah airily. “They’re not all bad, you know.”

“Old Ones are.”

“But they offer an excellent pension. If you survive to enjoy it.” She chuckles.

“So why didn’t they get me myself? Why send you?”

“Because,” says Lilah, “we’re not quite back to the land of the living yet. This place - I suppose you could call it a limbo. Come and go, in between, here and there and everywhere.” She laughs. “They didn’t have enough power to wrench you back just like that, you see. Now me, I can move a little more freely. Advantages of being undead.”

Undead.

She shouldn’t be surprised. But she is.

***

The thing is, Tara still isn’t quite herself. That’s why she has followed the lawyer down a winding path that is leading to some mysterious new location without protesting. She’s taking way too long to process information.

The corridor is changing, too. Gradually, it’s shifting away from the bland and bleak faux-office design to something quite different. Pebbles are appearing on the ground with increasing frequency and the walls on either side are becoming less smooth, with the occasional rougher stone or protruding rock shedding dust that worms its way up Tara’s nose and makes her want to sneeze. She hasn’t sneezed for a long time.

It’s hard to focus, with everything going on. Easier just to follow this lawyer. But Tara has heard enough to make her uneasy - deeply so.

There are two facts that matter right now.

One: Lilah wants her to undo a spell cast by Willow.

Two: Lilah is working for Old Ones.

It’s been a while since she’s had to make moral judgements, but as far as she is concerned Willow is good and the Old Ones are very much bad, which is what makes all of this so very worrying.

Of course, there’s also Three: If Tara doesn’t help Lilah, she’ll be sent to a hell dimension.

Maybe that isn’t true. Maybe it is just some elaborate con. Then again, the same could be said about her other two ‘facts’, whatever Lilah might say about her inability to lie. All she has is Lilah’s word for any of those things.

But it’s all she has. And if they’re true…

She can’t worry about Fact 3 now. It’s Facts 1 and 2 that need to be her more immediate concern. And once again, she finds herself in dire need of more information.

The path has turned decidedly rocky by the time Tara has prepared herself for another attempt.

“What kind of spell do you need me to undo?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

Lilah gives her a very tired look, and Tara can’t help but think this is turning into a long day for both of them.

But that’s how Christmas usually works, she supposes.

“Here’s the thing. Your witchling put some powerful voodoo into the world and has shaped her own brave new world. She gave every little girl out there who had the potential to be a slayer the power. No more ‘in each generation, one is born’. Now, there’s hundreds - possibly thousands - of the little brats running around, carving stakes like there’s no tomorrow. Which there might not be, if we’re being honest.”

“Willow… did what?”

“Oh, there’s some reason, I’m sure. Some primal evil or other - isn’t there always? Still, it’s caused an awful mess, of the kind my employers aren’t at all happy about.”

“Why?”

“All those girls, running around and making trouble? Killing things left and right? Just between ourselves, all these clients being slaughtered just isn’t good for business.”

That certainly sounds honest to Tara, and she isn’t liking it one bit. “I need to turn back.”

Lilah sighs. “Are you going to be difficult this entire trip?” She shakes her head. “Don’t answer that. What part of ‘you’ll get sent to a hell dimension’ do you not understand?”

“I’m not going to help you! You’re just doing it for the benefit of evil demons -”

“I never disputed that,” says Lilah. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t have benefits too.” She smirks. “Can’t lie, remember?”

“First off, I still don’t know whether I can actually believe you. And there’s a huge gap between benefits and this is a good idea.”

The lawyer laughs. It almost sounds genuine. “Good point. All right - this is a good idea.”

“Vague,” protests Tara, weakly. But she can feel doubts niggling at her. Because if what Lilah says is true… Well, it sounds insane. But Willow has done insane things in the past. And it’s so hard to figure any of this out, and a part of her is horribly afraid that Willow has done something incredibly stupid in a way that makes her feel deeply ashamed.

Lilah can see all of this on her face, of course. Which is why she keeps walking with a smirk on her face that is growing far too familiar.

***

She’s still thinking when music starts blaring all around them - electronic and sounding suspiciously familiar to Tara.

She looks around, trying to figure out where it is coming from, but it seemed to be all around them.

Lilah groans.

Tara is still confused by this odd turn of events when a man started singing.

One more time.

One more time.

“Hilarious,” Lilah mutters.

One more time we’re gonna celebrate.

Tara tried not to laugh. “Daft Punk.”

Oh yeah all right don’t stop the dancing.

Lilah shoots her a dirty look. “You won’t think this is so funny after several hours.”

“Several hours?”

“What, do you think it’ll just play once and then be fine? Demons might not be able to stop us but they can certainly irritate us, so get ready to become very familiar with the lyrics of  ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’.”

“But… why? Surely they can’t think we’ll turn back because they’re playing irritating music?”

Lilah looks at her blankly. “They’re demons. Sure, sometimes they try to win our souls and damn our species, but mostly they’re just quite petty.”

They continue walking as the singer croons One more time for the eighth time.

***

The path is entirely rocky by the time it opens into some sort of cavern. Tara sees the ground drop off below them a few feet ahead, except where it continues on along a narrow, closed off path.

It’s like a bridge. A bridge over hell, with glass on either side separating them from what lies below. It’s all so bizarre - this oddly artificial gap to the chaos outside as they continue over metallic planks, dull lightbulbs illuminating the inside - and Tara feels like she is in a zoo of some kind. Outside of the bridge lie the enclosements, but there are no animals here. No, the shapes and the screams of the inhabitants are distressingly familiar.

Because they are screaming. Screams blending into the sound of music, so that the wail is hard to distinguish from the voice going Our work is never over.

Lilah hasn’t stopped and Tara has to almost jog to catch up to her, but she’s peering out through the glass because she just can’t help herself. It doesn’t need description, but it’s fair to say that it’s a dreadful sight.

“If it helps,” says Lilah in a conversational tone, “they’re not human.”

That makes Tara look more closely.

And she recognises the faces - well, not who they are but what, with their features distorted from those of usual humans: the brow, the sunken eyes, the teeth…

“Are those…” Tara hesitates.

“Vampires?” finishes Lilah, staring dispassionately at the faces contorted not only through screams. “Yes.”

“But I thought… aren’t their bodies separated from their souls when they’re… turned?”

“And now they’ve been reunited.”

Tara feels a horrible lurch in her stomach. “Those aren’t demons’ souls?”

“The ones making all the noise? No.”

“But then… Are the humans… They’re being punished for what the vampires did?”

“Cruel, isn’t it?” remarks Lilah, not sounding in the least bit concerned.

“That’s horrible,” says Tara. “It’s not… It isn’t fair.”

Lilah snorts and Tara looks at her in shock. At the expression, the lawyer rolls her eyes. “Calm yourself, I’m hardly disagreeing. But nothing about… well, anything, is particularly fair, is it?”

They stop talking.

Work it harder make it

Do it faster makes us

Tara finds herself listening again to the stupid song after having worked very hard to block it out. Because just then, she really needs something to distract her from the screams.

***

“This trip was more enjoyable when you were talking,” says Lilah after they’ve walked for an indeterminate amount of time through a series of hellscapes.

Tara summons a glare. “Enjoyable? How can any of this be enjoyable?”

The lawyer shrugs. “Feeling bad doesn’t actually help them, you know.”

“Is that supposed to help?” asks Tara, then winces. She’s surprised at how scathing her voice is.

Lilah gives her a look, then shrugs again. “Don’t know what helps you. I never found out what makes you… hero-types feel better.”

“I’m not a hero-type,” mutters Tara. “But I can’t just not care.”

“Can’t you?” says Lilah, expression blank. Like it is the easiest thing in the world.

“How can you justify it?” she asks, trying to get through to the woman. “They didn’t… It wasn’t them.”

“So the wrong souls get punished. It’s always that way. I suppose the folks in charge here would argue that it doesn’t mean the souls aren’t responsible for the sins of the flesh.”

“This is all…” Tara looks even know how to finish the sentence.

“Look, if it makes you feel better humanity’s downfall will come through its own sins. Demons only facilitate the process. We’re all doomed, it’ll all come to an end. Cheer up, it’s Christmas.”

But that only makes Tara fall silent again. And it makes her think.

***

Tara stops.

Lilah turns around. “What?”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can’t… what?”

“I can’t - If Willow was fighting something that evil, I can’t undo it.”

Lilah frowns, whether it’s at Tara or at the renewed blazing of ‘Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger’ she might never know. “Let’s keep going, Tara.”

“No.”

“You’ll be sent to a hell dimension. For real, this time.”

“Fine,” says Tara. “Do it. I’m not dooming everyone, I’m not betraying Willow, just to save myself.”

Lilah keeps frowning at her for several seconds before sighing. “Heroes,” she mutters. “Always rediscover their morals when you last need it.”

“I’m not a hero.”

“Whatever you want to tell yourself. Look, this primal evil… Sure it’s bad. But what your girlfriend did was really bad.”

“Saving everybody? That was bad?”

“Oh, but even you know that your enchantress is the reckless kind. I’ve been told all about her - about the two of you, in fact. Didn’t she even put her little spells on you?”

“We made up.”

“And perhaps you did. But she has a history of using magic irresponsibly. Making all the girls slayers - that’s going to have consequences. Not least for the girls themselves. You know Buffy. Did she strike you as happy with her lot? And now think of all the girls out there. Targets, just like her. Your sweetheart has condemned them.”

Tara glares at her. “I’m sure they’ll deal.”

Lilah laughs quietly. “Do you really think so?” she asks. “There aren’t enough watchers in the world to supervise all of them, not least because most of them got blown up. Don’t ask,” she adds, seeing Tara’s shock. “The point is, Willow has made their lives hell. There’ve been several casualties already. Other girls who’ve gone mad. All of them have had their lives irrevocably changed - ruined, even. You can make it right.”

“She was saving the world,” says Tara stubbornly.

“Do you really think they couldn’t have come up with something else?” asks Lilah. “A better solution? Your friends are smart. But they let those girls pay the price for their plan.”

“But -“

“I’ve never pretended to be doing this for anyone except for my employers,” she interrupts. “I might be a servant of evil, but at least I’m honest about it. That doesn’t mean your friends didn’t do some serious harm, and I’m not giving you a way of undoing it. Most people don’t get that chance, you know. To do good from beyond the grave.”

“You say it’s good.”

Lilah snorts. “Are you coming or not?”

Tara hates herself because she knows Lilah has convinced her again. Because if there’s a chance that Willow has done something truly horrible… isn’t it her responsibility?

***

“Are you… dead?”

Lilah smiles thinly. “Clearly.”

“But you’re…”

“Seemingly a model of good health? I know, right? I’ve been preserved.”

Tara nods despite not understanding, which she has been doing a lot. She recalls the meeting with the demon. “Standard perpetuity clause?”

The smile widens. “Exactly. Work doesn’t end with death.”

“You mean you… have a contract that still binds you when you’re dead?” Tara is again feeling the overwhelming urge to scream.

Lilah nods, as if this is perfectly normal. Which none of this is.

One more time we’re gonna celebrate

Oh yeah all right don’t stop the dancing

“How did you die?” asks Tara, then winces at how blunt the question was.

Lilah doesn’t care, because of course she doesn’t. “Bit of a long story, actually. Was running away from a vampire, then this ancient powerful being - think Old One except technically speaking on the side of the angels except this one really wasn’t - who was possessing my ex’s former friend killed me.” She shrugs. “Not that long, maybe. Oh, and then my ex ended up chopping off my head. In all fairness, it was rather sweet of him.”

She says all of this rather airily, like it is of no great import whatsoever. But for some reason, Tara isn’t convinced. It’s just a little too casual for her liking. And there’s something about how Lilah’s staring straight ahead, how her fingers are stretched out and stiff like she’s trying not to curl her fists… Dying can’t be a pleasant experience for anyone. It certainly isn’t for Tara. And Lilah’s experience hardly sounds pleasant.

This woman is human. She had an entire life. Her career. An ex, who she had some kind of history with. There’s so many edges and snark to her that Tara had almost forgotten to be curious - but she is, now.

Why would you chop off the head of a dead person?

The bit of her mind that’s actually working supplies her with this question, and it isn’t one she can immediately come up with an answer to. Some kind of ritual? A way to end possession? But hadn’t Lilah said…

Wait…

“Your ex,” says Tara. “He… Was he trying to stop you from… coming back? As a vampire, I mean?”

Lilah looks startled by this, and her eyes narrow for a moment. But then she nods. “Heavens, you’re pretty smart, aren’t you? Yes, he was.”

“And did he succeed?”

A snort. “I’m not a vampire, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s not how the contract works.”

Then how does it work?

***

“End of the shortcut,” says Lilah with what approaches trepidation in her voice. “Now, there’s a path that takes us directly to the contact point, but first we need to get through a bit of hell first.”

Tara gives her a look.

“Just a bit,” says Lilah in a tone that tries and fails spectacularly at being reassuring. Once more, she reaches out

Tara takes another look at the scarf. And she thinks about the own blood staining her jumper. And she thinks of what Lilah said. My ex ended up chopping off my head.

Blood and gore comes as part of the territory for witches. And Tara has seen plenty of it in her time. But there’s something so sick and twisted about the whole thing that she can taste bile in her mouth.

When Lilah opens this new door, the blood and gore come rather closer.

They step through onto a plateau of some sort and when the door swings shut behind them with a loud clang, Tara realises there is nothing behind it. Instead, a few feet away, there’s a sheer cliff under an unsettlingly crimson sky.

What lay ahead of them, however, is considerably more unsettling. There is an acrid smell in the air that verges on sulphuric, and it seems to be coming from the river. It’s hard to quite make out, what with the steam gently curling from it. She steps forward to get a better look (because hey - if she’s survived this much what’s a weird river going to do) and she thinks… that the river might be burning. Constant flames of red and blue and the occasional green flare up, with the steam diffusing into the air that bore down on them like an insistent mist. Like they are both pushing against each other, constantly fighting.

But it’s not water, she realises. It’s too dark, too red for that - it runs slowly and it’s thick and is that odour -

She blanches. And then she gets very close to retching.

“Let’s get out of here quickly,” says Lilah beside her, and for once they are in perfect agreement.

***

Before they had passed through the door, they had been sheltered. Tara had seen hell. She had heard it.

But she hadn’t felt it. And she hadn’t been surrounded by it.

It surrounds her now, engulfs her, seeps into her very pores - inescapable and unbearable. There is another bridge that leads them across the river, but unlike the safety of the last one the river is boiling and spitting on either side of them. She flinches every time a drop comes too close.

The music is gone now. She very nearly misses it.

When they’ve crossed the bridge, they have to walk alongside the river as a shallow stream runs on their other side, keeping their heads down and wearily looking out for anyone to come close. Tara keeps her eyes averted from the more distant figures.

They’re getting close to the little door Lilah says will take them straight to the contact point. Of course, this is all going too smoothly.

***

Tara hears a growl and as one, the two of them whirl around.

A shadow is approaching - twice their height and looming over them - and as it takes another step the light of the burning rivers illuminates his form. His body might be shaped like that of a human but his head resembles that of a bull and he’s coming closer, ever closer -

And the monster rears before them - monstrous, face twisted into fury as the fires from the deepest pits of hell lit in its eyes, dark and writhing yet impossibly bright all at once. Its mouth opens and impossibly sharp and impossibly many teeth protruded, with a set of fangs that promise to tear into shreds anything within reach.

It pauses, reared above them, as drool drips down in front of them. Then, the minotaur frowns.

“Who are you?” it asks.

It can talk. Not in a harsh growl. The voice has a bit of a squeak, actually.

“Hello there,” says Lilah. “I’m Lilah Morgan, and this is Tara Maclay.”

“Oh,” says the minotaur, looking the closest a minotaur can to put-out. “You don’t belong here.”

“We’re just passing through,” says Lilah brightly.

“Right,” says the minotaur and gives a long-suffering sigh. It isn’t really rearing any more. “Just passing through. Well, don’t let me bother you. No one else does.”

“Could we get through here without actually… having to go all through the hell?” asks Lilah.

That earned her a baleful look from the minotaur. “You just want to skip all this?”

“It’s just that rives of fire and blood tend to do hell for the shoes.”

“Ah.”

“Stains, you know.”

“Of course.”

“So can we?”

“No.”

Tara half-watches a centaur passing. He’s muttering something about strangle them with tinsel and she decides she doesn’t need to know more.

“We’ve gone through this already earlier,” says Lilah. “My employers are Wolfram and Hart. Beelzebub agreed to us taking the fastest direct route to -“

“Beelzebub can suck it,” says the minotaur. A rock the size of a frying pan dislodges itself from the ceiling above and falls straight down at the minotaur. He steps aside, looking bored. “He’s not what he used to be if he’s just letting humans wander about.”

“We’re not just wandering about,” says Lilah. “We have all the requisite papers -“

But she’s interrupted as a winged rat swoops between them.

“Delivery coming through,” the winged rat screeches at the minotaur and the two humans. “Move along now!”

Tara stares, and somehow she still manages to be surprised as several centaurs cross the bridge with pine trees strapped to their backs. They all move aside, and she can’t help but notice that the passageway is now directly behind them. If they could just make a run for it…

“Christmas decorations?” asks Lilah in a polite sort of way.

The minotaur groans. “They keep wanting us to make our torture Christmas-related. You’d think we could get on with what we’re meant to do without randomly shoehorning in Christmas at every possible moment, but apparently that’s not the seasonal spirit.”

“What, do you impale them with the trees?” asks Tara.

She doesn’t know whether they catch the sarcasm because they both look at her like they’re both surprised and impressed (she thinks she’s getting better at interpreting the minotaur’s expressions).

“You have been hanging out with the slayer for a while, haven’t you,” mutters Lilah. “Not everything’s a stake, you know.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” says the minotaur, “but we’re using this batch to tie the victims against, then we set them on fire and have a few imps sing Christmas carols. They’re horrid at it, of course. Thing is, pines are far too flammable - usually you’d want a more slow-burning experience. As always, the aesthetic is coming before the practicality.”

“Dreadful,” says Lilah with sympathy. “Now, about letting us through…”

“I said no,” says the minotaur.

“We have the proper documentation -“

“I don’t care about your papers. You’ve come here, and you should have been prepared for the consequences.”

Consequences?

“There’s nothing you can do to us,” says Lilah, slowly. “Wolfram and Hart -“

The minotaur laughs. “They have no power here. You were foolish to come. More foolish still to believe you could get away again. And now” - he leers at them - “you will join the others.”

He takes a single step forwards and swipes at Lilah. She shrieks as she flies back and lands heavily on the floor. And he advances towards her, fangs in full view again.

Tara doesn’t know why she steps between them.

But she does.

She reaches for the power she has felt all her life. Instinct, she supposes: she has no reason to believe that it’ll work here. Tara flexes her fingers and juts out her palm, muttering a syllable. There’s a tug inside her, somewhere close to her gut, and the warmth curls around before spreading outwards. She knows it’s there even before she sees its effects: the demon flying back.

It lands - hard - against the stone wall. The smell of sulphur is thicker than ever in the air and it’s making Tara feel faint. She tries to steady herself - she really doesn’t want to fall into the river to her side. Lilah’s still on the ground, the soles of her shoes sliding on the slick stones stained red at the riverbed. Tara starts coughing and even as her eyes tear up she can see the minotaur raising itself again. She looks around desperately, struggling to see through the tears and the mist that is now tinged red. The way out is still behind them, and whatever her worries about going on with this mad mission she’s not exactly got a lot of choice right now.

But Lilah’s still lying on the ground. Tara runs to her, terrified the lawyer has lost consciousness.

She hasn’t.

Lilah stares at her, eyes wide open, and (genuine) shock on her face. Tara holds out her hand, because what else can she do?

“Come on, then.”

The lawyer keeps staring for a moment, but then grabs it. Tara pulls her up, with only a little difficulty.

They start running as rocks fall from the ceiling behind them. Completely blocking them off, keeping them away from the minotaur. Which would be great if they weren’t in serious danger of being crushed.

One stone sets of another, and the ceiling above is crumbling. There’s an opening ahead but the path is caving in way too fast and Tara has to drag Lilah behind her, refusing to let go. With a last burst of strength that is half magic and half muscle, she throws Lilah ahead off her into the cavern. The lawyer falls hard but safe.

For a horrible second, Tara doesn’t think she’s going to make it. But a last, desperate leap takes her into the cavern and she falls forward before managing to drag her legs out of the way of the falling rocks.

She quickly gets up and looks around. The opening barely deserves the term - but the rocks are a slightly different colour. Beige. And no rocks are falling here. It doesn’t look stable, but the path ahead isn’t currently trying to kill them. So she pushes Lilah ahead of her into the wider path.

Lilah isn’t moving fast. Even though there could be something els here that’s trying to kill them. It’s agonising.

But also exhilarating. Tara has missed being frightened.

***

Tara wants to go on, but Lilah is slowing down.

“Just… let me catch my breath,” she says. She leans against the wall, looking more dishevelled than she has been by anything else, but casts her an almost sly look. “That was pretty brave of you.”

“Yeah, well,” says Tara. “Just kind of happened.”

“Uh huh,” says Lilah. The smirk has returned, but it’s softer this time. She places the palm of one hand against the wall, still steadying herself but pushing off. After a moment of stillness, she almost falls forward and stretches out the other hand, landing against Tara with her fingers closing around her forearm. Tara stumbles - if Lilah had let herself go with her full weight she would surely have fallen. But her movements are far too careful, too deliberate for that. Instead, she leans into Tara, pressing against her closely. She smells of expensive perfume but sulphur clings to her hair and that hair is suddenly in Tara’s face, making her want to gag. But she doesn’t, instead watching as Tara’s lidded eyebrows hide her eyes before her head gradually tilts upwards. She doesn’t do anything as those big eyes meet her, pupils wide and almost hiding the bleached-out colour of her irises.

Both hands are on Tara now, grabbing at her forearms. She doesn’t know how much of it is for support. But it doesn’t really matter now, with Lilah leaning in ever further. Lilah’s mouth opening slightly. Lilah tilting her head to the side. Lilah’s lips brushing against her own.

Which wakes Tara up. Which makes her stand back. Which makes her jump back.

Lilah almost falls. But she’s steadier again, and after a moment she’s leaning against the wall, and she’s shaking just a little. She’s trying for the smirk again, but it’s not as firm as it should be.

“What can I say,” says Lilah, “Near death experiences make me thirsty.”

It makes Tara sure, all of a sudden, that Lilah is covering. The thought hits her, confuses her because… it would make what Lilah had done real.

But this could be a manipulation. It could be another manipulation.

She’s about to say this, but something stops her.

Because somewhere beneath the smirk is a horribly unguarded expression.

“Sorry,” says Tara. Lilah’s mouth opens again - she hadn’t noticed quite how full those lips are. “I have a girlfriend.”

“You’re dead, honey.”

Tara almost laughs at the bravado. A part of her suddenly wonders whether - if this were real - she could somehow use it to get out of this mess. And then she hates herself for the thought.

She should have jumped into hell’s fires before even considering it.

“Still,” she says, more weakly than she wanted.

“If it’s fidelity that’s worrying you, you’ll be thrilled to know that Willow has moved on,” says Lilah dispassionately.

“Oh,” says Tara, then forces herself to be happy for Willow. She has every right to move on, of course. Every right to be happy. “Good.”

“I’m sure. Not that it should matter. You being dead and all.”

They stand in silence for a moment.

“I… Look, I saved your life. Can we just go back now?”

Lilah shook her head. “I don’t have a life for you to save.”

“But -“ She bit ferociously at her lip, in a moment bringing back a bad habit she had managed to stop years and years ago. The pain, at least, is real. “What happens? If you die here?”

The lawyer studies her.“You’ve changed the subject.”

Tara does not answer, the kiss still hanging between them.

“What happens when a dead person dies?” The smirk is a sour twist of the mouth now. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

This is ominous, and not at all useful. Tara is just about to protest when something catches her attention.

The walls are closing in on them.

Slowly, but slowly, they’re shifting towards them. Stones screeching over stones, somehow escaping her awareness until now. But now -

“Um… Lilah?”

Lilah frowns for a moment, still distracted. Then she realises too. “Ah shit.”

The walls haven’t stopped moving.

“We need to get out of here,” says the lawyer and before she has the chance to straighten up properly, Tara has grabbed her hand. They’re running again, with a new desperation, and Tara is searching for an exit even as she has to concentrate to not stumble on the rough terrain.

They’re both gasping and straining as their lungs struggle - just as a corner of Tara’s brain realises that the shoes that Lilah are wearing really aren’t appropriate and she’s astounded the lawyer has even gotten so far. One burning leg ahead of the other, pushing each other forwards as the walls press in ever closer, pushing up stones and making the ground hard to step on and their ankles flare up in pain. But Tara can see a space ahead where the walls are no longer moving and it’s a desperate last sprint - fifteen feet, ten feet, five -

They make it. Just.

They’re in a cavern. And they had better hope these walls don’t betray them because right now, they’re too tired to run.

***

“Somehow, this doesn’t even make my top three worst Christmases,” says Tara.

Lilah, who is still panting, looks up at her in bewilderment, then catches Tara’s expression. She starts laughing - it’s a nice laugh, Tara finds, even if it’s interrupted by regular bursts of coughing. All the smoke and gruesome odours are still messing with them. Tara looks away, a smile appearing on her own face. Somehow, that makes Lilah laugh harder.

“This is all so not going to plan,” says Lilah at last, wiping her forehead with the pack of her wrist before examining her dirt-covered hand with an air of disgust. “A few checkpoints, I was told. Just stride right through, they said. And then there’s you, of course.”

“Me?”

“I was told you were going to be disoriented. Easy to convince of anything, considering you long jaunt in limbo and your unfamiliar surroundings.” She laughs again. “All that bullshit about protecting you about paranormal incursions or whatever is just rubbish to make it go down smoother.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Yeah. You’re not easy to disorientate. Instead, you’ve been… well, you. Or at least, I hope you won’t more argumentative when you were alive?”

Tara shrugs, somehow not bothered by this new information. “Probably. I don’t think I’d have followed you this far if I were thinking straight.”

“Figures,” says Lilah. “You’ll be thrilled to know that my employers very much underestimated you.”

“For all the good it’s done me.”

She laughs. “This’ll be over soon. Promise.”

“How?” asks Tara. She gestures at the ruins behind them. “We can’t get back.”

“There’s another way,” says Lilah. “I think, anyway. Once we get to the contact point, there’s a door that leads back to hell proper.”

“Great.”

Lilah smirks, but it’s as close to warm as she’s ever been. “We need to continue on to that point though. It’s the only way.”

“How very convenient.”

She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, this was not my plan. None of this…” There’s a moment of awkwardness as Lilah straightens again.

There’s only one path out of the cavern. Just when Tara is feeling herself again, she’s all out of choices. So there’s really nothing to do except to continue. Whatever may be waiting for them next.

“I didn’t really do much of that sort of thing when I was alive,” says Lilah suddenly. They’ve walked for a bit and it’s shaping up to be a fairly ordinary tunnel.

Tara glances at her but Lilah is looking down. She does the same, able to guess what the lawyer means. She doesn’t know whether dead people can get tired… but this definitely feels like the real thing.

“Maybe death changes things,” Lilah continues. “Or… Perhaps I didn’t see the point in it. I liked using intimacy. I liked the power I got from it. Women never did have much of that, not where I’m from.” She flashes Tara a smile. “Should have sought out some witches, shouldn’t I?”

Tara really doesn’t know what to say to this. She racks her mind for something, then tries to figure out how to change the subject and goes with the first thing she can think of.  “Your contract. The one with your employers, I mean. Does it even bind you here?”

Lilah stares at her for a few long moments, making Tara wonder whether she’ll get angry. But she shrugs, and again she’s looking so very painfully casual. “It’s complicated.”

“If you disobeyed…”

“It wouldn’t be a great idea.” Another shrug. “You’re not the only one who could spend the New Year in a hell dimension.”

“I’m starting to think I really shouldn’t be doing this,” says Tara sardonically.

Lilah snorts. “If you really want to get away, there’s another path you can take,” she says. “There’s the one that leads to the real world, where the connection is formed. And another one, that leads straight back to hell. The real hell, that is. Trying to get back to limbo? You’ll have to go through the second one either way.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She can’t keep the suspicion out of her voice.

“Because -“ says Lilah, then cuts herself off suddenly. She closes her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s what I need to say,” she says eventually. “To get you to follow me.”

Of course, they’re faced with one last obstacle.

A pit of fire. Just what Tara needs.

***

“We need to jump,” says Lilah.

“What?”

“Well, there’s meant to be a bridge but clearly the denizens of hell haven’t felt in the mood to provide one.”

“It’s too far,” she says. The gap has to be at least five feet, and the flames beneath are hissing. The edges of the rocks on the other side hardly look stable either.

“Then use your magic.”

“You can’t just -“ Tara takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the inevitable smirk. “I don’t even know why my magic is working, but it’s not particularly reliable. And it’s not as strong as it usually is. Levitation requires a lot of energy and self-levitation is beyond me so unless you want to continue on your own…”

“That won’t do,” says Lilah. “How about creating a bridge?”

“What, just magick some stones into place?”

Lilah nods.

Tara rolls her eyes. In doing so, she focuses on the pit of fire. As conduits go, fire is pretty much perfect - like a ready-made fuel. “There’s one spell - the Ritual of Cherufe. It warps fire into ice. Usually you’d use candles but…”

“- we’re not exactly short on fire.”

She nods, examining the ground. It’s dusty, and the thin sheen is ideal to make signs on. “Don’t suppose you keep a stick hidden wherever your papers are?”

“No.”

Tara kneels on the ground, gesturing Lilah to stand aside. She closes her eyes for a moment, summoning the relevant memories. She’d always had a good head for spells. Perhaps she never would have had Willow’s raw power, but when it came to knowing magic, there is no one who matches Tara. She sketches a pentagram with her grubby finger and adds the specific lines and runes to the edge, before adding a small latinate stabiliser to the bottom. Then she steps gingerly into the pentacle.

“You’ll have to be fast once I conjure the spirit,” she says, hoping spirits could even be summoned here. “I won’t be able to hold it for long.”

“You’re sure the ice will hold?” asks Lilah dubiously.

Tara gives a thin smile. “I thought you can’t die here.”

That earns her a scowl.

“All right then,” she mutters, and recites the incantation quickly and confidently, waving her hands in a manner reminiscent to a conductor, before throwing her head up in expectance of the spirit - even though there isn’t much reason to expect it to come from above or anywhere at all.

But a prickle of energy and a gasp from Lilah tells her that the spell is working. After a moment, she looks down to see that the fire has transfigured itself to a single ice platform.

Lilah gives her an uncertain look, but she takes a quick run and bounds on to the platform, skittering dangerously on the surface but jumping immediately on. She lands at the edge and almost tips backwards, but after peddling furiously with her arms she manages to fall onto her knees, before instantly raising herself again and beckoning to Tara.

“Come on!”

Tara takes another deep breath and inhales a lot of soot for her trouble. The ice looks rather flimsy, especially with the fearsome flames licking at its bottom. Well, no time like the present. Besides, a fall to a fiery undeath would certainly be one way out of her current dilemma.

She runs forwards and jumps on to the platform, landing with both feet and pausing. She can see through the ice, can see the flames leap at her. After teetering for just a moment, she summons her courage and jumps again, falling against Lilah and taking them both to the ground.

They lie on each other. Lilah looks winded, but quickly gives a cheeky grin.

“Skipping straight to the good parts, are we?”

Tara groans and rolls off. She lies on her back staring at the jumble of rocks above, wondering whether this day will ever end.

***

They’re in a room of some kind. It’s lit by a single torch, which makes Tara wonder where all the light in the taverns came from. Hell has different lighting rules, she supposes. She can’t make out the corners, and Lilah has pried the torch from the wall to illuminate stairs.

“This is just the antechamber,” says Lilah. “What matters is up those stairs.”

Tara just looks at her.

“Come on,” says Lilah. Tara has to stay close to see anything, and the stone steps don’t look particularly safe. It’s another narrow path that curves around with steps that are slightly to high to be comfortable and uneven enough to be dangerous. She has to stare at her feet where the flickering flame shows her where to step. They don’t speak.

The room at the top is somewhat better lit. That’s mainly by the glow of a portal of some kind - with tendrils of silver spinning around on the frame and spiralling off the edge. And behind it, an altar of some kind. A stone that shines green.

“What…”

“It’s linked to you,” says Lilah as they step forwards.

“To me?”

“Once you reach in.”

Tara looks around for another way out, but there’s nothing except the portal.

“We need to find the moment of the spell,” says Lilah. “In your time stream -“

“But what you want after my death.”

Lilah shakes her head. “The time stream is… everything. It’s who created you, what effects you had on the world. You live on in Willow’s magic. That’s why this’ll work. Then you step through and touch the stone. That makes the connection.”

Tara hesitates. “You said there’d be another way. A way out of this.”

A nod. “There is. But behind the portal - there’s the stone you touch to make the connection. You do have a way out.”

“And if I decide not to help?”

Lilah shrugs. “You’ll see the truth of your choice in the stream. Then you can decide what to do.”

“My decision, eh?”

No answer.

She stretches out and lets her hand run through the portal.

***

She stares into the time stream, the visions and voices washing over her in a ferocious mess. Glimpses of people connected to her, as far as she can tell - a younger version of her father standing over a cot, her cousin laughing at something she can’t see, a girl who looks like her mother sipping at coffee.

She’s growing so -

Norman Lamond said he’d prop up -

It’s in the bag for the Rams -

But it isn’t just the past. She sees Willow again and again - and not just the Willow she had known but an older Willow too. A Willow who had a bright future - sometimes with Buffy at her side, sometimes without. Willow with friends, enemies, lovers… Xander frowning at a man with handsome curls, holding a flashlight tightly. Buffy pressed with her back against the wall, a bruise covering her brow as she groaned quietly.

I can’t give you up. Not after Dortmund -

The Gatwick drones changed everything. Now that everyone knows about vampires -

Dawn, it’s not safe. Please, come back, let’s talk about this. You don’t need to do it on your -

And a voice piercing through. A familiar one. Spike.

Something’s brewing and it’s so big, ugly and damned, it makes you and me look like little bitty puzzle pieces.

Tara tries to hold on to the voice. She feels, instinctively, that it matters.

His eyes are wild and he stares at someone out of sight. Maybe it’s Buffy.

And his voice says one more thing. You’re gonna need help.

“There it is,” mutters Lilah.

Tara whirls around. “That’s it?” She has felt the darkness. Whatever it is… Whatever Willow did, she suddenly knows it was necessary. She can’t undo this spell, she just can’t. Consequences be damned.

The First. A primal evil, indeed. One that Willow had -

She has to get out of here.

“If we do this,” says Tara, pleading, “we’ll ruin everything. God, Lilah, can’t you see? Don’t you care?”

That makes something break in Lilah’s face. But the mask is back in an instant. “I don’t care. And I got past appeals to God a long time ago.”

“You do care,” says Tara, not sure if she believes it or if she wants to convince herself of it. Because she’s begun seeing Lilah as a human and she can’t - she won’t - think of her as a monster, but now more than ever she just needs to get through…

Lilah hesitates for a moment. Then she pushes Tara in the back towards the stone. “I’m sorry. But I don’t have a choice.”

***

“You don’t have to do this!” shouts Tara, struggling furiously. But Lilah’s grasp is surprisingly strong and she pulls her wrist towards the flickering stone. She tries to reach for her magic but she’s exerted herself too much. There has to be some way to bend the torch’s flames or to -

Lilah lets out a gasp of pain and she’s staring down at where she’s grabbing Tara’s wrist. Tara is burning her through the touch, one of the first spells she mastered. She can only imagine how painful it is but Lilah does not let go, tears in her eyes but still pulling her hand down. Tara starts muttering under her breath, pouring her magic into the stones below, loosening them and making them crumble from within. But it takes time, time she doesn’t have.

Her hand is inches away from the stone.

She can’t resist any longer so she does the only thing she could think of and steps forward to kiss Lilah. It has been a long time since Willow. It has been a long time since she has been this close to anything. To anyone.

But there’s no real time to think - no real time for anything at all except to get away from here, to end this. She’s managed to disorientate Lilah enough to pull her away from the stone and in a natural continuation of the movement her hand makes a gesture towards the floor. It takes all her energy to even make a dent and for a single, horrible moment as they lean ever closer into each other she thinks she won’t be strong enough. She pulls out every last tendril of her power, not caring what happens past this moment.

And the floor comes crashing down.

***

The thing is… That is that. There’s nothing else to do. Nothing else to say.

This is how their story ends.

***

Except that they’re no more dead than they were before Tara ripped up the floor and made them tumble through, before they landed in a mess of dust and stone that leaves scratches and bruises and they need time to crawl away from, before Tara makes a small light hover in the air above her head with power she didn’t know she still had.

They don’t speak. They just sit on their respective piles of rocks.

***

“We’re stuck here. In an antechamber, with the path leading back completely blocked off and the path ahead collapsed,” says Tara, dully.

Lilah still has her eyes closed, but eventually she answers. “That’s not entirely true.”

Tara stares to where the lawyer is once again flattened against the wall. That once lovely suit is pretty much in tatters by now, the scarf isn’t looking much better. She’s grubby and grime-cladden and hardly an impressive figure any more, but right now she’s all Tara has.

And Tara wants her to explain herself. Now.

“There’s a crack,” says the lawyer and slaps the wall to her right. Tara looks where she’s gesturing. And hidden in the corner, there is indeed another opening.

***

Lilah opens her eyes to see Tara’s expression of fury.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s what I do. It’s what I always do.”

It’s not like Tara hadn’t been warned. Not like she hadn’t known.

Tara makes a move towards the door, and for a moment Lilah thinks she’s going to leave her there.

***

The thing is, whatever Lilah has done, Tara can hardly leave her there. She has enough of a measure of the woman by now that there’s more to the woman than the cold veneer, more than this last trick. This series of tricks and misdirections, because of course now Tara realises how carefully Lilah chose her words. No lies. Only half-truths.

She’s all Tara has.

“Come on,” says Tara.

Lilah’s expression is blank. The silence stretches between them.

“Lilah,” she says. “Come on.”

At that, Lilah’s gaze meets her own. And she straightens up, somehow, again. And she follows Tara towards the gap in the stones that leads to another world entirely. But before Tara can cross the threshold, Lilah stretches out her arm and blocks her way.

It takes Lilah a moment to say what she wants to.

“If you hadn’t needed to distract me…” The question hangs unfinished in the air.

Tara imagines testing out either response, figuring out which one is the truth and which one dies in her throat. But neither feels right. Not yet.

“I guess we’ve got all the time we need to figure that out.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk on Lilah’s face as she withdraws her arm. “Let’s rule hell.”

“Merry Christmas.”

The smirk becomes a real one and it’s the last thing Tara sees before she steps through the crack. And as she enters the next part of their journey, she can just about hear Daft Punk playing in the distance.

[scourgewins]

A Fateful Encounter

(Presenting my first fanfiction! Well, not my first fanfiction, but the first I’ve posted on a blog of my own. It’s not related to the Mafia AU (I’m still working on that. Get off my back, Drawing Entity!). Anyway, it’s about how Joey and Henry met for the first time. I remember Drawing Entity and I joked once about how they met, and I decided it was actually a great headcanon, so here you go! I hope you enjoy!) 

Fifteen year-old Joey Drew stepped out into the bright sunshine of a Spring afternoon. Taking a deep breath, the young man sighed reverently. The day was still full of potential, despite the long hours he’d spent in school. I think I’ll go home and draw a bit.

It was often Joey’s habit to draw, and sometimes animate, whenever he had free time. Joey already knew that once he was done with the rigmarole of school, he would start a cartoon studio, which had been his lifelong passion ever since he’d first seen an animation. Joey Drew Studios would become one of the greatest companies in the world, outshining all other animation studios. The young artist had absolutely no doubt in his mind that this would all come to pass; he knew he had the skill and the will to make it so. Straightening his bow tie, Joey made his way down the steps leading to the parking lot, excited for the day ahead.

“See you tomorrow, Joey!” someone called.

“You too, pal!” he answered.

“Bye, Joey!”

“Bye!”

Joey turned in the opposite direction from his peers, whistling a merry tune. He had parked a little ways away from the parking lot, having arrived at school a tad late, and therefore all the parking spaces had been taken. But Joey didn’t mind the walk. It was at these times when he was alone that he liked to brainstorm cartoon ideas, characters and plot lines and whatnot.

Joey was considered a popular student, by most everyone in school. He got along with almost everybody, and those who made it clear they didn’t like him, well, he let them ponder over it while nursing a black eye. He had often spoken to his peers of his aspirations of being a cartoonist and studio owner. They had all smiled politely, but it was clear none of them understood his vision. No one ever had. Not even his parents, who supported him in everything else, frowned upon his ambition. They thought it wasn’t a “real job” and told him to, “take his head out of the clouds.” But Joey knew he’d show them all what he could do, one day.

In the meantime, he remained an average teenager; he liked to hang out with his peers, to go to parties, to flirt, and sometimes be a bit rebellious, especially when angered. That very morning he’d had an argument with his parents. It had been a small one, about something that didn’t really matter and is of no consequence to this story. All that matters is that young Joey Drew, mad at his parents as one his age usually is, had decided to take his dad’s car to school.

His family owned two cars, so losing one was not so big a deal. The big deal was that Joey barely knew how to drive. He had never given driving much attention, taking it for granted that someone would always be there to chauffeur him. As it was, he had miraculously made it to school in the morning without hitting anything or anyone. That was about to change.

Arriving at his car, Joey tossed his pack in the back seat, and got behind the wheel, revving the car up. There was another car parked right in front of him, so he knew he’d have to back up to get out.

“Now, let’s see…” Joey murmured to himself, “How do I put the car in reverse?”

Joey was too busy eyeing the stick shift to notice a young man his age approaching. The man stopped on the sidewalk a little away from his car, and looked both ways down the lonely street. He, of course, noticed Joey in the car, but since the car wasn’t moving, and he was a satisfactory distance from it, he didn’t think he had anything to fear from it. So, confidently, the young man stepped out into the street.

“Aw, I’ve got it!” Joey exclaimed. In excitement, he stamped his foot on the pedal, and the car sped backward. Alarmed, Joey slammed his foot on the breaks, but not before he heard a loud thump! behind him, along with a sudden cry.

Feeling a cold sense of dread drop into his stomach, Joey sat for a few moments, staring into space, refusing to look behind him. At last, the initial shock of what had happened dissipated, and Joey found himself frantically throwing open his door and dashing to the back of his car. Please don’t be dead! Please don’t be dead!

Joey saw a young man, familiar to him from school, sit up slowly, groaning and rubbing his head. His pack had spilled open at the impact, and the contents were strewn about, but Joey paid them no heed, only sighing in relief that the man wasn’t dead. Descending to his knees, Joey settled beside him, looking him over to make sure he hadn’t damaged him too much. The man at last realized Joey was beside him, and looked at him with confusion in his brown eyes.

“You hit me with your car.” he said, matter-of-factly.

“That I did.” Joey replied, not knowing what else to say.

The man continued to stare at Joey, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Joey explained, “You just appeared out of nowhere!”

“Nowhere?” the man said, the initial shock of the event giving way to anger, “I was yards from you. You’re the one who slammed on the gas pedal and nearly ran me over!”

“That was an accident!” Joey said, defensively, “I didn’t know the car would go that fast!”

“Have you never driven a car before?”

“Well…” Joey looked down at the road sheepishly.

The man’s eyes widened, “You haven’t?”

“Not exactly...”

“Then why the heck are you driving one?”

Joey glared, “I don’t need to answer to you!”

“You hit me with your car.” The man said, fury in his gaze, “Heck yes, you have to a answer to me!”

“Well… I don’t know what to say!” Joey said, hurriedly. Panic was making his usually cool and collected mind shut down, so that all he could do was snap at his victim.

The man glared, “How about, ‘Sorry I hit you with my car’ ?”

“I’m sorry I hit you with my car!” Joey practically shouted.

“Thank you!” the man yelled.

“You’re welcome!”

The two of them sat in silence for a minute or two, letting their emotions calm down. At last, Joey glanced at his peer, who he now recognized as Henry.

“Are you alright?” he asked, gruffly.

Henry looked at Joey for a moment, then back at the ground, “My head hurts. I must have hit it on the pavement. But I should be fine by tomorrow.”

Joey nodded, relieved at that. His gaze wandered from Henry’s face to his pack, and the textbooks and papers that had fallen from it. The ambitious young man’s eyes widened as he beheld tons of drawings, even the makings of animations, drawn on many a piece of paper.

“Did you draw these?” Joey asked, seizing one of the papers, and staring at various drawings of cartoon people.

Henry snatched the paper back, his face reddening. “Yes.”

“They’re amazing!” Joey exclaimed, grabbing another.

This time Henry paused before taking the paper from him, “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely! I’m an artist myself, and it takes one to know one.” So saying, Joey ran back to his car, and pulled out various drawings from his bag, showing them proudly to Henry. Henry looked at each of them in turn, his face slackening in surprise.

“These are great.” he said.

Joey plopped himself back on the ground beside Henry, eyeing his drawings, “You’ve got real talent, Henry.” Henry looked up at Joey, surprised he knew his name.

“Uh, thanks.” he replied, “You, too.”

“You shouldn’t be so shy about your drawings.” Joey continued, “You should show them off to everyone you meet. That’s what I do.”

Henry nodded, collecting his papers and textbooks, carefully placing them back in his bag, not knowing what to say. Joey smiled at him.

“Have you ever considered being a cartoonist?”

Henry paused, a sheet of papers in his hand, “I’ve given it some thought.”

“You should definitely be one.” Joey urged.

Henry looked at Joey for a second, then seemed to shake himself free of a thought. “It’s not a real job.” he mumbled, putting the remainder of his drawings back.

“Bunk!” Joey cried, “It’s as real a job as running a bank!”

Seeing the skeptical look on his fellow artist’s face, Joey said, with the air of one who has rehearsed this speech countless times, “I myself plan on running a cartoon studio when I am old enough. I will create tons of cartoons, that everyone will love the world over! ‘Joey Drew’ will become a household name, and my creations will be even more famous than Felix the Cat!”

Henry stared silently at Joey, thinking he was a tad unhinged, but still intrigued by what he had said. Henry didn’t much care if his animations reached international fame, but the very idea of drawing and animating for a living was enough to fill him with excitement, and Joey’s inspirational tones were very persuasive. Joey sensed the change in his peer’s perspective, and pressed on.

“Of course, I’d need more than just myself to animate. I’d need a score of animators to make my dream come true. Maybe one day you’ll be working for me, eh? What do you say?”

As crazy as it sounded, there was a certain appeal in it for Henry, but he wasn’t ready to commit himself just yet. After all, he hadn’t even made it through high school. “Maybe.” he said, standing up.

Joey rose as well, “I sure hope so, Henry. Oh, by the way, if you didn’t know, my name’s Joey.”

Henry smiled a little, “I knew that.” Everybody knew Joey.

“Well, this is the first time we’ve properly met, so…” Joey stuck out his hand. Henry looked at it a moment, then took it, and they shook hands firmly. Joey offered to drive Henry home, and Henry stared hard at him, letting him know that he most certainly would not be driving anywhere with him, and Joey seemed to recall the circumstances under which they’d met just now.

“Maybe you shouldn’t drive.” Henry reasoned.

“No, I’ve got the hang of it now, and my house isn’t far.”

Frowning, Henry saw it would be useless to argue, and only said, “Drive slowly.”

 “I will.” Joey replied, then looked at him meaningfully, “I’m glad I ran into you, Henry.” Henry didn’t smile at the joke, and Joey only pursed his lips and turned his car on. Henry turned and started walking away, pausing only to say, “See you around, Joey.”

Joey watched as Henry turned the corner, and was lost to his view. He sensed he’d be seeing a lot more of shy-old Henry from now on. Joey pressed the gas pedal lightly and headed home, driving very, very slowly.

[tapwrites]

XP-Pen Artist 10S v2

Yeah... that’s a mouthful ain’t it?

I recently got myself a graphics tablet... with a SCREEN!! I’ve been wanting one of those since I knew they existed, but for the longest time only the insanely-priced Cintiqs were available.

In recent years, it turns out, other manufacturers have branched into screened graphics tablets also--slowly bringing down the price to an attainable level.

I got my Artist 10S for £199.99 from Amazon. Let me tell you how it went.

From the Top

I have done art before. I was half-decent at it when I was around 10 or so. But it’s been a while. I got myself a decent “dotted” sketchbook and started sketching things out in it to run my RPG sessions. That’s really what gave me the bug to get into drawing again. And to actually buy a tablet to do so!

I downloaded Krita, a free Photoshop-like application for artists. It’s super-powerful, once you figure out how it works. But there are plenty of tutorials online about that if you’re interested in checking it out.

...But anyway, Krita has some nice smoothing algorithms you can turn on for drawing with a pen tablet. The pen doesn’t have tilt and rotation detection, but pressure sensitivity works well with Krita and gives me plenty of expressiveness to get on with. And I was pretty instantly busting out some sweet curves!

It was a pretty amazing experience, really--getting to draw freehand while also having the capability of undo, erase, etc. I’m not saying it brought a tear to my eye, but it was a nice moment.  😂

Config

The tablet has 6 “Express Keys” along the side, which are configurable to key combinations. When you hold them down, that key is held down (this’ll become important later). I currently have them set to things like canvas pan/zoom/rotate, and a couple of other “hold to use” shortcuts.

The pen is somewhat triangular along the barrel, meaning it won’t roll around on your desk. But it’s smoothed out enough to feel just fine in your hand. It has two barrel buttons, though these are only configurable to mouse various clicks and a preset “brush/eraser” toggle (which didn’t work with Krita out of the box). There is no “eraser” button at the other end (like a pencil with an eraser at the other end)... but I’d find that too fiddly and time consuming to flip it around anyway.

The lack of options for the pen is a little disappointing. Things like this are insanely easy to implement in code--as demonstrated by the express key options. So there’s not really any excuse for it other than the company being small, and this product originally belonging to a different company XP-Pen... bought out or something? I dunno. We’ll get onto them in due course.

Oh, a little side note... the configuration app is only readily accessible from a system tray icon (in Windows). This is fine when you first install the drivers. (And then install the updated drivers so the tablet actually works.) But it has a habit of just... disappearing. After Hibernation or Sleep, that icon tends to wander off somewhere.

And all XP-Pen have to say on that score is to give instructions on how to make it appear again--which only works half the time and may require a restart anyway. I’ve since figured out where the config application itself is kept, and made a shortcut to it in my start menu. In case anyone else is having the same troubles as me, here’s the file path: “C:\Windows\SysWOW64\tabcfg.exe”

Screen

This tablet has a screen! Still getting over that XD

The screen is only 10.1″ corner to corner, which is a little smaller than the average screen tablet such as the Cintiqs. But it’s plenty big enough when it’s sitting right in front of your for actual drawing.

Another reason I pulled the trigger on buying one of these is to get a second screen. I often watch various Youtube videos in the background while I’m playing games and whatnot. I used to prop my Chromebook up next to my regular monitor. This worked fine, but pausing everything when someone came in to speak to me (just a politeness thing I like to employ; nothing sneaky going on)... was a bit of a hassle. And balancing the audio between devices had its own fiddliness (besides the piddly Chromebook speakers not being able to get loud enough for quieter videos).

But now, with two monitors hooked up to the same computer, everything’s a lot easier. I can move windows between screens easily enough. And pausing a video is as simple as moving the mouse over to the other screen and clicking.

Colour Calibration

However! I am having some trouble with the colours. I was drawing away just fine, a simple cartoon character to try out the shading tools and so on and get used to Krita. Then for whatever reason, I saw the picture on my main monitor. The skin tone was way off--too red for what I was actually going for. It seems the tablet screen likes to give everything a yellow tint--making picking colours pretty tricky.

I’ve tried keeping a preview window open on my main monitor so I can see the “true” colours, but this is really not conducive to a productive work space. Or something ^^

I spend a few days trying to configure the colour management side of things from Windows and NVIDIA (the tablet has back light brightness buttons and that’s it)... but it’s just darned fiddly! I can never quite be sure if it looks right or not--or if both screens at least look similar. All I want is a “click on a colour on the screen, and remove some yellowness from it.” You wouldn’t have thought it would be that hard to do, would you?

But instead I had to use gamma, brightness, and contrast sliders. I think I get brightness and contrast... and I thought I knew what gamma was. But it just never turns out quite how I expect. All I want is a step-by-step tutorial on “First, get your gamma correct across all colours. Here’s how you do that...” And so on and so forth.

There are plenty of test-card images out there, which are a good start. But nothing giving you a list of instructions.

See, if you fix the brightness and contrast, it doesn’t necessarily mean things look right. So then you mess with the gamma and nothing makes sense any more. It seems as though you need to adjust all 3 at the same time to be sure you’re actually making any progress.

I even had a Windows bug where my colours wouldn’t stick. I had to create a new user account (with all the headaches of setting things up all over again) just to fix that issue and make any progress whatsoever!

/sigh/

And this doesn’t even talk about the contrast issues it already has. No matter what I do, it’s too bright in some areas and too dark in others. And with my colours fixed the way they are now, they look closer to my main monitor but not perfect. And they make some things just look a tad awful, across the board.

I’m managing, though. Using it for art--at least black and white art--is great, and as long as I focus on the tablet itself, the colours work just fine.

I did contact XP-Pen, to see if they had a solution. Most companies allow you to download an .icc file--a colour profile so the computer can correct a monitor’s output perfectly--but they just straight-up don’t. After 3 workdays of waiting, they told me to use Windows’ built-in calibration tools--which of course I’d been bashing my head against for the past week.

In case anyone else is having similar colour problems, I’ll give you the settings I used to half-fix it. Note that this is far from perfect, but it certainly seems a lot better than it was before, to my eye.

As I have an NVIDIA graphics card, I used their control panel to change the settings to the following values:

Red: 85% Brightness, 25% Contrast, 0.69 Gamma.

Green: 62% Brightness, 25% Contrast, 0.89 Gamma.

Blue: 90% Brightness, 25% Contrast, 0.72 Gamma.

I think the “All channels” part is just an average of the 3 colours. But in case it’s not...

All channels: 77% Brightness, 25% Contrast, 0.76 Gamma.

XP-Pen

That brings me onto the company itself. From what I understand, they’re a small company out of China? Or maybe the US? Or both? It’s really hard to tell from their website.

But anyway... I can only assume they’re too small a company to really provide decent support for their products. The response time is way too high, considering the price tags attached to their products. And the “shrug” attitude instead of providing solutions didn’t go down well with me.

Now, there are devices out there that calibrate a screen for you. The cheapest I could find is £90, and comes with a single-computer license. And that’s fair enough; most people don’t need them, and the ones that really need them are photography professionals who have to be willing to shell out some cash or produce poor work. But I’d prefer not to have to get one just to use it once and never look at it again.

The thing is, with this calibration thing, XP-Pen saying something very telling to the customer. They aren’t willing to get a calibration tool themselves, use it on a tablet, and make the resulting .icc file available for all of their customers to use--at least as a good starting point. Instead, they insist that each individual customer buys one themselves if they want any hope of getting relatively accurate colours from their purchase.

I may contact them again, to point this out to them. I mean, it may be that my unit is simply faulty and should be replaced... but then it should be replaced.

/sigh again/

Overall

I am happy with using the tablet. The tech is amazing, for the price. But such a lack of support is really dragging down the experience.

I highly recommend getting a screen tablet. If not this one, then perhaps another. Maybe your Artist 10S won’t have this issue at all and it’ll be perfect right off the bat.

It’s so awesome to be able to draw on your screen, and has really helped me get back into art-ing. I can already see improvement in my skill over the past week, through drawing every day after such a long time not drawing at all!

[modelronpagame]

I've Already Realized | e.ve | MM Trial 420 | RE: Y'all | ATTN: Preston, Koharu, Kaz, Atsuko

As E.ve’s on the ground and his mind goes blank he feels arms wrap around him. A comforting presence in an otherwise stressful environment, clutching onto Kagemori like a lifeline E.ve cried for a while until he came down a bit at which point Kagemori rose back up, but kept their hand in his. A small comfort, but more than E.ve expected to get. 

Still gaining purchase to think clearly words were said, and eventually Koharu came around to which he could only shake his head. After the fact though he slowly rose to his feet eyes red, but he didn’t have the time to just cry and do nothing. No not here as much as he wanted to. 

Looking down at the key in his hand he finally let go and stared up warily, trying not to look away from anything again.

 "Fine.“

With a weak smile on his face he gives a nod to Koharu. Fine to what though?

“I won’t just go after just Atsuko. Preston’s the assistant and there’s not a doubt in my mind. I’ve known this since last night or so… he was acting weird with me recently like I think he wanted me to know, but couldn’t tell me directly... happy? There’s more too, but…”

Eyes trailing next to him he makes eye contact with Preston. Tired and hurt, but still apologetic despite his own beliefs towards the other at this point.

“I’ve already said more than I even wanted to against him even if…” They weren’t as close as he thought, that was fine… Maybe. “No reason to bring out evidence towards that point. ”

Saying he knew this… that was probably suspicious too. But he didn’t really care anymore. After all these people were gonna believe what they wanted no matter what, so he just is going to make his case with everything he knows.

“That means yes. Either me or Atsuko is Petbe, and I’ll do my best to tell you why I’m not because you’re whole putting everything on Kage to save me? Bullshit. You’re opinion on Kaz and you needing to save Atsuko is bullshit to. How about you try to find Petbe, and not defend your clear bias that even an emotionless robot refuses to talk about any of the evidence given if it points at the only other main suspect unless it’s to call it a red herring? Yeah. Good programming by the way dude. You should get that fixed.”

With that E.ve sighs and gives a small laugh.

“By the by what kinda name is Petbe? I’m guessin’ it holds some meaning or other, does it stand for dumb bitch? I feel like it does.

So we got the stuff Kage stated that’s solid evidence. And I’ll give you that, anyone’s voice can be pitched down. Though the down pitch would imply someone with a high pitch voice more so than not. Still, not super decisive. I hear you.

Now for the Angel’s Trumpet I’m gonna tell you that’s stupid. The florasona is purely symbolic on the means of the loss of free will. Sure bring in the End of Worlds too I guess? The biblical stuff still doesn’t point to me given I can’t recite anything religious at all if it wasn’t in Saints Young Men honestly. I didn’t even know the meaning of my channel until Atsuko corrected me with some others. 

Speaking of, Atsuko knows of the Bible and has corrected me on the Bible stuff… but we’re gonna ignore that and go for the guy with the gag name? Gotcha.

Next. The Cain and Abel stuff. Again that doesn’t… point to me at all? For one I have an older brother named Goro so… I can’t be the first born by any means Kaz. Not even in your hypothetical world where my parents would name the second son "first son”. Sorry to burst your unbiased bubble. My name has the characters for first clear, or bright. You know like light? It’s why I’m such a damn ray of sunshine most of the time.“ He says flatly, with an annoyed voice.

“Also… I haven’t gone by Ichiro in over 3 years. So let’s not call me that right now. Please. You’re point to my name is invalidated beyond it all simply because right now I’m E.ve… and just E.ve. I don’t know who Ichiro is. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

Though there was a momentary pause E.ve was clearly far from done pulling out his modelpad and hesitation upon seeing his reflection before tapping on the screen and looking at the picture of the robotic body he threw in the NMR room (and consequently the picture of Preston stepping on him due to an accidental finger slide which he quickly corrected.) before he flips to text chats and scrolls and scrolls… After he turns his modelpad off and puts it away.

“So… Does no one remember some of the things I stated earlier? You all chose to listen to the robots part, not so much the creepy part about Petbe with robots. In the trash can I located notes Petbe wrote in an obsessive manner almost like they were trying to get out their hate for everyone here. Meanwhile the robots in any mentioning are gushed over like someone who’s overly affectionate with robots. Which you all know I’ve never even outwardly done except maybe with KIT? Which I think we all can agree on because they’re cute and deserve pets.

Obviously if I’m not using this point to blame myself I’m using it to point fingers at Atsuko who I recall let Purple stab Kage and barely cared when it happened? Even though they’re apparently friends… that’s pretty fucking weird if you ask me. Now to defend myself on why I can’t be overly gushy about robots I got mad and proceeded to kick Purple– my bad– to which Atsuko basically screamed at me even after Purple got back at me by stabbing my thigh.

Anyways there’s another point of this– when me and Atsuko went to Mina about how all the robots other than KIT and Mamo are probably human I brought up Mobo– to which Mina explained to us Mobo’s origins and whatnot. When I said how Mobo probably helped with all of this shit and was evil she got mad at me again… like obsessively so. This is backed up by how she reacted to Mobo after learning they were helping which is… she didn’t really care too much about Mobo actually being bad and my theory being proved right? Like I guess I expected it so I shrugged it off. I also have my drawing I did of Mobo being as I wrote ‘Evil’ on my DS if anyone wants proof that I like… spoke bad about Modelbot once.

And there’s also the pictures. Atsuko looking into one paparazzi or no still bugs me… Why is she the only one who noticed? I have some of the most pictures and I never noticed! Neither did Preston, or Kage, Hina, or even you Koha. Isn’t that weird to you guys? Even a little bit? 

Not to mention for someone who takes pride in being the Reserve Course Representative she was quick to write off that she wouldn’t know every student. Which is fair… but Seina Ayabito seemed to be in the AV club and probably even the captain of it from the messages. She also compared the Reserve Course to siblings before. It’s rude to forget the names of your siblings Atsuko.”

Tsk, tsk. Finally E.ve let out a sigh and looked at Koharu frowning and almost… searching for words before speaking.

“I know why you’re in denial of course. You said it yourself. If Atsuko is Petbe it means she used you and feels nothing for you. Aren’t you afraid that she’s using you right now? If I was in your shoes… I’d defend her until the end too. But I’m not in your shoes. And I hope you make the right choice if for everyone else since I know you don’t regret berating me that hard. And that’s fine. I don’t have to forgive you for it and I won’t even if you do try to apologize. I… trust too easily. I trusted Preston.. Still wanna give him the benefit of the doubt. And I know that’s stupid. Basically since I understand you I’ll say it. You’re making an ass out of yourself defending someone who doesn’t love you. Hope you find someone who can someday.”

[rainbowwriting-love]

A pain I will never understand

I have always had a lot of pain built up inside from depression and social anxiety, but compared with what is happening in my life right now, I have never experienced so much emotional pain that the physical pain actually is relieving. I had always been strong enough to harness it so that I would never get to that point. Same as how I am a passive suicidal, at least as of right now.

I never understood self-harm. I thought it was odd how someone can feel so much emotionally that harming themselves and feeling the pain of cutting or scraping actually helped.

I never understood it until I felt it. And still do. And still constantly think about.

It’s similar to what happens when a dog bites someone. Once they’ve bit a person once, they are more likely to do it again. Once you’ve self-harmed once, you are more likely to do it again.

So where did my pain start? Well, as I have discussed in previous posts, I have suffered depression on and off for 8 some years, and it has slowly increased in severity these past couple of years. My anxiety began as normal new-college experience but it developed into sever social anxiety. The fact that these two mental health issues are high in severity, they constantly battle each other, somedays one being stronger than the other. And only recently did I realize that taking caffeine before track meets had actually been negatively affecting me and holding back my performance at meets.

On top of this, my father suddenly was diagnosed with a rare stage 4 cancerous brain tumor. I immediately rushed home in shock. Everything since has truly gone downhill. All of my thoughts surround him and how different life has become since. He is not the same person anymore, considering it was in the frontal lobe. He doesn’t show his emotion the same and he has lost his filter entirely. Its hard on my mother mainly because she has to stay home to care for him and handle with basically losing her husband and 85% of our income. It seems that we will lose everything material-wise just to keep my father alive, and possibly including our home and my dog. He can’t leave the house as much with the exception of doctor appointments and his daily walks to get some sort of exercise in. he has not motivation and feels as though he isn’t fully there. He still shows his interest in my activities with school and whatnot, but somehow it’s different. It feels like I’ve lost my dad, as if he did pass away. And I miss him more than I ever thought.

It seems that since the start of my teenage years, I’ve grown more distant with my family, especially my parents. I thought going away to college would help, and it honestly did. I needed that time away from home but also still keep that constant contact. It seems that now I’ve grown so much closer to my mom than ever. I go to her with more issues I am dealing with and I feel as though I can trust her more. It makes me upset knowing that it took a trauma to bring my family closer together. It also proves the strength of my mom’s love for my dad more than anything.

 After the surgery, I went back to school and struggled to keep up. Spring break followed the week after, and it felt as though my life had completely fallen apart. I did chores and ran errands several times a day all day, leaving myself to feel lonely and empty inside. I knew I was helping, but something felt missing.

What was missing was my boyfriend. Sure, he had been there for me he day I received news about my dad, but he almost disappeared afterwards. No communication when I needed him most, no effort put into our relationship, let alone our friendship. Being that he lives a half hour from my house, I offered to even pick him up to go somewhere since I basically had my dad’s car for the time being. And he never took my up on the offer, despite saying he would. I tried to talk to him, but it would take him the whole day to respond and he never asked me how I was doing or how my dad was doing. Never a good morning, goodnight, what’s up, how are you, what are you up to, wanna go somewhere...just nothing. He barely kept our snapchat streak of 60+days going.

I thought nothing of it, assuming he was busy with friends or the fact that he was feeling sick at one point. So I made up excuses for his lack of communication, which I typically tend to do for people I care about. His distance didn’t seem clear to me until I tried to hang out with him and he dryly said no. Hell, we hadn’t even kissed or hugged in over 3 weeks. My friends decided to get me to talk about every red flag, and it became apartment that something was wrong with the relationship. Lack of communication, not ever going one a real date, and not effort on his side of the relationship anymore, especially in getting to actually know me. So that Wednesday, I decided to talk to him about it. I walked into his room and asked that typical question “What are we?”

I had no idea what was to come. For all I knew, he was feeling depressed or felt overwhelmed with it being the end of the school year. Maybe he was feeling shy and couldn’t find his courage to put effort into our relationship. All of the excuses and possibilities ran through my mind, and what he told me was shocking. So hurtful that I went numb and distanced myself from the situation as a defense mechanism.

“I don’t want to date you anymore.” Yep. That was his exact wording. Can you believe a college freshman would say that? It sounded to me like a middle school break up. He explained how his difficulty with communication with his last relationship made it hard for him. He examined how “the more he got to know me the more he saw me as a friend.” Right, like he really had tried to get to know me in the first place. He didn’t want to “half-ass the relationship” and make it seem to be purely physical (no sex I promise). He had lost his drive to put effort into the relationship. Into getting to know me. He didn’t feel like he was emotionally able to keep it up. As I left and as said “ya it’s ok” over and over, he said he would be ok and would get over it soon. He even used the “it’s not you, it’s me” cliché as well. Towards the end of our 2 hour talk, I found myself actually comforting him because he had felt bad and hated “disappointing me” (which he already had anyway). Why would I do that when he was the one breaking up with me?

What did he have to get over? Had he ever cared about me in the first place? How long had he known about his feelings towards “us”? Is it really because I have so much going on and have so many issues right now? Is it because I am always so busy? Is it because you don’t find me attractive the same way as before? Is that why you never compliment me as a SO should, the way that I do for you? Or is it because it was all about the chase and you just lost interest after achieving your “prize”, aka my heart, for a short period of time? Honestly I have so many more questions, but being that this was the first time anyone had ever broken up with me before, it being what I count as my first relationship, I can’t find the right words or the strength to ask. I felt trapped within my own niceness and left with soft smile, walking back to my room in numbness with no real closure. I had completely distanced myself from what was happening, and felt like i wasn’t even there. just that numbness was my only coping method.

I walked into my room where my best friends were, told them the basic direct quotes and that he had broken up with me and decided to take a walk, still completely out of it. I ended up in another friend’s dorm room and cried there as he told me that it would be ok and that I would get over it soon. He helped distract me temporarily with a movie and just spending time with him. 

Walking out and heading back to my room, I thought that maybe I would be ok. Maybe it would get over it really fast and just be friends with this now-ex-boyfriend. But what hit me hardest were the thoughts that crawled back into my mind about my father and what my future and his future looked like. In climbing the stairs I felt weak. Every inch of doubt, hate, depression, all of my emotions just broke. Imagine being on a perfectly balance teeter-totter and having a small grain of sand be the final amount of weight to forces your side to drop hard. Or better, being so close to the edge of a cliff that that small gust of wind finally pushes you over and you fall into the sharp, ridge rocks below. It wasn’t that small amount that caused the pain, it was the that but of a push that sent me over.

It was as though someone had a been holding my internal organs, mainly my heart and lungs, and just squeezed as tightly as possible. It felt like someone had shot or stabbed me in my chest. That was the amount of emotional pain that I could no longer control and killed me to a broken point. I never had been one for self-harm, but the amount of pain I was in had me over the edge. Without a knife, I scraped and dug at my wrist, rubbing away my skin until raw. As I did so, the small amount of physical pain relieved that internal tension I couldn’t get rid of. I stopped myself eventually, leaving only one spot that would scar for sure because it was just deep enough. Staring at it, I somehow felt a little better, but disappointment that I gave into self-harm grew inside me.

Gathering up what was left of me, I headed to bed and tried to forget about it.

The next days after were just as hard. All I could think of were the questions in my mind and wondering if my dad will be ok in the end. My suicidal thoughts became as serious as ever, and they still are as I write this. I wrapped up my wrist in hopes it would heal. That Friday, I had a track meet, and my anxiety kept me from jumping almost entirely as my mind raced through everything. With my calves always knotted and cramping, I needed a source of pain that wouldn’t draw attention. I got my calves rubbed out, and the pain was relieving, and it was healthy in its own way.

Since then, my way of physical pain the counter the emotional pain has been getting muscles painfully rubbed out. Even my AT questioned why I wasn’t screaming in pain as usual. I guess once you have something like my emotions for that pain to fill, it doesn’t seem so bad. If anything, it takes it away for a short time.

Despite this, I still think about how much I want to cut, but I keep stopping myself from doing so. I don’t do it because of him, I do it because of everything else and he just happened to be the tip of my iceberg that had the worst possible timing.  

[skeletonwoman]

AU #1: Hear Me (13)

my baseball knowledge is mediocre at best (even though i think the game is very interesting and would like to see more) and what i have written is with the minutest googling and things ive learned from books. So there. 

Hear Me Masterlist

Also, thanks guys, for reading this far and maybe even enjoying it (i understand if you’ve read this far and haven’t but know you’re going to keep reading cause you want to know what happens in the end (i get like that sometimes))

Obviously sharing isn’t my middle name. I’m rich. And what kind of stupid middle name is Sharing anyway? 

“Wanna play baseball?” Ororo shouts through the door and you frown at your covers. Warren is nearby, likely with her, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You never realized how much sound affected your daily life. The ticking of your clock, the scuffling of feet outside the door, the ringing of the school bells.

“Babe.” Warren says, his head ducking in and your gaze jerks to his, blinking at him. “Come play baseball.”

You hum hesitantly, about to wave him off, when he steps through the door and says something soft to Ororo before closing it behind himself.

“Y/N.” He sighs softly, crossing the room and settling beside you on the bed. His hand catches yours and interlaces your fingers and you shrug weakly.

“I just… I’m not useful, I’m barely special.”

“You’re plenty special.” He scoffs and you glare at him, your expression sad.

“I know that, because my mutation is ruining my life. And my boyfriend has wings.”

“Hey now… Who said anything about boyfriend?” Warren baits and you can’t help yourself from grabbing onto the words with both hands.

“Dick.” You growl and he snickers, shuffling closer.

“What? I know we’re soulmates and all that but… Uh, I hate to break this to you but I can’t be tied down… Prime of my youth, and whatnot.” He teases and you shove him, rolling your eyes even as you smile. Just a little.

“And look, your mutation sucks-”

“Screw you.”

“But it’s just baseball. You know the rules.” He pauses, glancing out your window into the sunshine. “Well, we’ll explain the rules that need explaining. And I can’t keep you to myself much longer. Since I’m expected to rejoin the world, you have to as well.”

“The world’s mean to me.” You mutter sourly and he chuckles, shuffling off the bed and holding out both hands for you.

“If it comes to it, you can sit out and play referee. Put those vocal cords to the test, hey?” He offers cheerily and you reluctantly set your hands in his. He beams as he pulls you to your feet, pulling slightly to hard and you go crashing into his chest, or perhaps that was the plan. His fingers find your chin and you tilt your face up to him, smiling as his lips press to yours.

Are you two coming or what?

The voice makes you jump and your nails dig into Warrens arm where you’d been holding it.

“That’s Jean. She’s freaking awful sometimes.” He mutters bitterly, forehead bumping yours. “She’s right though, c’mon.”

You stare at the group around you and try not to swallow hard. You know everyones names, had heard Warren speak of them during and after the battle, but you hadn’t really met any of them.

“Everyone knows who everyone is, but to make it official, Y/N, this is half of the X-Men.” Ororo smiles and you frown, tilting your head. “Yeah, I know. You just wait, in five years, we’re going to be saving the world.”

“Some of us have already done that.” Scott mutters and you watch Ororos back straighten.

“When?” You blink dumbly, and Scott flushes but meets your eyes steadily.

“When these two tried to end it.” He mutters, jerking his head at Ororo and Warren. Ororo’s lips press together and her fists clench at her side, but Warren stands relaxed, trying not to grin.

“I’m sorry, I’m going deaf.” You wince, your cheeks flushing and Scott’s tight expression melts into one of concern. “Did you say you tried to end the world?”

The concern washes away, replaced by a furious scowl. “No, I said they did.”

“You did?”

“No, they did.”

“I keep hearing “I did”, I’m sorry, is there something to do with those two that I’m missing here?” You mumble confusedly, glancing between the three of them, a snicker flitting to your ears.

“Scott.” Jean says with a small smile and he turns on her, expression furious, only to melt into resignation.

“Whatever.” He mutters, before shaking off the sourness and waving his hand in a circle. “Let’s circle up and pick captains. Warren can explain the rules to Y/N.”

“Powers are allowed and you have to run at least half of the distance between bases. So Kurt can teleport halfway and run the other distance.” Warren quickly whispers, his eyes glued to the same conversation you’re watching.

“Got it.” You nod, grinning as Ororo claims a captaincy, Jean taking the other.

“Peter.” Ororo says instantly and Jean hisses, shooting the dark skinned girl a playful scowl.

“Fine, Kurt.” She sighs loudly, grinning wickedly at Scotts offended expression.

“Warren.” Ororo orders and he barely makes it to Ororos side before Jean is calling out Scotts name.

“This seems pretty clear cut.” You shrug, smiling at Jubilee who grins and nods, only for your head to whip back around in surprise.

“C’mon, Y/N.” Jean orders and you nod slowly, trotting to her side and smiling at Kurt, who grins at you.

“I forgot to add that the captain who picks second gets their pick of the last two.” Warren mouths to you and you wrinkle your nose at him, poking out your tongue.

“Prepare for your doom.” You shrug, smiling sweetly as Jean points to centerfield, Ororo taking her team toward home plate.

“Kurt, you’re good with short stop?” Jean asks instantly and the blue boy nods, his expression serious and you can’t help but blush.

“Hey!” Warren shouts across the field and you roll your eyes at him.

“Idiot.” You mouth and he laughs.

“What position do you normally play, Y/N?” Jean asks politely, drawing you back to the conversation and you hum, glancing around the field.

“Ah, I usually just go wherever.” You shrug, a sudden shyness filling you under the three sets of eyes. Or four eyes if you count four eyes across from you.

“You’re a pitcher, aren’t you?” She asks, and you shoot her a half-hearted look.

“Yeah.” You mumble and she grins happily. Scott’s forehead wrinkles, but Jean grins at him, shaking her head and he stays silent.

“Scott can take his usual position and I will… Right field, I suppose.” She says, glancing around the grassy space. “Okay, break.”

The ball weight of the ball in your palm makes your stomach flip, the familiarity of it bringing back memories as sun drenched as today.

Reeling back your arm, you throw the ball, releasing it half a second too late to ensure Peter doesn’t accidentally hit it. The ball thumps into the dirt at his feet and he shoots you a droll look.

“We playing?” He smirks and you scoff.

“I can’t remember how to throw right.” You bluff, bouncing from foot to foot. Peter smiles at you indulgently, and you beam at him. Idiot. Inhaling a soft breath, you feel your mutation roll through you as you speak. “You’ll probably want to stop and watch where the ball flies, it’s bound to be somewhere interesting with my throwing.”

Peter shakes his head hard, before shaking his whole body and blinking at you.

“Sure, whatever. Just throw the ball.” He orders, his voice strange and you can see Ororo staring at him hard, a questioning worry in her eyes. Warren pushes against your mind, his delighted offense brushing up against your smugness. Rolling your shoulder, you wind back your arm and let fly, watching the bat swing and connect, hearing the dull thud, and watching Peter gaze at the ball as it soars across the field. The ball lands but slips from Scotts mitt, only for it to fly toward Peter without touching the ground. Kurt appears beside the shirt they’d set down as first base, who’s eyes clear of the fog, only for the ball to land solidly in Kurts hand.

“Out!” Jean shouts, clapping happily and Ororo waves her acceptance. Glancing over at the red head, she shoots you a thumbs up, Scott even offering you a begrudging smile.

“Go team.” You snicker, Kurt suddenly laughing loudly and you jump. Right. Your words carry.

“You’re a cheat.” Warren scoffs, glaring at the flames as they lick against the walls of the fireplace. You lie against him, his back pressed into the corner of the loveseat the two of you are currently sharing.

“You’re a sore loser.” You shrug, smiling at Jean who won’t stop glancing over at you to smile happily. You take it they hadn’t won the past few games.

“You’re a sore player.” Ororo mutters and you laugh, stretching out and settling back against Warren. His eyes fall closed for a moment as you curl yourself against him, his face momentarily burying itself in your hair before he leans back and wraps his arms around your waist.

“You’ve got a sore attitude.” Kurt pipes up, smiling happily and you can’t help gazing at him. What about him is so entrancing, you can’t decide, but he’s just amazing to look at. Warren bumps your hip with his knee and you scoff softly.

“My ass is sore.” Jubilee adds, pouting and you can’t help snorting loudly. The moment had been perfect, she’d hit the ball beautifully, her path was filled with blasting fireworks so no one could tell where first was, or where she was, until suddenly she’d yelped and the fireworks had dissipated. There she lay, covered in mud and scowling at the sky.

“No one help me.” She’d snapped, grumbling as she clambered to her feet and limped back into the house to clean off. You’d ended up refereeing after that, to make the teams even, but it was good fun all the same.

You yawned, smiling at nothing in particular.

“We’re going to bed.” Warren pipes up behind you and you make a soft noise of questioning that has him rolling his eyes. “Night guys.”

“Night.” The group choruses, and you bump fists with Scott and Peter before you’ve made it to the door, much to Warrens amusement.

“I love you.” He whispers against your lips, the darkness a quiet blanket over the room and you hum softly, trying to wiggle closer to him than you already are.

“I love you too.” You answer, your palm finding his jaw as you pull him in for a slow kiss.

@themortallife (thanks for liking it so much you wanted to be tagged)

sorry this is late, i had uni that day (like my third day) and so i was all tuckered out