#as always free real estate as a prompt

[weewoo911]

Constantly thinking about Buck; having gone through a bad breakup or another rough conversation with his parents, drinking a beer with Eddie and venting about it- and referring to himself as “hard to love”

And Eddie scoffing while sipping his beer like “You’re being ridiculous, do you know how hard I tried to not be in love with you”

Part-accidental confession, part ‘just tired and can’t keep fighting this any more so here it is’.

Anyway I just think that would be neat ✨

[sarahghetti]

moving day; m.k.

pairing: marc spector x reader, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: how marc and steven learn to live together, how you come to live with them, and how jake finally lets himself live at all.

warnings: basically a BIG character study into our boys, fluff, hurt and comfort, angst, insecurity, mentions of marc's childhood, mentions of violence, suggestive content but nothing explicit.

word count: 9.9k

notes: this one got away from me and might also be the best thing I've ever written (i'm very proud of it 😭). part of the @MOONKNIGHT-EVENTS bingo! prompt: “'is that my shirt?'”

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

Even though it was (and still is) under Marc’s name, the flat was Steven’s first. Marc just helped set it up a little.

He rented out the first decent unit he found in the city and kept every piece of mismatched furniture the previous tenant left behind. The essentials had to be filled in himself—a bed, couch, and desk. A table to go with that rickety stool to eat meals on, a coat rack near the doorway. The only belongings of his own that Marc left behind were his old Egyptology texts, unceremoniously shoved into a corner of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that he hoped Steven would like.

(The fish was unexpected, though. Steven already had everything he would need, and it was Marc’s mistake to be scrolling through Facebook Marketplace on one of his last days before he handed it all over to his alter. A complete aquarium set was being offered for next to nothing; attached: a photo of the original poster’s late goldfish. Backlit from the tank light, blank faced and innocent.

He just couldn’t move on.)

But it was Steven who then took Marc’s—their—card and ran with it. Every free surface was prime real estate for another journal, another tomb. The used bookstores of London never stood a chance; it was almost impressive to watch him scour the shelves for the most esoteric topics and still come out with his arms full of what he was looking for. Marc would wake up in the body to find Steven’s collection a little bigger than before and ghost his fingers over the spines during those brief moments of respite before having to put on the suit.

It didn’t stop at the books. Of course, it didn’t. Steven’s always had an affinity for oddities. Marc wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the new paper lantern hung over the living room, or the pumpkin-esque footstool that was coloured as though it was plucked off the vine just a tad too early.

The pieces were quaint at best. If there were any psychological meaning as to why his alter gravitated towards dingy, threadbare upholstery instead of an IKEA like a normal person, it was beyond Marc.

However, he couldn’t not admit that it all kind of worked once put together; the clashing mix of materials and colours sort of became its own style when combined under the wooden rafters. Even when the books started overfilling the storage capacity and ended up in piles on the floor—it only added to the charm.

Marc was sure to erase every trace of his presence around the flat to avoid interfering with Steven’s life, but that didn’t stop the sense of longing to return to their—Steven’s—home during missions.

It was still a mess. A mess where everything has its place, yes, but there was no way that Steven could trip over several odds-and-ends in one day and claim that he was any degree of neat or tidy. Marc silently griped to himself about it all the time, but he’d sooner eat that dusty-ass rug Steven got for free before he saw anything get thrown away.

(It was like this back when they were kids, too. Marc’s childhood bedroom in Chicago—a room he never finds himself thinking about outside of his nightmares—was filled with joy. Medals from peewee baseball. Posters from his favourite movies, carefully smoothened out and taped to the walls by his dad. Drawings by him and Randall piled at the corner of his desk.

Right after the—the accident, all his stuff remained, immortalized in place. As if keeping everything the same would somehow also make Marc’s life the same as it was before, and Randall would come bursting through his door at any moment to ask him to come play. It was an overarching belief in their household. Even on her worst days, his mother’s anger never touched their home. Only him.

But then things began to change. His old action figures, collecting dust, would be strewn about the floor, waiting for someone to continue the battle. A collection of particularly smooth rocks began appearing on his windowsill despite the fact that he hadn’t gone outside in days. He’d wake up to grass-stained jeans and a scraped knee which Marc didn’t know how he got, for once.

Steven has always been like a crow, bringing all these little gifts for Marc to enjoy—these signs of life—even when he wasn’t aware of it.)

-

Coming back from Cairo feels like it should’ve been a bigger deal than it was, but after the dust settled on Harrow and Layla decided to return stateside alone—a decision that seemed a long time coming, if Steven’s being honest—there was nothing else to do other than to go home.

They have one blissful, uninterrupted day of sleep. Steven was the one to wake up sixteen hours later, mouth dry, and instinctively panicked at the thought of losing days again before realizing that Marc was also (and still is) out cold.

When he finally woke up a few hours later, half-asleep even in the reflection of the mirror, Steven couldn’t help himself from asking, “What now, Marc?”

Because Marc was the original. Marc was the one with a real life and legal status. He might never want to walk the streets of Chicago again, but that didn’t change the fact that he only came overseas to run away. Everything around them was a temporary measure.

Marc straightens. “I won’t bother you too much, I promise.”

“You still have your own life,” Steven reminds him.

“Still—”

“Oh, don’t start—”

At least they agreed on one thing: they were going to stay in London.

Marc cleans out his storage unit, bringing home an array of bins and duffel bags and that shitty fold-up cot that he still refuses to toss. Steven immediately got him his own dresser when Marc tried to insist that he ‘didn’t have much’; that was a blaring warning that he was about to do something stupid and sacrificial, and Steven had to put his foot down before a nearby charity got a donation of some well-loved button-downs.

It’s almost funny, how predicable Marc was when unpacking. Steven watched as he pushed all their new furniture against the walls then methodically unpacked bin by bin, stacking the empties inside one another like Russian dolls. Like Steven, everything he owned had a place, even after months spent stored away. Marc was just a lot more neat about it.

“Move my stuff if you want,” Steven pipes up. Marc doesn’t react, only continuing to store his notebooks on top of a filing cabinet. “Really, I’ve already read everything on that middle shelf there—we can put them somewhere else.”

Marc glances around the bookshelves. “Aren’t these alphabetized?”

“Well, mostly, but give me an hour or two and I’ll free up some space.”

It’s like a puzzle, and Steven’s always liked puzzles. Marc’s gone quiet in their head, out of excuses as to why he can just shove all his belongings out-of-sight so that Steven wouldn’t have to go through the effort. Now, if he would just believe Steven, then he’d know that reorganizing his books was hardly any effort at all.

And even if it was—he’s been meaning to do this for a while. An alphabetized collection is great until he gets a new book, because then everything has to be shifted over, and—well. There’s a reason why there were so many books languishing on the floor.

They pass off the body like that for the rest of the day, moving things around in the flat in order to accommodate Marc. It looks no less hectic in the end, despite Marc’s best efforts to tidy up a little, but it also doesn’t look any worse, which Steven sees as a win.

There are still so many things they need to talk about. Scheduling, routines, the fact that they’re currently both out of a job—either one would be lying if they said that this new life didn’t make them a bit nervous. But when Marc finally flops down onto their bed, a movement as easy as breathing, the pieces begin to settle into place. The last of his bins have been put away. His jacket hangs beside Steven’s as if it’s always been there.

In the headspace, Steven beams. Whatever comes, however hard—they’ll face it together.

.

.

.

Somehow, Steven wakes up one day and feels great.

There are a few minutes more until his alarm goes off, but he turns it off early. The usual grogginess that accompanies him this early is completely absent, and he rolls up to a seated position without a single mental or physical protest. He feels so good, in fact, that he even considers skipping his morning cup of tea.

(He doesn’t, of course. They quickly figured out—well, Steven did, Marc already knew—that they differed in their caffeinated beverages of choice. Steven, a strong cup of Yorkshire Gold with a healthy splash of milk and a teaspoon or two of sugar. Marc, a simple drip coffee, black, made from the most generic-looking brand of medium roast beans.

Not to say that he wishes to be separate from Marc or anything of the sort, but Steven imagines his feelings to be like that of a sibling who was always dressed in matching clothes as his brother. Marc might’ve graced Steven with an interest in Egyptology from his mercenary work and Gus from his—their?—brother’s drawing a lifetime ago, but as far as they know, his preference for tea was just a quirk.

Steven likes having something just for him.)

Marc had the body last night—he must’ve gone to bed early. Must’ve drank camomile tea and avoided blue light the entire time he was fronting because Steven could run a marathon like this and still go into work afterwards. He’s about to ask Marc for his secret when he spots an unfamiliar rumple of fabric on the pillow where he laid his head.

“What’s this now?” Steven murmurs, gathering the soft material in his hands. A woman’s sweater, obviously, with its feminine cut and style and faintly sweet scent that short-circuits his brain for a moment.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize how it got inside their flat, what with how there’s a whole other person living in his head, and it would explain the strange marks he found on his neck the other day—

Heat blooms in his face and Steven nearly drops the sweater back onto the pillow in embarrassment. Distantly, he knows that he should’ve seen this coming. Marc is Marc; Steven’s witnessed the quiet confidence the man extrudes from inside their headspace and the resulting, ah, attention it attracts.

In the corner of his eye, his reflection stills. Steven doesn’t even bother turning around—just holds up the offending sweater and asks, “Fun night?”

Marc, strangely, is quiet. It’s not like he’s one to talk about his romantic pursuits, but Steven at least expected a dry comment or two. He shakes the sweater like a bag of treats until Marc scowls. “Stop that.”

“Not judging,” Steven says, “but don’t suppose you got a number? Should I make a run to the donation bin for you?”

“No.” There’s an edge to Marc’s voice, and he purses his lips when he realizes that he responded a little too fast; Steven’s questioning look is pointedly ignored. “Just leave it on my desk for now.”

“Is she coming back or is this just like a—” Steven makes an ambiguous gesture, full of innuendo “—thing for you?”

“What? No—what?”

“Okay, okay,” Steven finally lets up because the groove between his alter’s eyebrows has become something fierce. He slips out of bed to place the sweater on Marc’s desk as requested, then throws one more comment over his shoulder for good measure, “Bring her home for dinner one day, would you?”

“Steven!”

-

“Is that my shirt?” You move towards the armchair, a smile tugging at your lips as you pick up the folded garment. It’s been freshly laundered. Marc wouldn’t burden you if he could help it.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t stir from his seat on the couch, tracking your movements with fondness in his eyes. You’ve been to their place plenty over the past few months and quietly, he relishes in the domesticity.

They’re simple things, like knowing your preferred spoon in their drawer or how you like your toast; the ease in which you curl into the cushions next to him—your spot, he can’t help but note—draws a contented little sigh from him.

“You know, if you want me to do your laundry, you can just ask.”

He would. Steven would prod endlessly as he does with all things related to you, but Marc’s managed to get this far with vague explanations and stubborn hand-waving. He’d endure the nosiness if it were for you.

“Although,” he continues, giving you a once-over. His eyebrow quirks at the familiar cotton long-sleeve enveloping your torso. “I’m not even sure you have laundry anymore.”

“Well, maybe if your clothes weren’t so comfortable, I’d stop stealing them,” you tease.

(His clothes aren’t boring, Steven, just—utilitarian. Between Khonshu and his mercenary work, Marc needed plain, flexible pieces; ones that made him blend in anywhere and ready for anything. Nothing that he could get too attached too, either. Everything he wore was at risk of getting ruined by grime and/or blood and/or tearing from various weapons. Of course, he doesn’t own anything ‘nice.’

Not like Steven. Not with his hodgepodge closet filled with colours and patterns, everything just a tad too large on their frame. Marc groans about it every time he takes over in the middle of the day—just a size down, just one. But the issue is that Steven likes it like that, likes the comfort and roominess he finds in his thrifted pieces, and so Marc dropped it as a serious topic, even though he still doesn’t quite get it.)

“This why you had to wear my jacket the other day?”

Steven’s sudden appearances don’t phase Marc anymore, even when you’re around. He just gives him a slight nod without missing a beat. “At this rate, I won’t have any clothes left for you to take.”

“Guess I’ll just have to borrow something from Steven then, hm?”

Before Marc can even begin to think about what to say to that— “I think my white jumper would suit her really well.”

He shoots a glare into a nearby mirror and just barely catches a glimpse of Steven’s grin in the reflection. Part of him wants to tell Steven to stop hitting on his girlfriend, but hesitates when you look at him expectantly, still waiting for his response.

He’s not ashamed of Steven, far from it. Still, a sliver of self-consciousness worms its way into his chest at the thought of talking to him in front of you. He’s done it before, but—he knows how it can look.

You’re more perceptive than he’d like. Marc sees the moment when it clicks in your head. “Is he here right now?”

Excitement bleeds into your voice. You’ve been wanting to meet Steven for a while. Marc showing up to a date with tousled curls and a colourfully-printed button-up instead of his usual streamlined style, a slew of scribbled papers piled onto the armchair you like to lounge on, a sticky note left on one of your books (‘oooh good choice! x’)—all these things that sent panic strumming through his veins were only ever endearing to you, for some reason. It’s lessened his worry by orders of magnitude.

Still. Letting you meet Steven is one step closer to talking about his childhood. His mom. His brother. He’s given you a high- high-level view of things (“It wasn’t great.”), but the thought of going any further makes his throat tighten. There’s a whole failed marriage that proves his inability to be vulnerable.

So, it must truly be a bout of madness that makes him say, “The white one.”

“What?”

“What?”

“The white sweater,” Marc continues, because he’s already thrown himself off the bridge—there’s no use trying to backtrack now. “He says you’d look good in his white sweater.”

Your face slowly morphs into an expression of pure joy; you do nothing short of jump off the couch to bolt to their bedroom. Steven chatters excitedly in his ear, only pausing momentarily when you slip off Marc’s shirt.

“Oh! Um! She’s—she’s very—wow—" Marc feels the strangest urge to punch himself in the face again—

—And then you reappear into their field of view, a dream in fine knit. Steven’s sweater be damned, your beaming smile is more than enough to render them both speechless.

“How do I look?”

The sweater isn’t his, but it stirs the same syrupy feelings in Marc anyway. You’ve spoken about it before—and him privately with Steven—where Steven stands in your relationship with Marc. All he’s ever let himself hope for was for you and Steven to be cordial, maybe even friends. Of course, he’d have to actually let you guys speak to each other for any of that to be possible, but you two seem to have grown comfortable with each other regardless.

Now, he sees you in Steven’s clothes and his thoughts run rampant. Ours. He tests out the word and his heart skips a beat. It’s always been a possibility; one you all were open to if it ever happened. But he could never ask either of you to try to love each other on his behalf.

God, that word does something stupid to his brain—Steven’s rattling off compliments and other things of his you should try on and invites to go thrifting—and Marc just sits there, dumbfounded by his own hypothetical scenario. “Come on, Marc, say something!”

You move to stand in front of him, and his thighs part automatically to have you close. It takes your hand on his cheek, gentle as you stroke your thumb over his skin, to pull him back to reality. “You okay?”

“You look incredible.” His voice dips in the way he knowsmakes your stomach swoop, and is promptly rewarded with your flustered smile. The moment doesn’t last—not with Steven cooing in his ear over you.

A pang of possessiveness runs through Marc. That smile was for him, thank you very much.

His mouth works faster than his brain. “Steven has something to tell you.”

You light up. “Really?”

“Wants to tell you himself, actually.”

Steven splutters, nerves coming on in full force. Marc bites his tongue to keep a straight face. “Well, now, hang on a minute—”

Steven’s introduction was always going to be a well-thought-out but casual event, as to not make a circus out of it. It was just who they were, after all. They wouldn’t switch in front of you—Steven would change into his wardrobe and ‘do’ his hair beforehand; Marc worried it might be too much for you to see him but hear Steven. He would’ve prepped you both plenty in the preceding days, regardless of how necessary it was.

It definitely would not be the stunt he’s pulling right now.

Your eyes narrow at the placid look on his face, too casual to not be suspicious, but meeting Steven must outweigh the want to catch Marc in the act of whatever he’s planning because you don’t call him out, hands frozen on his face. It’s cute, watching you struggle between overt enthusiasm and not wanting to pressure them into anything.

Marc would even enjoy it a little longer if it weren’t for the confused and alarmed word vomit spilling out in his head.

“Stop messing about—I mean, it’s not—not odd, yeah? For me to front a little? Just a little chat, can’t be all that bad. Please be messing with me, but I can do it, s’not a big deal. Yeah, yeah, it’s whatever—oh, boy."

Taking pity on the poor guy, Marc quiets him with a steady glance into the mirror. “You sure, buddy?”

Slightly shrill but no less serious, “Are you sure, Marc?”

And then Marc’s fun little charade teeters on its head—is he ready for this? You and Steven wouldn’t hold it against him if he pulled the plug on it all right now, but this is the closest he’s ever gotten. The band-aid has to come off, lest he lets this fester for the length of another relationship.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his flare of panic comforted by the patience in your eyes. More confidently this time, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Steven’s smile is clear in his voice. It mirrors your own.

“About time, innit?”

-

Moving into their flat isn’t a decision you make all at once, but rather a slow, steady conclusion that you’ve been unintentionally working towards ever since you first visited.

The clothes were just the start. It’s not like you didn’t have perfectly good clothes before you met Marc, but his were just better somehow. Soft and simple, all in that neutral colour scheme he seemed to gravitate towards. The warm, woodsy scent of his aftershave clings to the fabric, making you want to bury your nose into the garments and go right back to the source—

You just couldn’t help yourself from borrowing something whenever you came over.

(That pleased, half-lidded gaze you receive each time you slip on his shirt, or his heated touch whenever he drapes his jacket over your shoulders during chilly morning afters—well. Those are just a bonus.)

So, maybe you left a shirt or two behind in the process. And maybe you realized that you should probably have a pair of sweatpants there as well, and a good book to read during quiet nights in. Once, you forgot your toothbrush only for Marc to pull out an extra from their medicine cabinet; now you have a toothbrush in their bathroom.

After you finally met Steven and his adorable, eclectic self—all bets were off. You bond while scouring vintage shops and finding new pieces for the flat. A little basket of throw blankets gets added to the living room (always neatly sorted by Marc, without fail). Candles—tall and stout, festive and fruity and spiced—start to litter the shelves. A particularly good haul at a used bookstore, a bit heavy for you to carry home, is instead slotted amongst their collection; the contemporary fonts and colourful covers are a stark contrast against the yellowing older texts, and you love it.

Your fingerprints are all over the place by the time Marc officially empties some space in his dresser for you, uncharacteristically avoiding your eyes as he speaks, “Just in case you wanted to keep some more stuff here.”

You were already using their closets before then (in both the storing-your-clothes sense and the stealing-their-clothes sense); you’ve practically taken over one of his drawers. But to give you one outright, to admit that he’s carved out some space just for you instead of silently accommodating your things as he always has—

“Thank you, Marc,” you whisper, brimming with emotion that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to fully express. He’ll flit about and clean and care for you because words will never capture the depth of his feelings. You see this for what it is, like all the gestures that have come before: a declaration.

“Thank you,” you repeat, and press a soft kiss onto the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too.”

It’s not much long after when Steven comes home from work grinning like a madman, one hand held behind his back. He beelines towards you, not even bothering to put his bag down.

“Hey, you.” You peck his lips and feel his smile stretch impossibly wider. “What’s got you all riled up?”

The words come out in a rush. “Havesomethingforyou.”

“Oh?”

“Close your eyes.” You can’t help but laugh a little as you follow the direction; Steven’s excitement is utterly infectious. “Okay, now hold out your hand.”

“If you give me a bug, I swear to God—”

“I would never.” His seriousness is a bit too heavy-handed, and you get a feeling you’re going to need to be on guard for a while.

You’re distracted, however, by the brush of his skin as he places something small and rigid into your palm. The metal is warm from being clasped inside his hand, but the shape is so familiar that you recognize what it is immediately.

“You can open—”

You’re already looking down—at the silver key to the flat nestled in your hand. Lonesome without the Koala plushie on Steven’s keyring, without the little charm you got for Marc’s—no, it’s meant to be your copy.

“We were thinking, right,” he starts before your heart has the opportunity to beat right out your chest, “Marc and I—well, you’re here with us most of the time. You should have your own key. Beats having to come grab mine from the museum, right?”

You let out a choked little laugh, too caught up to remind him that the only reason why you went to the museum was because else he would’ve dropped everything to deliver the keys himself. Spent his entire break and then some to commute back home so that you wouldn’t have to wait for his shift to be over, even though you could’ve amused yourself just fine outside until then.

“Yeah,” is all you manage to get out before stepping forward, burying your face in his chest as you wrap your arms around his torso. Steven’s love is unbridled; he holds you close, going on about how glad he is—how glad they both are—to have you, how he was practically bouncing off the walls at the locksmith, waiting for the key to be cut.

They’ve been your home for so long now that while the new addition onto your keyring makes you giddy and smile stupidly whenever you get to use it, it also just feels right. You go grocery shopping with Marc and watch him scrutinize apples like they personally offended him. Steven tangles your legs together as you wind down in the evenings, and always always smiles whenever he catches you looking at him. You rank the restaurants around the neighbourhood and line your favourite mugs beside each other on the shelf; you sit in the comforting quiet of the flat and wonder how you got so lucky.

When it’s eventually time to renew your lease, there’s no decision to be made. You’re relieved from dinner prep to write the email to your landlord on their couch. It’s sent off with no fanfare and quickly forgotten about when Marc’s voice rings out, asking what you want to eat.

“Anything,” you say, the ghost of a smile on your lips; he hates it when you say that. Marc grumbles a little, but you mean it this time. You have them and they have you. Curled up in one of Steven’s sweaters, Marc’s playlist on low in the background—anything is just fine by you.

.

.

.

You are the bane of Jake’s existence.

First, you meet Marc. Terrible. Khonshu is riding his ass about a mission in Liverpool—they’ve now been geolocked to stay under the radar—and Marc plans a date. An actual, Godforsaken date with a set time, throwing a wrench into their plans because Steven’s been scheduled to work on the surrounding days as well. How is he supposed to sneak off to the other side of the country now?

Even worse, you stick around. There are more dates between the two of you. For how much he hates texting, Marc responds promptly whenever you send him something. He frets over what to wear before picking you up. You stay over at the flat and he holds you in his sleep like he’s afraid you’ll disappear; Jake has been unluckily enough to wake up in the middle of the night, planning to slip away, only to be hit with the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Then—and then—Marc has the bright idea to introduce you to Steven. The hope that this is just a casual, temporary thing is dashed away the second Jake sees that lovesick expression on the idiota. It’s more overt than Marc’s, but still the same blaring warning sign that Jake’s life is only about to get harder from here.

Keeping a low profile has become incredibly difficult since the others decided to be normal. Marc never questioned whenever Jake took over in a tight spot, too hyped up on adrenaline and too stubborn about their condition to follow up on his blackouts after the fight was done. Steven was clueless about everything for those first few months, then just blamed his blackouts on Marc.

But now? They talk to each other. They have a year-long calendar on the fridge with a magnetic pen holder to keep track of their schedules, colour-coded blue (for Marc) and green (for Steven). They’ve gotten distracted and added another consciousness for Jake to deceive in order to do his thing. He can’t take the body for more than a few hours, and certainly not by force, without drawing suspicion.

Jake’s happy for them. Really, he is. They’ve finally begun to move on from the trauma of their childhood into something that resembles a normal life. Steven’s gotten rehired at the museum as a tour guide. Marc’s taken up security consulting. And despite their respective anxiousness and ten-foot-walls, you bring them peace.

But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s Khonshu’s avatar now. That a lifetime ago, when the work began to wear down on Marc in all the worst ways, Jake was the one who cut a deal with the god for his release. All he had to do was take his place.

(Foresight might not be his strong suit, but he refuses to take responsibility for what happened next. He could never have imagined all the puppetry that’d occur with Layla in the mix, or that they’d actually divorce one of these days and end up with someone new.

Except this time, you know about their system and not about Khonshu. He wonders how well you’d take that whole mess.)

In short—Marc and Steven still need him. He can’t just up and disappear into the recesses of their mind; he has a job to do.

So, when Steven presses that fucking key into your hand, Jake’s so frustrated he could scream. Unfettered access to the flat—as if you weren’t there enough already. As if he weren’t already jumping through every hoop imaginable, just to keep his existence a secret. He would’ve made them drop the copy down the nearest gutter on the way home if he didn’t know that they would simply go right back to the locksmith and ask for another.

Steven watches as you slip it onto your keychain; that all-encompassing, vibrant burst of joy in their chest be damned—you are the worst thing to ever happen to Jake, even if you might be the best thing to ever happen to them.

-

Steven had the flat, Marc had his storage unit, and Jake?

Jake has his car.

Multiple, actually, but the limousine is the legal one (thanks for your identity, Marc) and serves as his homebase. Supplies are stashed in compartments around the cabin—weapons, clothes, cash—and with its heavily tinted windows, he can do anything he wants inside and passersby would be none the wiser. When Khonshu’s booming voice echoes around his brain about some new target, at least Jake can recline into a soft leather seat.

The only issue is that he can’t keep everything there. No, the parking garage is a fair distance away from the flat and sometimes, he doesn’t have the opportunity to make the trip before setting off. This means that he has to keep a change of clothes in the flat to avoid accidentally ruining some of Steven’s or Marc’s. He’d never actually wear anything of Steven’s to begin with (at least, not on a mission), but Marc’s wardrobe is minimal by choice—if something went missing or got a new, unexplained hole in it, he’d notice.

That’s why Jake is currently slinking through their living room, ready to change back into Steven’s pajamas before hiding his clothes on the loft above their bed. Nothing up there but empty bins and poster tubes. Marc regularly dusts the area during his monthly deep cleans, so Jake doesn’t even have to worry about leaving behind any tracks.

It was an easy job tonight, done in little less than an hour and not a speck on Jake to show for it. He could take a shower if he wanted—you’re staying over at a friend’s place right now, as noted in red on the calendar. But he shouldn’t keep the body for longer than necessary; they still need sleep, after all.

He slips off his flat cap, groaning as he runs a hand through his hair. God, they’re getting old. Even this stolen hour will be felt by whoever wakes up in the morning, slightly slower and groggier than usual.

(Jake doesn’t think about the future—has never needed to. The only future that exists to him is the next minute, and the minute after that, and what he has to do to ensure the body makes it there. Him and Marc were similar in that aspect for a long, long time.

That calendar on the fridge, while helpful to his vigilantism, stirs something uncomfortable in his gut. He’s seen them flip through the months to mark down birthdays and reservations. Vacations, work events—Marc’s going on a completely normal, non-violent work trip, which Jake still can’t quite wrap his head around—and it’s all so far ahead.

How can they be so sure that nothing will change between now and then? That their life won’t blow up again, and force them on the run? Everything they add is just another handful of salt to be pressed into the wound when it all goes to hell. But they still write things on that stupid calendar. Confident, excited even, about the plans they think will come to pass.

How do they know?)

There’s a rustling in the bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck—

“Marc?”

You shift a little under the covers, trying to peer at him through the darkness. Jake’s never been more grateful for Marc’s sensible taste in fashion; with only a silhouette to go by, of course you’d mistake him for Marc—straight-cut jeans, a collared jacket. His flat cap would tip you off though, and he presses it into his chest to hide it from your line of sight. Marc would never wear a flat cap.

He forces a casual tone. “Hm?”

A small sigh of relief escapes you as your head falls back onto the pillow. Still watching him, though, you mumble, “Bad dream?”

You know about Marc’s time in the military and as a mercenary. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Jake nods, and can imagine the worried purse of your lips in the shadows. In the best impression he can manage, his accent turns Chicagoan. “Just had to take a walk.”

If he were really Marc, he’d already be in bed by now, letting you brush curls away from his face and press a kiss against the furrow of his brow. If he were really Marc, he’d ask you why you were back here instead of with your friends as expected, and you’d talk things out until dozing off in a tangle of limbs, comforted by each other’s presence.

But Jake’s not Marc. He brushes off the subtle tightening of his chest as just a lingering remnant from his alters. The body knows you, even if Jake doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything to him.

You whine, a sleepy and pitiful but inviting noise from the back of your throat as he continues to stand in the living room. Alarm bells go off in his head; he has to placate you before you get up and try to drag him over yourself.

“Just need to change,” he says, soft and low, warmth injected into every word. Nausea courses through him, to his own confusion, as he continues to play Marc. This should be easier—he’s been hiding for as long as he can remember. This is probably the tamest thing he’s done to keep his cover. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

He takes two steps towards the kitchen then stops, feigning—feigning something, fuck if he knows—waiting for your breathing to level out again. Silence falls over the flat, but Jake’s mouth runs dry.

There’s no way you don’t bring this up to them in the morning, and there’s no way they won’t immediately suspect another alter. They know he exists, have seen the aftermath of when he fronts. It’s only his secrecy that has kept them off his back for this long, and it will all come crashing down in a few hours.

For better or for worse, he’ll have to meet the others soon.

-

Marc will never tire of waking up beside you. Even though there’s a heaviness weighing him down, body aching for just a few more minutes, he pushes through because you’re already awake. With one hand on his chest, the other tracing over his jaw—the small, lazy smile on your face has already made his day.

You turned over while he was asleep, but his arm is still slung over your waist; he pulls you closer to press a kiss onto your forehead. Lips moving against your skin, “Morning, baby.”

“Morning,” you murmur. “Feel better?”

Mind hazy from sleep, Marc doesn’t question the odd wording. He just let’s himself settle into the lingering fatigue, leaning into your touch as his eyes flutter shut again. “M’tired. Stay with me a little longer?”

Concern laces your tone. “Was the dream that bad?”

That breaks through to him. He peers at you curiously, more alert than before. “What do you mean?”

You blink, confused. “Your nightmare last night. You left to take a walk?”

Marc sits up, furrowing his brow. Reality seeps in, and he checks the date on his phone. Aren’t you supposed to be—? “I thought you were staying over at a friend’s place.”

“I was going to, but she had a family emergency—I came back here around three. Don’t worry, they walked me home,” you explain with a soft pat of your hand at the end. That—that is one mystery solved, and he is glad to hear that you weren’t walking alone at night, but his shoulders remain taut with tension. His mind gets caught on a detail.

“Three?” He’s a light sleeper, he would’ve woken up when you came into bed. But—your words replay in his mind. He wasn’t here when that happened, was he? “I went on a walk?”

His stress begins to spill over to you, and you prop yourself up on an elbow, fiddling at the blankets. “Um, yeah. We spoke a little when you came back—I was already in bed, remember?”

A pit opens up in his stomach, and the words die in this throat. Marc does not, in fact, remember. He apparently went outside in the middle of the night, long enough for you to come home and settle in without him, then had a whole conversation upon return—and none of it is familiar to him. Not even a hint of déjà vu.

He throws off the covers, on his feet in seconds despite your protests. All hisblackouts, the ones he thought were finished after traversing the Duat—

That third sarcophagus—

Is this what it was like for Steven? To wake up, not knowing what your body has done, where it’s been—if it’s hurt someone?

Marc might actually puke if he thinks about it for too long. And God, you live with them now: him, Steven, and what Marc wishes was a complete unknown. But the truth is—they aren’t an unknown. No, Marc is fully aware of what this alter is capable of.

“Oh, bugger, what’s going on?” Steven must feel his panic, reflects it in kind. He must be expecting bloodshed with how fast their heart is racing.

Marc says nothing and flings open the tri-mirror on the wall, bracing himself with both hands on the sink below. He sees himself in the center, a bull primed to fight. Steven’s to the left, so fearful he’s nearly frozen still. And to the right—

To the right—

-

So. Jake hasn’t really prepared for this situation, to be honest.

He’ll face anything head-on to keep the body safe, but imagining himself as the threat? Never crossed his mind. There’s anger in their blood, and Marc’s liable to cracking the porcelain with his grip. If looks could kill, Jake would be dead ten times over.

The few times he wondered what it would be like to actually meet Marc and Steven, the worst that could happen was that they disliked him. Unfortunate, but he’d live. He didn’t need their approval to do his job.

But through the blood rushing in their ears, he can hear you; still in bed, barely breathing as you watch everything unfold. And that’s when he remembers—

You are the bane of his existence.

Because Marc and Steven aren’t just thinking about their own self-preservation. No, now they have you to protect, and the lengths that they would go to do that, well—Jake begrudgingly has to admit that they might rival some of his own efforts for them.

He’d let them stare at themselves forever in the mirror if it weren’t for that fact. They would never give up on trying to talk to him. Steven was clever enough with the sand and tape and ankle restraint; he doesn’t want to think about what sort of traps they’d create with Marc in the mix. Jake would probably still evade them all, but they’d drive themselves crazy in their attempts.

They’ve really left him no choice. For the first time, he lets himself be seen.

-

You’ve watched Marc and Steven talk to each other plenty of times. It’s really no big deal. They’re just normal conversations where you can only hear one side, and usually taken through the nearest reflective surface.

But this? This is an interrogation. Marc slackens his jaw for just a moment before everything in him tenses again. He speaks through clenched teeth, as if barely controlling the severity of his thoughts—you can’t help but brace yourself for impact. “Who are you?”

The pause as he waits for the other alter, whoever they are, to respond is maddening. It wasn’t quite fear that gripped you when you realized that it wasn’t Marc last night—to be honest, you don’t know what to feel—but the scene in front of you has you reevaluating your initial reaction.

That initial reaction being, well—the same thing you felt when you Marc told you about Steven: curiosity. You wanted to meet Steven. Almost begged for the chance near the end. Whoever this is—

“Jake.”

The name grates itself out of Marc’s throat, and you cling to the information like a life raft.

“Jake.” You can’t help but test it out on your tongue, squinting a little as you look at your boyfriend and try to see yourself calling him that. Marc looks towards you. There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes, but there’s no time to decipher any of them—a moment later, he turns back towards the mirror with a scowl.

“Why should I believe you?” The lines on his face deepen; Marc grits his teeth so hard you yearn to hold him, but you’re frozen to the spot.

“I don’t know that. After you—” his eyes dart between you and his reflection so fast, you might’ve imagined it “—after what you’ve done?”

A wave of dread washes over you.

He’s not talking about last night.

No, Marc—Marc has interacted with Jake before, and whatever happened must’ve crossed a line. Must’ve crossed several lines because of how he’s acting right now, and you want to bury yourself under the covers, still fisted tightly in your hands.

He laughs bitterly. The sound rakes through your ears. “You call that protecting us?”

Your blood runs cold. With no real context and spiked with adrenaline, your mind runs rampant with the possibilities, connects all the worst dots.

There’s no way—

“Lay a hand on her and I swear—”

You want to run and you want to hide and you want their arms around you, assuring you of—of anything. You need to leave this building and also never go outside again, because your head begins to pound with each thought that passes through.

You can still see the worry flare in Marc’s eyes when you accidentally grabbed the handle of a hot pan, the dutiful and tender way he held your hand under the tap for no less than fifteen minutes—

You can still hear Steven’s babbling when your new shoes rubbed your ankles red and raw while on a walk, distracting you from the pain the best he could until you got back home—

You are just so acutely aware of their love—that Marc and Steven would never dare hurt you. It’s impossible to reconcile your memories of them with the picture that’s being painted of Jake right now.

No. You can’t believe it.

You’re not even hearing their conversation anymore, your heartbeat is too loud. Breathing returns to you in a rush—you never even realized you stopped—and your vision swims with light-headedness.

None of it makes sense.

It—it can’t—

The mattress dips beside you, but you barely feel it. Someone’s cupping your cheeks, grounding you back into the flat, your home, and you know these hands. You know this voice, soothing in your ear, even as you shut your eyes.

They say that they’re sorry. They say that you’ll be okay.

They call you princesa.

-

It feels strange walking around the flat, knowing that he’s welcome there now.

Jake’s seen every nook and cranny through Marc and Steven, but to actually be able to explore the place himself—he’s like a kid in a toy store. He can’t help but run his fingers over everything. The spines on the bookshelves, the mismatched dishware in the cabinets. That velvet throw pillow, which you are so fond of playing with during movies—yeah, he gets it.

He’s not going to be talking to you for a while, though. After his rocky first meeting with Marc and Steven, which also coincides with the absolute worst possible first meeting with you—

It’s best to steer clear for a while.

Jake let the other two do the explaining. He watched silently as Marc told you about his past—told you about why he was discharged from the Marines and the scenes he’d wake up to after Jake had fronted—hands shaking as they held onto yours. He watched as Steven took over when it got to be too much, adding in the finer details and clarifications, steadier but no less genuine than Marc. Their arms were gentle as Steven held you in their lap, patient as you stumbled through how you felt.

“Marc seemed so mad at Jake.” You clutched at Steven’s shirt, sniffling into his neck. “I didn’t know what was happening, I—I was scared.”

No. Jake furiously shakes his head as if it would jostle the memory out of his brain. Just thinking about it threatens to unravel him, and he has to keep it together. He’s on thin ice as is.

You had been the one to temper their emotions—the sight of you panicking on their bed grinding all other issues to a halt. The conversation couldn’t continue until you were okay, and this time, Steven kept you in the loop.

Steven is wary. Steven needles him about what he’s been doing all this time, asks him what he’s going to do now with short little mhms. Steven is also the one to buy a new set of pens (because black is already used for non-individual specific events) and designates him as orange.

Marc doesn’t trust Jake at all and admits it outright. It’s—it stings more than he thought it would, but he understands. He always knew that Marc would take a while to come around, especially with you to consider—

Jake doesn’t know why he worries so much about your opinion. Protecting you is an extension of protecting the body, but he never used to care about what Marc or Steven had to say. He hates the caution in your voice when you talk about him and can’t help but appreciate you trying anyways.

He pinches himself. You’re not his to think about, period.

Acknowledging his existence also, sort of, comes with accepting it. Steven somehow finds the space for another dresser in their already cramped bedroom. Jake doesn’t even have enough possessions in general to fill that thing—not counting all the weapons and ammo that Marc would definitely have their head for if he brought them into the flat.

It’s an olive branch on both sides, though. They’re committing to having him around. He’s committing to being around, instead of lurking in the background of their lives.

His clothes only fill up the first drawer but—it’s nice. Jake stares at the thing a lot more than a used, scratched-up piece of furniture probably warrants. He can barely admit it to himself but this, all of it—going outside during the day, eating a freshly-cooked meal, even just relaxing in bed without immediately trying to go to sleep in order to Protect the Body—it really is just nice.

(Since when did he describe anything as nice?)

Then—your keys turn in the door.

.

.

.

Jake hits the eject button so fast, Steven’s probably going to get whiplash.

“Nice reflexes,” he grumbles as you enter the flat. It was funny the first few dozen times. Now? That twat’s just being a coward.

“I’m home!” You call out as Steven rounds the corner to greet you, tote bag nearly bulging in your hand. He pecks your lips as he helps you out of your jacket, then hangs it up beside the three others on the rack. “There was a little creators’ market in the park—you should’ve seen it!”

“Think I’m seeing it now,” he chuckles, moving to help you with your tote. You slink past him at the last second, grinning. “Come on, love, show us what you got!”

“They’re gifts! Just hang on.” You place the bag on the dining table and enraptured, he pulls up a stool. His head rests on his chin as he waits for you to unpack. “Okay, first, for Marc—”

You reach your hand inside and reveal a pair of black leather gloves. Not driving gloves like Jake’s—there’re far less embellishments all around. But they’re warm and flexible, perfect for colder weather. Inside, the lining is made with a material so soft that when trying one on, Steven can’t help but laugh a little in disbelief.

“Treading on my territory, pendejo?”

Marc snipes back, “Like you own a monopoly on leather gloves.”

Steven lets Marc pull to the front. An easy smile spreads on his face as he flexes his hand, testing his movement. “Thanks, baby. I really like them.”

He takes your chin into his gloved hand to thank you properly, slotting his lips against yours with no shortage of appreciation. His grip is an anchor, holding you in place as he kisses you, deep and languid. Like you have all the time in the world despite the heat flickering across his skin. When Marc gets like this, it’s not long before you start squirming under him, and your hands paw at his neck for something more.

That’s his cue to finally pull away, smirking as he traces your bottom lip with his thumb. Whether it’s the leather or him or both, he can see the effect on you, the dazed look you give him when you bat your eyes open.

Let Jake try and beat that.

“Oi! Share!”

Marc sighs. Drops his forehead to yours and reluctantly doesn’t continue any further. “Steven wants his gift now.”

“Oh,” you laugh a little, realizing the situation you’ve put yourself in. “Maybe I should’ve done Steven’s first.”

Marc steals one more kiss before retreating again, and Steven is back, clearly eager for many different reasons now. After putting Marc’s new gloves to the side, you don’t make him wait a second longer; you pull out a stunning new button-up, deep navy with a pattern of large teal palm leaves and hints of salmon accents all over.

All traces of joy disappear from Marc’s voice. “Oh, my fucking God.”

“She’s an enabler. I can’t believe it.”

Steven gapes, amazed. “How did you—”

“I had to go digging,” you admit, gesturing widely. “There were so many racks, we need to go back! I only had my one bag!”

“There’s no way people actually buy this stuff.”

“Ahh, well, it’s not that bad—"

“Are you kidding me?”

Ignoring the fashion police in his head, Steven immediately switches shirts and tosses the old one somewhere behind him. Based on Marc’s grunt, he missed the couch, but also can hardly find himself to care.

He doesn’t even bother doing up the buttons, because he knows where you’ll put your hands when he descends upon your face. Kiss after kiss on your cheeks, forehead, and nose, and soon enough you’re giggling loudly into the air. Your hands are warm against his bare torso, pulling him closer even as their stubble tickles your skin.

“Stevie—Steven! There’s one more!”

He’s not letting you off that easily, though, and finally captures your lips with his. That does buy him a few more blissful seconds until you manage to push him away; breathing heavily, you point sternly in his direction—behave.

Steven schools his expression into one of perfect obedience, teasing, but you barely even react. With one glance back down at the table, it’s like the tote bag sucked away your excitement, leaving shy uncertainty in its wake. You’re biting your lip as you reach for the last gift, quiet.

Marc hums, trying to figure out what’s wrong. Steven offers you an encouraging little smile and is about to say something when you produce the last gift in a rush, still not meeting their eyes.

It’s a simple wool scarf, colour-blocked in soft browns and greys. He waits as you fiddle with it in your hands, trying to find the words.

“He doesn’t have a scarf,” you blurt out. When Steven doesn’t respond immediately, you continue. “Jake, I mean—I don’t think he has one. I thought it would be nice.”

He follows your gaze to the coat rack near the door, filled with four sets of outerwear. It clearly doesn’t fit all the jackets owned in the household, but his favourite is hung up next to Marc’s, which is hung up beside your overcoat and Jake’s collared jacket. Various cold weather accessories are layered onto the hooks as well, multiple pairs of gloves, hats—but there are only three scarves.

Come to think of it, Steven hasn’t seen Jake ever wear a scarf either. “You’re right, love. Doesn’t his neck get cold? I know our neck gets cold.”

The corners of your mouth tug up a little and he grins, triumphant. He tunes into his head, making sure he doesn’t miss any of Jake’s reaction, but nothing comes. That’s odd. It doesn’t feel like he’s gone, more like—holding his breath.

“Think he’ll like it?” You tilt your head, though your true question is clear on your face.

The words can’t come out of Jake fast enough. “I’m not here right now.”

“Jesus, man.”

Steven huffs but covers for his alter; they’ll press him about it another time. “Once he sees it, I don’t think he’ll ever take it off.”

The gloves and scarf are added to the coat rack, which is liable to falling over one of these days due to the heavy load it’s carrying. With no shortage of complaining from Marc, Steven picks up his discarded shirt and tosses it into the laundry basket. It’s almost full—he makes a note to do a load later this week.

He must look ridiculous, parading around in an undone button-up, but you have nothing but fondness for him when he returns to cuddle with you on the couch. You’ve changed into Marc’s sweater and have to move no less than five decorative pillows in order to make enough space.

Marc makes a distressed noise when Steven throws one of them to the side. “It’s fine—”

It hits the standing lamp and you both freeze as you watch it teeter on its base, creaking ominously. After a moment, it steadies again.

“It’s only fine because of your weak throw.”

Steven splutters as he pulls you into his side. “We have the same arm!”

They bicker about the mechanics of their body, whether muscle memory crosses over when they switch or not. Marc is squarely of the opinion: No. Steven reminds him of when he punched the Jackal, and the conversation continues to devolve. Jake refrains from getting involved but spurs them on regardless with a well-placed snicker here and there.

It’s an aimless argument that has you burying your face in your hands because you’re laughing too hard; one of many that have taken place and one of many that have yet to occur.

In the morning, Marc will cook you breakfast and throw an eggshell into the bin from across the kitchen just to prove a point. Steven will go back to the market with you to buy armfuls of his favourite clothing and home goods, and he’ll add one more to his bag for every snide comment Marc makes. And Jake—

Jake will take a little while longer until he feels ready to speak to you, but you see the scarf gather raindrops and the warm, woodsy smell of their aftershave as he wears it every time he goes outside. Always see it hung up neatly on the rack, on top of his jacket so it can properly dry.

And with all four of you settled in, their cluttered little flat in London—long overflowing with books and clothes, your favourite comforts and some truly unique furniture—finally started to feel complete.

[silverskye13]

Angst prompt submitted by @theunderscorwolph

[Part 2 of 2]

[Part 1 Found Here]

[Trigger Warnings for this part: Swearing, blood and gore, religious self-harm, general angst, threats of dismemberment, torture. Read with caution, it gets dark.]

"He's been taken by the Thieves' Guild, for infringing on our turf," the thug had said. "He always hit the main square -- prime real estate -- and we thought we'd scared him off. But then he popped up last week spouting shit about a Gargoyle, and threw a bunch of our guild members off a roof. He needed to be taught a lesson. Figured we would pick up a friend of his for insurance, something to make the threat stick. Nothing personal against you -- honest! He's at the Guild Hall, just past the Watcher's Den."

Helsknight and Tango jogged down the hels streets, silent as grim death. Helsknight, for his part, was trying to keep his thoughts as still as possible. If he could just manage to keep from thinking about the events that had already passed today, maybe he could stop feeling so gods-awful about them. Control of that sort kept slipping through his fingers though, his thoughts like writhing, circling eels that kept breaking free to coil around the feeling of his sword, and the begging voice, and the wrist that looked for all the world far too breakable. Helsknight felt both exhausted and innervated, like at any moment, he might shudder apart. He also, predictably, really, really wanted to punch something. Flight had never really been an option for him. When he was scared, or stressed, or really just mildly out of his comfort zone, his one and only instinct was to fight.

[Good then, that where he was going, a fight was surely about to happen.]

Tango kept pace with him surprisingly well. Helsknight was starting to learn the Hermit was a bit more resourceful than he'd given him credit for. Pragmatic. He didn't know where he was going, but every few streets he would ask straightforward questions about what direction, and what they were looking for, and he noticed on his own that he could see Evil X’s tower from anywhere in the city. 

“Landmark build,” he’d called it, when they rounded into the Watcher’s Den, and it still loomed like a shadowy colossus in the distant haze. He paused long enough to shade his eyes and let out an impressed whistle. “BDubs would build something like that.” Then, when he realized Helsknight was waiting for him to follow. “So you and Evil X aren't on speaking terms, huh?”

“He's evil,” Helsknight said by way of explanation. “I'm not.”

“Yeah… right.” Tango looked him up and down, and Helsknight found himself stifling the urge to shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “You're really not evil, huh?”

Helsknight felt a hot flicker of tired indignation. Tango sounded so… surprised. Like he was realizing something for the first time. Helsknight thought for a moment about defending himself. Of course I'm not. But he was very aware all Tango knew of him was what Wels had probably told him, and he was very aware the things he and Wels did to each other when they crossed swords were unkind, and sometimes cruel, and not the sorts of things good people did.

“A matter of perspective,” Helsknight growled, and turned to continue through Watcher’s Den.

“I don’t think it’s just perspective,” Tango said reasonably, walking briskly to keep up with his long strides. “I mean! Most evil dudes don't have fits about torture, for one thing. Like, I know everyone draws lines somewhere, but that doesn’t feel like it’s just a noble choice, you know?”

Helsknight sighed and rolled his eyes up towards the sky, beseeching patience from whatever god or saint would deign to listen.

“And also, you gave me your cloak thing.” Tango continued, flourishing the fabric demonstratively.

“Don’t get attached,” Helsknight snorted. “I want that back.”

“Right right, whatever.” Tango waved a hand dismissively. “But you gave it to me because it would keep me safe. That’s also, objectively, not very evil.”

“How uncharacteristic of me.”

“And you clearly care about Tanguish,” Tango continued, ignoring Helsknight’s sarcasm. Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him, trying to figure out where all of this was going. “I mean, the minute I said he was gone, you wanted to look for him. And yeah, you were kinda mean about it, but you let me come along. And when those thugs attacked you, you didn’t yell at me to come help you -- which, I mean, obviously I was going to. But you didn’t expect me to put myself in danger. You went into that fight thinking you were going to be protecting me from something.”

“You give me too much credit.”

“I think it didn’t occur to you to make me take some of the heat.”

“A tactical error.”

“What changed?”

Helsknight sighed again.

“I mean, everyone’s heard you and Wels’s rap battle thing.” Tango said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It was a little dorky -- but that’s Hermitcraft. We don’t do real serious wars or anything. But. The threats sounded. Genuine? Destroying everything someone loves. Being someone’s inner darkness. That’s evil.” Tango looked up at him. “Right?”

“Tangotek.” 

“Knight of the Hels variety.”

“Don’t ask questions that have messy answers.” Helsknight rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“I’m a redstoner.” Tango’s eyes rested briefly on his sword, before he seemed to decide Helsknight wasn’t threatening him with it, and he met Helsknight’s gaze instead. “Every question I ask has a messy answer.”

Helsknight almost ended the conversation there. He wanted to. He could not rightly describe why, but he didn't like that a Hermit might consider him a good person. It made him squeamish to be looked at and judged on the truths of himself, rather than the biases and fabrications of his other half. At least then, if he were found wanting, or lacking, or cruel, it was because of Wels. 

“Has it occurred to you yet,” Helsknight said, “that I can be every bit the villain Wels says I am, and still manage to care deeply for someone?”

“Well yeah, obviously.” Tango answered simply. His voice was so light and conversational, it was hard to tell he was being earnest. But he was. He looked Helsknight in the eye, and didn't flinch. “I just also think there's more to it than that.”

Helsknight sighed. He decided to cut off… whatever this bungled heart-to-heart was, now, before it could escalate into territory where Helsknight felt too raw and vulnerable. He told himself it was knightly: it did not do to arm your enemies against yourself.

“What you think doesn't matter to me,” Helsknight said decisively, glowering down at Tango. “What Wels thinks, or any of you Hermits think, doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is what I think about myself.” Helsknight sighed, and allowed himself a little more straight honesty. “And I care what Tanguish thinks of me as well.”

Tango took all this in, turning it over with ponderous weight, like he were considering a tricky line of redstone coding.

“And what do you think about everything you've done today to rescue Tanguish?”

“I think if I manage to rescue him, and he's in one piece, and I haven't come too late, then I will still be able to sleep tonight.” Helsknight grimaced. “Though I may go to confession when he's not looking.”

“You go to confession?”

“Knights and religion,” Helsknight shrugged.

Tango nodded, snapped his fingers like he'd come to a conclusion, and said smugly, “Antihero.”

“Pardon?”

“You should read comics, Killer,” Tango smiled. “They're up your alley. Might even give you some inspiration for your outfit.”

Helsknight glanced down at his armor, and when he realized Tango kept walking without him, felt foolish as he lengthened his stride to catch up. 

-------- -

The Thief Guild was a small basalt compound on the outskirts of Watcher’s Den, one reclaimed set of structures probably stolen from the Watcher itself -- fitting for a pack of thieves. It seemed less like a proper building, and more like a honeycomb burrow someone dug into a naturally formed basalt cathedral. Only the fact that it was surrounded by other dilapidated buildings gave any indication it wasn't a stolen part of the landscape. 

They didn't approach by the main road, opting instead to spider through the alleys surrounding the compound. Helsknight kept an eye on their surroundings, making sure they weren't spotted or followed, while Tango navigated them closer to their quarry. Once he knew where they were going, he had a pretty good head for directions -- Helsknight chalked it up to all the times the Hermit had explored new generation, or gotten lost in his own strip mines. Pathfinding was a skill honed just like any other.

At last their alley intersected with the entrance to the compound. Peeking around the corner, they got a glimpse of locked gates and a barren stone courtyard, leading to purple-grey stairs. There was a landing, flanked by a pair of guards, and a closed door. From this distance, Helsknight only knew they had bows because he caught the flicker of light off the tip of a flint arrowhead. 

“So, what's the plan?” Tango whispered, eyeing Helsknight as he drew his sword. “And if your answer is ‘storm the castle like an idiot', guess again.”

“I would have stopped at ‘storm the castle’.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm a knight.” Helsknight hissed, scowling. “I don't do sneak-thieving. Even if I wanted to try stealth, I think the clattering armor will give it away.”

“So you've decided your only other option is running death-or-glory for the front gate?” Tango asked, his voice threatening to tilt out of its already over-loud whisper. “They'll turn you into a pin cushion before you run five steps!”

“I have netherite gear,” Helsknight muttered testily.

“On your arms and legs, congratulations! I'm sure that's what they'll be aiming for, and not your big head.”

“You have any better ideas?!” 

Tango opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. He tapped a finger to his lips like he was shushing himself, maybe forcing himself to think before he spoke again. “Let me see what I've got.”

Tango rifled through his pockets, found what looked to be a small black die, and tossed it to the ground. The moment it landed, it hissed into the shape of an ender chest, and with a kick from his boot, it flipped open. Tango stood quietly like that for a few minutes, hands on his sides, muttering under his breath as he parsed through the indecipherable contents. Eventually he kicked it closed.

“I've got an idea,” Tango whispered. “I'm going to make a distraction.”

Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him. “How mysterious.”

“You'll know it when you see it,” Tango chuckled. “Cover your ears.”

He started off down the alley. Helsknight called after him in a loud whisper. 

“Don't kill anyone.”

Tango stopped and cast a skeptical look back at him. “Why not?”

“We don't know where their spawns are set,” Helsknight said, squashing down a feeling like guilt that was clambering to life in his stomach. “If I have to fight through an army today, I'd rather only do it once.”

Tango swallowed uncomfortably. His bow was still slung over his shoulder, and he reached up to it now, fingers plucking at the string. “Any uh… any tips?”

Helsknight searched through bitter memories of Colosseum fights for the things he knew he couldn't fight through. Those times when he, and the people he fought against, stopped seeing each other as people and instead as problems in need of solving.

“All the limbs and joints.” Helsknight gestured to his elbows and knees. “Stay away from the thighs, the neck, the body.” He hesitated, then grimaced, the ghost of a memory tangling in his guts. “If you're desperate, and someone won't stop coming at you, you can hit them here, but save that as a last resort.” Helsknight drew a circle low on his abdomen, where organs got twisted and complicated. “It hurts like all hels, and kills slowly.”

Tango grimaced and went a little pale, the flames in his hair and tail taking on a greenish cast. It seemed to be sinking in, belatedly, just how gruesome this whole business might end up being.

“You don't have to go in with me,” Helsknight offered, forcing some steel into his voice, self-assuredness he didn't really feel. “Make your distraction, come back here, and wait for me and Tanguish to come out again.”

Tango teetered on the edge of agreeing to that. Helsknight could see it in the way his body leaned, someone who wanted to run away, to make something not his problem. Helsknight couldn't blame him for that. He didn't want it to be his problem either. There was a world of difference between fighting in an arena, and making war on someone, no matter how justified that war was. But Tango, as Helsknight was repeatedly being reminded, had resolve that was hard as obsidian, and cut like diamond. The Hermit swallowed, took a bracing breath, and shook his head.

“I've come this far, right Killer?” He said, and darted away down the alley. 

Helsknight waited. He wondered, briefly, if it had been wise to let Tango go off on his own. He waited longer. He rubbed the side of his face tiredly, trying to stave off the fatigue that came from boredom and a trying day, and, when his mind threatened to wander, he found himself itching the cut on his wrist. It was hard to scratch with his gauntlets blunting his nails, which was probably for the best. 

Helsknight's gauntlets were made in pieces. It made them easier to clean, which, after many months of fighting in the Colosseum, was something he'd come to appreciate. The main part of it was a thick leather glove, with netherite plate buckled and riveted over top. There were versions of the gauntlets where the metal plates used fully encircled the wrist, and extended down each individual finger for maximum protection, but he found these also hindered his range of movement somewhat, and given how often he wore armor out and about in hels, his were a bit simpler. The metal plating stopped at his knuckles, and only covered the top of his hands and forearm, cinching underneath with tight buckles that he kept adjusting. It was easier to take on and off, easier to pull apart to clean -- and it meant his dagger had only had to shear through leather before finding the skin beneath.

Helsknight wondered idly as he slipped a finger beneath the cut leather, if he had armored himself better, if he would have been able to hurt himself in his panic. Would he, upon glancing his dagger off the hardened plate, simply dropped the knife and prayed? Or, he wondered with macabre humor, would he have found somewhere more inconvenient to stab? He wore a chain shirt, but it was a simple thing to lift that away and access his thighs, where large veins could bleed someone dry in the seconds it took for pain to travel. He didn't think he had it in himself to kill himself over guilt. He feared dying too much. The deep unknown of whether the universe would devour him in the moments before respawn was a lurking terror that still strangled him on dark nights, and during particularly bloody fights.

[Then again, Helsknight thought grimly, he hadn't thought he was capable of torture, and yet, desperation had driven his hand to that particular blade with startling speed, even if circumstance had spared him the swing.]

Tango’s ‘distraction’ sent him hurdling out of his poisonous thoughts like a man thrown from a second story window. There was a loud explosion, something near-deafening, that shook the air and the ground, and sent sheets of dust cascading around Helsknight. The ground beneath his feet cracked ominously, and the wall at his back groaned and resettled itself, bowing slightly in the middle as something integral in the ground destabilized. Two smaller explosions kicked the air overhead, billowing smoke and the high, tinny whine of spent fireworks. Helsknight's world narrowed to haze, and the pervasive smell of gunpowder. 

Tango, a flickering spark that seemed to leap at him from the gloom, materialized at his side. His hands were soot-stained, his grin wide and manic. He reeked of sulfer and salt peter, and the chemical high of ignition. 

“Consider them suitably distracted!” Tango keened, his words mangled by giggles. “Time to kick some butts!”

“Was that TNT?!” Helsknight coughed, trying to pull the collar of his tunic over his mouth and nose. The smoke stung his eyes and put a bitter taste in his mouth, and he kept blinking to clear away tears.

“No good redstoner ever leaves home without it!” Tango laughed, shrugging his bow off his shoulders. “After you Killer, before the smoke blows away.”

Helsknight nodded, gathering up his determination. He drew his sword and charged for the gate. The explosion had knocked askew one of the support pillars holding it up, and Helsknight found it relatively easy to kick it open. The lock held, but the cracked stone gave up the hinges on one side, and Helsknight vaulted over the twisting metal as it fell. Behind him, Tango cackled, impressed. The smoke billowing through the courtyard sheltered them, so that the remaining guard by the door only knew Helsknight was there when the knight was slamming the flat of his blade against the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground, and Helsknight shouldered his way through the front door which was, thankfully, unlocked.

Inside the compound, the corridors were dark and close, lit intermittently by shroomlights in the ceiling, casting everything in a dim orange glow. Helsknight paused, tilting his head to listen. Ahead of him, the building split into three hallways, one continuing into some kind of foyer, while the other two branched into long tunnels. There were shouts down one hall, mostly names and demands about what had happened and who was hurt. The other was relatively quiet, emptied perhaps, after the ruckus. The foyer started empty, but as Helsknight watched, a pair of thieves passed into it, looking shaken. 

“Get the one on the left,” Helsknight told Tango, and charged in while the Hermit sputtered, and drew an arrow to his bow. Helsknight was on the pair of thieves in a handful of long strides, his gauntleted fist connecting with one’s sternum with the full force of his run behind it. He felt the satisfying huff of air bucking out of their lungs as he winded them, and as they crumpled to floor wheezing, he turned to the second. He caught their drawn dagger on his gauntlet, but before he could raise his sword to them, Tango’s arrow took them in the leg, and they fell. 

Helsknight, running on adrenaline and the need for swift action, turned to slam his boot down on the arm of the one he'd winded. He wrinkled his nose at the sound and feel of bone breaking. He took a second to gulp down his revulsion, and then demanded, “Tanguish, the  Gargoyle thief. Where is he?”

They pointed him towards a nearby open door. Helsknight narrowed his eyes towards the corridor, not entirely sure if he should trust the direction given. He swallowed, and once again dredged up his dread persona from the Colosseum, the remorseless villain that didn't trust, and didn't relent. He ground the heel of his boot down, eliciting a long shriek of pain.

“Perhaps I should drag you with me,” Helsknight said in the cool, quiet voice he used for villain speeches and threatening monologues, “so, if I find out you've lied, I can break your other arm as well?”

“N-n-n-not lying!” They gasped, eyes wide and terrified. “That hall. Down the stairs. Past the big doors. Guild boss is down there with him.”

Their friend, who was now staring down the point of Tango’s next arrow, nodded fast agreement. “You can't miss it!”

Helsknight nodded. He was about to move, when a clattering sounded from the entrance to the foyer. He turned to watch three more thieves come into the room from where he and Tango had entered. One of them he recognized as a street thug who had ambushed him. That one took a frightened step back, while the other two drew swords and knives.

[Not good odds.]

Helsknight opened his mouth and said something. He wasn't really paying attention to words, only pulled a suitably terrifying line at random from a list of memorized Colosseum threats, and focused on the tone of his voice and the lines of his body. The thug he'd met before turned abruptly and ran. The other two took hesitant steps backwards, and lowered weapons. Beneath him, the thief with the broken arm whined. Tango gulped audibly, and cast him a wary glance. Reassured he wouldn't be followed, Helsknight turned and made for the hallway he'd been pointed down. Tango backed after him, keeping his bow trained on the thieves for a few seconds longer before coming to his side.

“Maybe… I take it back,” Tango laughed nervously. “There might be a little evil in there.”

Helsknight raised an eyebrow at him. “That bad?”

“I mean yeah that was kinda threatening!”

“Wasn't paying attention,” Helsknight grunted. “Glad it worked.”

Tango blinked at him, incredulous. “What do you mean you weren't paying attention?!”

“I kind of just… say things sometimes.” Helsknight admitted, shrugging. “Something that came from my relationship with Wels, I think. Sometimes I focus on what I want, and don't pay attention to the words really, and it'll stick. Comes in handy when I'm improvising villain lines in the Colosseum, though I've had some people ask me not to do it, since it gets a little personal. Red especially hates it.”

Tango opened and closed his mouth a few times in a good impersonation of a startled fish.

“What'd I say?”

“Oh, nothing interesting,” Tango gave a bark of baffled laughter. “Just, you know, something about taking the marrow from their bones before the mercy of respawn. Reasonable threat.”

“Oh. Gross.” Helsknight snorted and rolled his eyes, “Sounds too dramatic to work.”

“It helps that you're like, twice everyone’s size and obviously know your way around a sword.”

“That helps,” Helsknight grunted, refocusing on the hallway ahead as doors began opening up along its sides. 

Startled people, thugs and thieves and whoever else happened to have business in the Guild, were peering out to gauge the commotion. Some of them took one look at an armed and armored knight, flanked by an archer, and promptly scrambled to close and bolt their doors again. Several didn't. Helsknight charged to meet them, taking advantage of the closeness of the hallway, and the forced bottleneck it made. Three, four people at a time he would struggle to fight off, if he could fight them off at all. One or two, though, he thought he could manage, if he was quick enough.

Helsknight ducked a knife, parried a hand axe, and punched the nearest throat he could reach. His focus narrowed to his hands, his feet, and the flickering of metal in the dim light. Twice he felt a blade clatter off his armor, the thick grieves protecting his forearms. Once, someone managed a lucky stab at his ribs, and while his chainmail caught the blade, he felt something bruise, and lost half a breath. Someone -- the axe wielder -- slammed their blade hard into his sword and he dropped it. This was not ideal, but Helsknight was a man who preferred a sword in his hand. He was far from helpless without one. He drew his dagger, buried it in the axe-wielder's shoulder, then ripped their axe from their now limp hand and promptly chopped it into someone else’s knee. While he was ducked low, Tango’s arrow caught someone else in the shoulder, and then the forearm, and they fell howling.

By the time Helsknight had hacked and slashed his way down the hall, his arms were bloodied up to the elbow. His breath came in gasps that rattled in his sore ribs in growls. There was a fiery line of pain on one thigh that threatened to make him limp, and a bone-aching bruise on his left arm where someone smashed him with what he thought was a chair leg. Fatigue was starting to worm its way into his muscles, the repeated shocks to his joints made him grit his teeth through increasing aches. His stomach churned, adding to the chorus of discomforts. He was not used to so much blood, and the smell was cloying; so physical it had a taste. 

Blood was one of the many things respawn scrubbed away, the universe setting harms to rights. In leaving so many people alive in his wake, all that wounding had nowhere to go, so it clung to him like groping hands, and ran in rivulets down his armor. Helsknight felt mad, a rabid animal barely in control of his senses. His sword, returned to his hand as he'd cleared the hall, was both slick and sticky all at once. It all felt deeply, deeply wrong.

[Confession, as soon as the next one wa held. Or he might just preemptively bleed himself dry begging for forgiveness.]

Helsknight's Saint, it had to be said, was not a squeamish divinity. They were the Saint of Blood and Steel. Most of their prayers were made not with words, but with the opening of veins. But the Saint, for what Helsknight thought were very good, very obvious reasons, didn't condone wanton violence and cruelty. Helsknight’s tenets were so tied up in reasons why not to raise his blade, sometimes he wondered if he shouldn't keep it peace-knotted like the paladins did.

[The Saint, he thought, would not like what he was doing now. He thought he fought with good reason. He thought he wasn't being unnecessarily cruel. But he thought many people probably thought that way, when justifying atrocities to gods.]

[He wondered, distantly, as he reached the stairs down, if Tango thought he was a villain yet.]

Regardless of what Tango thought of him, if he thought anything at all, the Hermit was at his back. His nervous laughter had stopped about halfway down the hall, giving way to exhausted concentration. They were back to back, Tango keeping an arrow trained behind them in case someone tried ambushing them, and from their closeness Helsknight could feel him shaking. He didn't know if Tango shook from horror or fatigue, but he could hear the Hermit’s breath quick and harsh, and his fire had taken on a permanent greenish cast that greyed the red-orange hues emanated from the overhead shroomlights.

They descended the stairs together in breathy silence. Tango fired a warning shot behind them, and whispered something so soft and hoarse, Helsknight couldn't hear it over the sound of his own rough breathing. He deciphered the meaning well enough though, between the tone of voice and the arrow: People were coming behind them. 

Helsknight moved quicker, taking the stairs two at a time, until he emerged into anothers at foyer of some sort. There was a pair of double doors -- like the thief had described -- at the end of the room, and past that, another set of doors that he watched close and lock. Helsknight stormed through the abandoned room, past overturned chairs and other signs of haste. When they passed the open doors, Tango stopped.

“I'll make sure no one can follow us,” Tango said, closing them and running for some of the nearby furniture. “You think you can get those open, Killer?”

Helsknight put on a grim smile. “No force in hels can keep me out of that room.”

“Villain vibes!” Tango called to him, only halfway joking.

Helsknight strode up to the closed doors and, reasonably, he thought, tried the handle first. It was locked. Helsknight rolled his shoulders and sighed.

It took three kicks to break open the doors. The first broke the lock. The second bent the latch, and sent a wide crack spiraling up the wood. The third had them thrown open so hard, they banged off the walls and shuddered, and one tilted askew off a hinge. 

Helsknight’s eyes locked on someone who looked vaguely like a leader. At the very least, they wore clothing that looked more official, and better kept. Tanguish was at their feet, slumped over onto the ground. Helsknight spared Tanguish enough of a glance to see no mortal wounds, before striding across the room, sword held out wide, the bloody tip ringing as it grazed across the ground. He didn't know what he planned to do exactly. Beating the Guild Leader senseless was probably on the list somewhere, but for now he would settle on looking terrifying and unstoppable.

The Guild Leader lunged for Tanguish and yanked him to his feet, a dagger shoved up against his throat threateningly. Helsknight stopped dead in his tracks, sudden fear shooting frigid lines through his veins. 

“There we are,” the Guild Leader said, smiling tensely. “Let's be reasonable here.”

Tanguish was awake and alert in the Guild Leader’s grip. There was an ugly purple bruise beneath one of his eyes, and he breathed irregularly, like it was a labor. His eyes were wide and fearful, and brimmed with unshed tears, his expression a war of relief at seeing Helsknight, and terror of the circumstances.

“H-Helskn--”

“You stay quiet,” the Guild Leader hissed, pressing the dagger against Tanguish’s skin. They didn't draw blood, but the delicate skin dimpled warningly. Tanguish let out a soft, fearful noise, almost too pathetic to be a whine. Helsknight seethed. Anger and fear were snakes in his ribs, his adrenaline a lighting buzzing to life in his veins. He felt like he had when he’d pinned the thug to the wall, desperation on the verge of moving to wicked violence.

“Let him go,” Helsknight demanded, his voice cold and soft as a deadly promise.

“I would love to,” the Guild Leader said amiably. “But see, I'm not stupid. As soon as he’s away from my knife, that sword is coming for me, and I would rather not flirt with the universe today, if it's all the same to you.”

Helsknight heard a noise to his side, the slip of a boot. He glanced over and saw two thugs waiting near the wall on that side of the room. One had a sword, the other, a daunting looking spear. A quick check of his other side, and Helsknight saw a third person waiting, sword in hand. 

[Blundering right in here had perhaps been a tactical error.]

“Drop your weapon,” the Guild Master hummed, and this time when they pressed their dagger against Tanguish's throat, they didn't relent until a trickle of blood spilled free. Tanguish, very bravely, did not whine, but he screwed his eyes shut painfully. 

Helsknight tossed his sword to the ground, and watched Tanguish flinch every time it clattered. He tried to collect all his helpless anger into the center of his chest, where he could bury it. Anger wouldn't help him right now. He wasn't sure anything could help him, but anger certainly wouldn't. 

[Tango.]

Tango hadn't followed him into the room. He didn't dare look back to see if the Hermit had been caught. It would just draw attention to him if he wasn't. Helsknight couldn't hear anything besides the cautious approach of the henchmen he’d stumbled in on. Their footsteps were hesitant, skittish. He felt them more than he heard them, like spider legs on his skin.

“Check him for further weapons,” the Guild Leader said, and as their thugs moved in to do so: “Well, this wasn't how I anticipated getting you here, but you did get here. So, now my threats can have the weight I need them to have.”

Helsknight was still listening for Tango, trying to figure out what, if anything, the Hermit might plan to do. He decided the best way he could help was to be distracting. [It would give the Hermit time to escape, if nothing else. There was no point in everyone getting killed here today.] 

As well as he could, Helsknight shoved his emotions down in favor for his Colosseum theatricality, to make himself threatening and dangerous, even disarmed. One of the only perks to being drenched in blood, was ir proved not all of his pretense was an act.

“Watch yourself,” Helsknight murmured to the brave thug who reached him first. They watched him warily, freezing halfway to reaching for his belted dagger. “I bite.”

They took a rather large step back away from him, and he flashed his teeth in something that was more snarl than grin.

“Don't be ridiculous.” The Guild Leader snorted. “Put your hands over your head or something.”

“I would rather not.” Helsknight splayed his blood-spattered hands, a motion that startled one of the three thugs trying [and failing] to search him into jolting back a step. “For obvious reasons.”

“Not my fault you decided to cut your way through half the compound.”

“And I'll cut through the rest of it before I'm done,” Helsknight said levely.

“I don't think so.” The Guild Leader said, and nodded to one of the thugs.

A boot planted itself in Helsknight’s knees, and he dropped to the floor. He caught himself with his hands, but the flicker of metal at his eye level kept him from springing back up again. The swordsmen were flanking him, their blades crossed over the back of his neck, the tips intruding on his peripheral vision. He had to force himself to breathe slowly, to ignore his panic as it crawled to life in his chest and set his heartbeat racing.

With Helsknight secured, the Guild Leader finally released Tanguish, shoving him roughly to the ground. Helsknight had to bite his tongue to keep from calling out to him. He didn't like how weak Tanguish seemed to be, how easily these thugs yanked and tossed him around. But he worried showing his concern would make their situation worse, or at the very least, give their captors vindication. Instead he glowered, and searched Tanguish for anything that could be wounding.

Their eyes met, and Tanguish flashed him an agonized expression. His voice was small and broken as he whispered, “I'm sorry.”

Helsknight found his resolve breaking almost immediately. His gaze softened, and he whispered back as comfortingly as he could under the circumstances. “Don't be.”

The Guild Leader flourished their dagger, a motion that set the metal flashing in the dim light. Tanguish flinched at the motion. Helsknight only watched it warily, waiting for the blade to find a reason to bite.

“I do pity you swordsman. I didn't want to get you involved--”

“A wise decision,” Helsknight growled. One of the swordsmen hovering over him tapped the back of his neck warningly with their blade. 

“--but you see, we here at the Thief Guild, well, you've heard the saying thick as thieves I'm sure. We built this place to protect each other. Hels is a very large, very dangerous place.”

They flourished the dagger again, and this time, Helsknight caught a flicker of something in the reflection of the blade. He couldn't be sure, but for a brief second, he thought he saw what he thought was firelight ducking back behind the wall. 

[Tango.]

Why was the Hermit still here? Surely he should know to cut his losses and run. There was no saving them from this. No way Helsknight could see, anyway. Helsknight couldn't run, even if his tenets didn't keep him from it, he didn't think he could break away from so many blades. Not now while he was pinned. And even if he could somehow fight through these four thieves, with no constricting hallway or element of surprise to aid him, he couldn't go back out the way they'd come in. Tanguish still had no reflection to leap through, and Helsknight didn't think he could get him one in the time it would take his captors to remove his head from his shoulders.

Dread and helplessness were poisons in his stomach, weighing him down, draining him. Helsknight realized, now that his blood had a chance to cool, that he was exhausted. The cut on his leg still burned. His arms throbbed, both from bruises and from his rough use of them. His back, shoulder and neck hurt from swinging his sword, and the contact of bodies. A bone-deep weariness was settling across him, and he was pretty sure just getting here already had him borrowing strength from tomorrow. If he were the sort of person who gave up, he could very easily see himself laying down here on the cold ground and waiting for the inevitable. There was only so much fight a body could muster.

Helsknight pinned his gaze to the floor beneath his hands. His brow creased in a slight frown. Slowly, praying the movement didn't draw attention, Helsknight shifted his hand over to rub at the smear of blood on his gauntlet. Netherite was not nearly so reflective a surface as iron or gold, but it did have some luster. He could see his own eye reflected back at him, and the hazy shapes of the swordsmen overhead. 

The beginnings of a plan tumbled together in Helsknight’s head. He thought there was a large chance it wouldn't work. He thought a lot relied on Tango being clever, and good at timing, and pragmatic enough to not make stupid mistakes.

[He thought, if the Hermit had proved nothing else today, he had proved he was good at those three things.]

Helsknight let out a derisive noise in the back of his throat, cutting off the Guild Leader halfway through their threatening monologue. They had been pacing, and now they stopped, flourishing that dagger in their hand again. 

“Can we speed this up?” Helsknight asked, disdain thick in his voice. “I'm not sure if you idiots have looked in a mirror lately, but you're not exactly scary, and I'm getting tired of kneeling on your stupid floor.” He narrowed his eyes daringly at the Guild Leader and spat. “Whatever you're planning to do, get it over with. There are a thousand things worse than dying here. Listening to you blow hot air for the next hour just might be one of them.”

The Guild Leader blinked at him, caught somewhere between incredulous and irate. Helsknight actually watched their face redden with anger. They stalked over to him, kicking aside Tanguish as they went. Tanguish who, as soon as Helsknight stopped speaking, immediately started making excuses for him. 

“He didn't mean it! Please, leave him alone! He's got nothing to do with this--!”

Tanguish started to crawl to his feet, but the spearman was over him in an instant, harrying him back down.

Helsknight twisted his arm so that the reflection on his gauntlet faced Tanguish. He knew Tanguish needed the physical touch to leap through, but all he or Tango needed to make the jump from the other side was the ability to see their other half--

The Guild Leader grabbed a fistful of Helsknight's hair and yanked his head back, twisting him uncomfortably so his throat was bared. Fear, cold and relentless, washed through him like ice water, radiating from the point of the knife as the Guild Leader hooked it beneath his chin, and all thoughts he had fled him. 

“You know,” the Guild Leader hissed, “you're entirely too smug for a prisoner. I think you could use some humbling.”

Helsknight suppressed a shudder, if for no other reason than he feared the jerking movement would slice him open on the knifepoint.

“I was informed you threatened to take off one of my thief’s hands,” the Guild Leader said. “I don't know about you, but I don't think a swordsman is quite so effective without both of his either, wouldn't you say?”

Helsknight's mind went very still, and very cold, emptied of any ability to reason and plan. He felt as though he'd been very abruptly shoved underwater. Fear smothered him, made him senseless and slow. What was it Tango had called it? Shock?

He thought [N…]

He thought [No…]

Someone shoved him down roughly. A boot stepped down on his gauntlet, holding his arm still and outstretched. The joint at his elbow was exposed, that diminutive gap between armor and mail.

He thought [He didn’t want this to happen.]

Tanguish was shouting.

He thought [This can't be happening.]

The people holding him down were discussing the best way to go about their business. Helsknight tried to thrash, tried to break free, but his angle was awkward, and he was tired and sore. The second swordsman pressed a knee against his back, pinning him down. 

He thought [Is Tanguish worth this?]

One of the swordsmen passed their sword to their leader.

He thought [He has to be worth this. Because otherwise it was for nothing.]

The blade gleamed as it was drawn back. Low light flickering. Helsknight's heart beat so fast he thought it might give out and stop. His ears rang, his head full of empty fear and animal panic and void static. 

He thought [

He thought [

He thought [S

He thought [Stop]

He thought [Please]

He thought [Saint of Blood and Steel]

He thought [Any God. 

He thought [Any Saint.]

He thought [Anyone.]

He thought [Anyone!]

He thought [Please.]

[Don't let this happen.]

Tango sprang out of the sword’s reflection just as it began its arc downward. His bow was in his hand, the arrowhead a blazing smear of reflected light. His flame was the blinding white of fear, and the anger that chases fear, and the fear that chases anger, and the anger that chases fear. He was, for a moment, weightless, timeless, frozen. He was, for a moment, the will of gods, and divine intervention, and the fumbled attempts of someone who lacked all heroism trying his best to be help.

Tango’s arrow took the Guild Leader in the chest. The shot was terribly close. The full force of the bow and the air and everything that made arrows work couldn’t work at such a short distance. Shouldn't work. But it was a very powerful enchanted bow, and the Leader was unarmored, and Tango was desperate, and a Hermit, and whether he knew it or not, the universe loved him deeply. 

The shaft sank halfway to the fletching in the Guild Leader’s chest. 

The room exploded into motion and sound. Tango landed heavy on the floor, and was immediately ducking a swung sword. The spearman lunged for him as well, and the one unarmed thug was busied trying to keep their dying Guild Leader from collapsing. Helsknight, all panic and anger, and the need to fight anything if it would stave off future helplessness, came lunging off the ground. He barrelled into the spearman, his shoulder planting itself squarely against their chest and sending them off their feet. Helsknight's sword was in his hand -- he didn't know when he’d picked it up -- and he turned on the swordsman and crashed his blade into theirs before they could stab Tango. 

Their blades met once, twice. His arms hurt. His chest hurt. His leg hurt. The edges of his vision were blurs, and the only thing he wanted was to make these people gone, now, before they could kill anyone. 

The Guild Leader was dead. 

The second swordsman had picked up their dropped sword, and they came at Helsknight with grim ferocity. He slapped away their lunge with neither finesse nor calculation, only the knee-jerk and instinctual power of the frenzied. Helsknight backed up a step, and his boot kicked into Tanguish’s tail. Tango was trying to help him to his feet, but when Tanguish tried to stand, he whimpered in pain. Behind them, the spearman was retrieving their spear, a hand clutched to their winded chest. 

“Get him out of here!” Helsknight snarled at Tango. 

The Hermit looked at him, looked for a moment like he might argue, and then to Helsknight's infinite relief, he yanked an arrow from his quiver. The metal arrowhead glinted as he turned it in his fingers.

“No!” Tanguish argued, horrified. “Not without--!”

Tanguish reached for Helsknight a second after Tango reached for him. They vanished. 

Leaping towards Helsknight from where they had been, came the spearman. Helsknight twisted, hacked away the spearhead, and lost his breath when one of the swordsmen lunged and jabbed hard at his ribs. What once was bruised, broke. Helsknight’s breaths, when they finally came, lanced him with pain, and that pain focused him, grounding his wits momentarily. This time when a swordsman lunged, his blade snaked out to drive into their shoulder, and they fell back bleeding. The second swordsman and the spearman attacked him in tandem and he back-stepped hurriedly, focusing on parrying the spear. His shoulders touched the wall behind him. The swordsman leaped for him, victory spurring them into a headlong rush. Helsknight’s sword sheared through their throat, and as they fell, the spearman lanced forward.

The air was driven from Helsknight's lungs again as the spearhead plunged into his stomach, punching through a few weakened rings of his mail and burying deep. Helsknight’s entire world narrowed to white, hot, electric pain, and the intimate wrongness of intrusion where nothing was supposed to be able to reach. He doubled over, his hands groping for the spear shaft, his sword dropped and forgotten. Before he could grip it, the spear was ripped from him, and he would have screamed if he had the breath to. 

Helsknight crumpled to the floor and curled in on himself, fists bunched against the wound. He didn’t know if he was trying to stop the bleeding, or simply trying to shield himself from the awful sight of it. Touching it made his hands shake, lanced him with another wave of pain, and a feeling of wrongness so intense he nearly gagged. He had taken wounds like this in the Colosseum only once or twice before, and that experience didn't help him. It was every bit as breathtakingly painful as he remembered, and it seared his thoughts raw. 

Out of the corner of his eye, a hazy silhouette loomed. The spearman was watching him. 

A shattered thought, more instinct than coherency, made Helsknight search for his sword. It was within reach. 

He wanted to reach for it, but fear stayed his hand. His wound was terrible, but it was in the deep, complicated places of the body that didn’t kill with immediacy. Helsknight, above anything else in life, feared death. He thought he would rather suffer here on the floor for the next hours, hels, the next days, if there was a chance he would live. That someone might bring him mercy, and healing, before he had to face down the maw of the universe and respawn. But if he picked up his sword… if he made himself threatening…

There was no one left here for him to protect. No one to distract from any coming wrath, or vengeance from the thieves in the hall. It was just him. 

He was alone, and he was dying. 

Fear sank its withering roots deep into him, twined in his ribs, where his already haggard breathing grew tight and suffocated. It wrapped around his spine, commanding him to be still. It commanded he wait, and suffer, and hope and pray and be helpless, for the barest chance death might pass him over. 

The spearman moved slowly, stalking around so that Helsknight could see them better. They were not anyone Helsknight recognized, though there was a detached coldness in their gaze he didn’t think he’d ever forget. 

“You’re so quiet,” they informed him, as he lay on the ground and bled. “Even when you’re threatening people, or in pain. It’s uncanny.”

Helsknight took a breath, and tried to muster enough coherent thought to speak. 

They kicked him. 

They only did it once, but they kicked him where his fingers interlaced over the wound in his stomach. It was a cruelty driven by frigid curiosity, someone pulling the legs off a spider to see when the squirming would stop.

If they expected Helsknight to scream, he didn’t. He would have, if he could. Between his fear, and the broken rib, and the intrusion of his diaphragm on the wound in his stomach, breath was a thing Helsknight could only sip shortly and painfully, in hitches and gasps. There wasn’t enough of it in him to scream properly. But every muscle in his body contracted in agony, and a gag ripped its way up his throat, and when the little breath he had left him, it left him in a whimper that shook and strangled out when blood pulsed with his heartbeat onto his hands. Helsknight’s vision contracted, edged in black, spangled by multicolored stars.

The spearman seemed unimpressed. They took their spear in both hands and studied him, considering.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to be tough, or if you’re just pathetic.”

[Pathetic.]

[Pain made heroes of no one.]

The spearman moved, pointing their bloody spearhead down at him. For a moment, Helsknight feared they had decided to kill him and be done with it. They lowered the broad spearpoint down towards his hands, as though they expected to probe the wound again. Helsknight’s hand snapped out with a suddenness he didn’t even know he was capable of, driven by one last faltering, frigid spine of adrenaline. The dying ghost of self preservation. He gripped the weapon shakily, and hissed in fleeting gasps.

“Touch me again, and when I come back here for you, I will bring every knight and paladin in hels with me.”

Helsknight didn’t speak with sureness or authority. His voice was a weak and wincing thing that threatened to break at the end of every word. But he meant it. He meant it with every fiber of his being. A place like this, with people this cruel, could not be allowed to exist. Not if he was allowed the chance to leave. If no one else, he knew his Saint wouldn’t abide cruelty like this. 

Helsknight had never been a paladin. In truth, what the paladins went through in their blind service scared him almost as much as dying did, but he would unleash their fury on this place in a heartbeat. 

The spearman laughed at him and yanked their spearpoint out of his hand. It cut his palm, but it was such a small hurt compared to all the others, Helsknight barely felt it. 

“Really? And how are you going to do that, huh? Knights don’t listen to people like us.”

[People like us?]

“I’m a knight,” Helsknight gasped. 

They laughed again, “Really? And did you leave your cloak at the cleaners when you went on crusade?”

“It’s on loan, you asshole.” 

The spearman startled, turning on their heel towards the voice. Helsknight didn’t know when Tango had returned. Probably it had been just now. He didn’t have time to wonder how Tango had made it back to him again. Wels stood behind Tango, a look of horror and fury on his face. The resplendent silver and diamond of his immaculate plate didn’t gleam so brilliantly in the dim red of hels, but he was an imposing figure nonetheless. Wels’s own fist was balled sympathetically against his stomach, like he could feel the ghosts of Helsknight’s pain through whatever connection they had. His double’s empathetic rage washed over Helsknight like a wave, buried his own dread and fear beneath a wall of righteous fury. Breathtaking. 

Wels moved like a hawk swooping, quick and arrow-point keen. The spearman, caught off-guard, barely managed to lift their spear. 

Then Tango was kneeling beside Helsknight, cutting off his view. He swore bitterly when he saw the wound, and clasped his hand against Helsknight's, as if he thought the extra pressure would help. It didn't. Or if it did, it paled in comparison to the spike of pain it wracked through Helsknight. He must have made some pathetic noise, because Tango keened fearfully back at him, yanking his hand away. 

“I'm sorry! Just hang in there, Killer,” Tango said, rifling through his pockets for anything reflective. “I've got like-- like six health potions with your name on them brewing back at Hermitcraft. Just-- just-- you know. Keep it together.”

Helsknight didn't think the ‘keep it together’ was directed at him. He must have looked pathetic indeed, because Tango clasped his hand in Helsknight's in an attempt to be reassuring, and shouted for Wels to hurry up.

[Had the little fool really come running back here so fast, he forgot to bring a reflection to escape with?]

After what felt like a small eternity, where Tango mumbled awkward reassurances, and all Helsknight could do was breathe, and try very hard not to bleed to death, Wels rejoined them. His armor was pristine as always, though he had a new cut on his cheek, and a disgusted expression on his face. The emotions radiating from him were of the purest contempt, probably directed at the spearman he’d killed. They softened to pity and nervousness when he laid eyes on Helsknight again, like colors bleeding in water.

“It's a bad wound Tango,” Wels said hesitantly. “It might be kinder to help him respawn.”

Tango shook his head briskly, “I promised.”

“The trip through the void--”

“If you won't bring him back for me, move your metal butt closer and I'll bring him back myself,” Tango snapped. He grimaced and said a bit gentler, “They're scared of respawn here for some reason. I don't get it bu-- but-- just-- I'll owe you one. Okay?”

Wels sighed and looked down at Helsknight. It was not a hateful, cruel, or wary look. It was an expression like someone trying to make his way through hard choices.

“Wels--” Tango started again, but stopped when Wels knelt beside him.

“This will hurt,” Wels warned, and then pulled one of Helsknight's arms around his shoulders. Tango grabbed his other arm, and Helsknight's world was consumed by fire in his stomach, and a blurring of star-filled black and breathless pain. He must have cried out again, because Tango was babbling apologies beside him, and Wels radiated the kind of nauseating determination one acquired when about to embark on a holy war.

“Hold onto him tightly,” Wels instructed. “If we lose him between worlds, I doubt we'd find him again.”

They fell.

----- ----

The Universe was a living thing. 

It muttered, and felt, and spoke. 

It was not human. 

It understood, in broad strokes, human concepts like emotion and religion and thought and living and art. If it had a mind for metaphors and analogies, it might describe its understanding as the same understanding a human has for ant pheromones, or the way a sea slug hunts for certain chemicals in the water. A human hears the word pheromone and knows, to an ant, it is probably a sweet and enticing smell, like lavender or fresh bread, but a human will never smell an ant and smell something desirable. A human will hear the word chemical, and know whatever the slug is hunting probably has a taste, and to a slug, that taste is like honey, or sugar, or, again, freshly baked bread. But a human could never sift through the ocean floor and taste something enticing.

The Universe liked the idea of bread. 

The Universe thought, in the closest way the Universe could think about anything, in thrums and chords like discordant melody, in tapestry and weave and time, that the things it loved most in itself were like bread. They were molded and shaped, and through fire and heat, they rose. And they made something that smelled desirable, and tasted enticing, and the Universe, above all else, loved to devour. It devoured bits of itself every instant, and through that devouring, it remade itself again. 

And the Universe said: nothing is separate from any other thing. 

There were two bright stars falling through the Universe, and they smelled to it like baking bread. Between them, held in hands that clung for life and limb, was a dark spark of dying and nothing and never should have. It was a familiar never. It was a spark of flame made so one of its best loaves could rise. A bright star.

The Universe didn't want to devour that flame of never, and shouldn't have been. The Universe could not want, as all it needed, it was. 

The Universe liked to set itself to order. It liked the making of bread. It liked the things inside of it that set its world to order, and made with their hands, and rose. It liked things that were like itself.

And the universe said: you are a flame of what never should have been

And the universe said: I feel nothing for you, for you came from nothing

And the universe said: you are weak and small and failing

And the universe said: your heat may not be strong enough to form a rising

And the universe said: you are disorder, and chaos, and change for the sake of changing

The jaws of the universe neared, wide, and hungry. It liked to set things to order. It liked leavened bread. It liked two bright stars, very like itself. Between them was a dark and dying thing, that never should have been. It was a dark and dying thing that they should not hate, because nothing had no substance to despise. It was a dark and dying thing that they should not love, for nothing had no substance to enjoy. But it was a dark and dying thing that they clung to regardless.

The Universe clung to many things it should neither hate nor love. Things like stars, and orbits, and worlds. Things like code, and making, and living. 

And the universe said: you are creating change

And the universe said: you are creating chaos

And the universe said: someday you must be set to order

And the universe said: but the bread has not finished rising

The Universe let them pass. It did not decide to let them pass. If the Universe were able to speak in metaphor, or even in words that the pieces of itself could hear, it would say it could not decide to let them pass. Just as the lungs do not decide to breathe, and the heart does not decide to beat, and the spine does not decide to hold. As a heart that times itself to another, so that two bodies close together might feel comfort and belonging, the Universe timed itself to their movement, and they passed.

And the universe watched those bright stars and said: I love you

And the universe said: Even the absence of something has purpose

And the universe said: Rise

Helsknight must have passed out somewhere between hels and Hermitcraft, or if he didn't, he faded so close he had no memory of the crossing. 

He awoke on a bed that wasn't his own, hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. Everything ached. There was a persistent pinching and cramping in his stomach where healing hadn't quite finished its work. He was hungry -- or nauseous. He was thirsty. He was exhausted. He itched with dried blood, and itched again where links in his chainmail pressed uncomfortably against his body. Someone had done him the kindness of taking his gauntlets and boots off.

There was a cold hand clasped in his, a soothing reassurance against his own feverishness. That simple touch alone made him, inexplicably, want to cry. 

[It hadn't been for nothing.]

Helsknight opened his eyes and looked over to see Tanguish sitting in a chair beside him. The arm that wasn’t reaching to hold Helsknight’s hand was pillowed beneath his head. If he wasn’t asleep, he was well on his way. Worry, sluggish to wake through his tiredness, rose slowly in his chest. How long had he been out?

A flicker of light highlighted the doorway to the room he was in [one of the Hermit’s bases, probably] heralding Tango’s arrival. The Hermit was balancing three health potions in his arms, still warm enough from the brewer to be bubbling slightly. His eyes passed over Tanguish first, a look of weathered contentment on his face. He awkwardly shuffled the potions in his arms so he could run a hand through his hair, a small, worried motion that made him seem… very human. Helsknight didn’t idolize the Hermits -- if anything, he disdained them for what they were. But in that moment, he had never related to another person’s care and weariness so much in his life. 

“Oh,” Tango said quietly, eyebrows raising. “You’re awake.”

Tanguish’s eyes opened immediately. He sat up quickly, moving so he held Helsknight’s hand in both of his. “Praise every god and saint in hels.”

“Was I out long?” Helsknight asked, his voice a rough rasp in his dry throat. He started to sit up, and let out a painful breath as the twinge in his stomach shocked him still. It wasn’t nearly the unbearable stab from earlier, but it stiffened his spine and threatened to take his breath. Tanguish’s hand was on his chest pushing him gently back down.

“Easy does it, Killer,” Tango said, offering half of a laugh he clearly didn’t feel. He passed one of the potions to Tanguish, who got to work uncorking it. “That was intense.”

“I’ve had worse,” Helsknight said dismissively, not entirely sure if the statement was true. He may have had worse wounds before, but he didn’t think he’d ever had worse circumstances. He sipped on the potion and sighed with relief as the intensity of aches and pains across his body soothed. The lance in his stomach dulled to a bitter, persistent throb. He looked down in time to see what was left of the wound knitting itself back together, and then grimaced, when he realized the blankets he was on were spattered in blood. “Uhm… sorry for ruining whoever’s bed this is.”

“Blankets needed washed anyway,” Wels said from the doorway. Just about everyone in the room startled -- apparently Helsknight wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard him enter. He’d taken off his armor, and stood in only a blue tunic and breeches, his empty scabbard cinched around his waist. The cut on his cheek was still there, though the blood had been washed away.

[Enough time to get rid of his arms and armor, but not enough time to heal himself.]

[Intentionally defanged.]

Helsknight curled an arm around his stomach, shielding a hurt that was no longer there. Wary.

“What happened? I have Tango's side of the story but...” Wels asked quietly, soothingly. It was not the quiet of violence or anger. It was the quiet of someone trying very, very hard to be nonthreatening. He looked to Tango first, and when the Hermit looked away awkwardly, not sure how to answer, he looked to Helsknight. “Please.”

“I-it was my fault--” Tanguish started nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Helsknight interrupted. “A group of thugs took Tanguish captive. When Tango and I realized what happened, we went to get him back.”

Helsknight briefly toyed with the idea of taking responsibility for what had happened. He found himself… somewhat protective of Tango. Something noticeable in how he saw the Hermit as a person had shifted. He didn’t have time yet to untangle just what or why, but he thought if Wels was going to get high-and-mighty about what had happened, he might try to spare Tango from the brunt of it. It wasn’t like Wels could hate Helsknight any more than he already did.

“A group of thugs?” Wels queried, his voice taking on a slightly more grim cast.

“I didn’t know they existed before today.” Helsknight answered honestly. “They will not exist for much longer.”

Tanguish looked at him, startled. “You… you can’t. Helsknight they almost--”

“I know people who can,” Helsknight said. He downed the rest of his potion, and this time when he sat up, he did it painlessly. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at how gross he felt. He scowled disgustedly at himself, at his gore-splattered clothes. His arms were strangely bare now that the gauntlets were off, two swaths of unmarked skin surrounded by havoc.

“We should get you cleaned up,” Wels observed. 

“I will take care of myself at home.”

“Tango said your house was trashed.”

Helsknight shot the little Hermit a glare. 

Tango only held his hands up in surrender. “Didn’t think it was a secret, sorry.”

“Tango,” Wels said, his voice still that cool, soothing quiet, “I have some food cooking. Make sure Tanguish gets something warm.” He rested his gaze on Helsknight. “Come on. I’ve already gotten started on your armor.”

He disappeared into the hall. Helsknight, Tango and Tanguish all exchanged glances.

“If… if he tries to fight you,” Tanguish stammered, “come back here. I’ll get us home.”

Helsknight studied the empty place Wels had been standing.

“... I don’t think he wants a fight,” Helsknight said cautiously. He hesitated a moment longer, then stood and followed after Wels.

Helsknight’s other half had gone outside. He lived in a small castle away from the other Hermits, though he was within easy sight of one of his neighbors in the river. He had moved several tools outside: cauldron, grindstone, and a drying rack among them. Helsknight’s gore-streaked sword was propped up against the grindstone, his gauntlets and grieves in the grass beside it. The gauntlets had already been scoured once, though looking at them, Helsknight knew he’d probably be scrubbing them down with a toothbrush for the next few days before he got out every bit of blood. 

“No one’s on this side of the server besides xB, and he’s probably half a league underground right now, diamond hunting,” Wels said, grabbing up a rag and dunking it into the cauldron. “Get your chain and your shirt off. No one will care -- and if you care, no one will see.”

The bitter creature of animosity he always held for his hermit wanted to crawl to life and argue. You will see. But Helsknight was tired down to the bottom of his soul, and while Welst’s emotions seemed muffled and odd to him right now, none of them seemed to contain bad intentions. Helsknight did as he was told, peeling off first his tunic, then the chainmail and padding underneath.

“Leave your chainmail here,” Wels said, picking up one of his grieves and getting to work scrubbing. “Though I recommend taking your shirt to the water with you.”

“I know how to clean my gear,” Helsknight muttered.

Wels shrugged. “I didn’t say you didn’t.”

They side-eyed each other for a moment, gauging reactions. Helsknight sighed and waded into the water.

The river was cold. That was something Helsknight had to admit he wasn’t used to. Running water in this much quantity in hels was already a rare thing. This much cold water in hels was practically impossible. It sent goosebumps sprinting across his skin, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from squeaking ingloriously when it swirled up to his waist. Satisfied he was deep enough to suitably clean himself, Helsknight got to work scrubbing everything he could reach. 

He had hoped it would be soothing. At the very least, he hoped getting the blood off would ease the persistent nausea still squirming around in his stomach. Watching the water slowly redden around him, though, only made him feel sicker. What started as calm, scrubbing started to get rougher as a tremor worked its way into his hands. Every pass of his touch across his clothes, his skin, all earned him more blood. Helsknight found himself taking long, intentional breaths in an effort to keep himself calm. It was his hair that broke him. He carded his hands back through the messy locks, only for his fingers to snag on mats and tangles, and when he knelt down in the water to wet the ends and comb them out, a clot of brown-black ugliness came out onto his fingers.

Helsknight’s hands were shaking. What had started as low-level nausea suddenly twisted his guts in something much more intense and immediate. He stamped it down as best he could. He was the Champion of hels, for helssakes. He’d seen blood before. He’d seen more than blood before. He shouldn’t be acting like this, feeling like this. What was so different between what he’d just done, and fighting people he knew in the Colosseum?

[He’d never maimed people with the express intention of leaving them alive, in the Colosseum.]

[No one had ever kicked his wounds, purposefully, because it seemed like a fun thing to do in the Colosseum.]

[No one had ever held him down while he struggled and thrashed, and threatened to dismember him in the Colosseum.]

[And in the Colosseum, he’d never done that to anyone else.]

Helsknight didn’t know what repulsed him more: the den of snakes this whole fiasco had revealed, or himself. The thought of going back there, of leading knights and paladins to the place to clear it out, sent a pang of dread through him so fiercely, it squeezed his chest tighter, and made it hard to breathe. Helsknight shivered, and shivered again, and couldn’t stop shivering. 

[He needed to get the blood off.]

A sense of calm and serenity suddenly blanketed Helsknight, washed over him like the cold water of the river. It draped itself over his thoughts, slowed them to a halt. Tenseness in his shoulders and spine relaxed almost against his will. The shuddering in his hands stopped.

[Wels.]

Helsknight turned to look at his other half, who had doubled over the cauldron, a look of deep concentration on his face. He was breathing in long, slow, deliberate breaths, and when he exhaled his mouth moved as he counted. Wels, with determined intent, and no small amount of sympathy radiating from him like smears of sunset color, was anchoring Helsknight like a port in a storm. Forcefully, by controlling himself first. 

“You did what you had to do,” Wels said quietly, but honestly, and that honesty was golden light. On anyone else, it would have been a binding shackle, an imposition of will. On Helsknight, who was immune to that from Wels, it was a display of sincerity. “You are the perfect knight, Helsknight. You’ve said so yourself: Knighthood is ugly, and unkind.”

Slowly, like a storm cloud passing over, Wels’s blanket of assuredness rolled off of him, and when it did, Helsknight realized he was crying. They were small, contained tears, the kind of thing that came from fatigue more than anything. Shame and bitterness crawled to life in his chest, and he did his best to stamp them down. 

“Fuck I’m tired,” Helsknight said, the most self-aware thing the thought he was capable of at the moment. He should have seen this coming. The exhaustion after a long fight, the emotional fallout of finally coming down from fear and adrenaline. 

“I didn’t think it was wise to let you rest for too long,” Wels said somewhat cautiously. “I know us.”

“Needed to get cleaned up before everything rusted anyway,” Helsknight muttered, finally dragging himself from the river. His clothes would need another wash at some point. There were still stains that he hadn’t managed to scour away. But the blood was off his body at least. 

He looked with disgust at his sword, his stomach twisting again when he saw it. He forced himself to take it in hand and, when Wels offered him a rag, began wiping it down. Wels had moved on to his chainmail, running over it with a bristle brush to clean the links. Laid out beside him were pliers and a box full of rings -- apparently he intended on repairing it as well.

They worked in silence, broken only by the small, lethal noises of cleaning and polishing and scrubbing. Blood had gotten underneath the leather wrapping around Helsknight’s sword hilt, so he unwound it to re-oil the leather, and seal it with wax. Wels moved on from scrubbing the chain to repair, and the air filled with the soft clatter of the links moving, and Wels occasionally discarding links that didn’t fit back into the box again. Intermittently, when Helsknight’s mind had been still for too long, anxiety would make his hands shake, and the ghost of the boot against his stomach would twist like a knife in his guts, and his world narrowed to the quickness of his breathing and the determination not to vomit into the grass. Every time it happened, Wels stopped what he was doing and breathed, and counted, and, when the fit passed, repeated, “You did what you had to do.”

With a single-minded purpose they put Helsknight’s world back to order. It was as efficient as it could be. It was relentless, and determined, in the way two knights focused on one goal could only be. It was the slow, methodical purging of discomfort, seeking normalcy. Helsknight felt that Wels was trying to put him back in the box he was meant to live in -- force him back into being something he expected to see. Helsknight wondered, if their situations had been reversed, if he would react the same way. If he would piece his other half back together, purely because seeing him ripped apart was too uncomfortable.

[He thought he might.]

“What happened?” Wels asked quietly, as he bent another chain link in place with his pliers. He paused in his work, watching Helsknight with those frigid, sky-blue eyes. Helsknight thought they were carefully neutral, the wind holding its breath over a lake. “What happened to cause the panic, specifically.”

Helsknight looked down at his sword. He had polished it to a shine again, though he’d had to rinse the rag a few times to do it. The edge was marred with chips and dents. He would be sharpening it for ages. 

“Tango said you go to confession,” Wels said at length, when Helsknight said nothing. “I don’t know how yours works. Mine mostly involves two people sitting in a room, talking. Normally they can’t see each other. The anonymity is important. We could set our stools back to back.”

Helsknight shook his head. “You wouldn’t like how my Saint takes confession.”

A ripple of discomfort broke the intentional, smothering placidity clinging to Wels. “Tango, uhm, also said you cut yourself.”

“Prayer.”

“Ah.”

Wels snapped another link into place.

Helsknight picked up a whetstone Wels had laid out for him in the grass. He propped his sword against his knee. Before he ran the stone across it, something prodded him gently in the shoulder. Helsknight took the knife Wels offered him. It was a small blade, a tool, not a weapon, but the edge was sharp. Helsknight stared at it for a long time, while Wels patiently bent stubborn links into place. 

“I’ve never chosen this for myself,” Helsknight whispered. “The Saint is supposed to tell you your penance.”

“What did you do that was wrong?”

Helsknight took a long breath.

“... I was cruel.”

Wels snapped another link into place.

“... I was… cowardly.”

There was the rattle of metal as Wels searched for another link. 

“... I was wrathful.”

The pliers clicked as Wels pulled the ring apart, twisting it deftly, a practiced craft.

“... I served myself, and my aims, instead of my Saint’s.”

Helsknight turned the little knife in his hand. He let out a slow, steadying breath. He ran his thumb down his forearm, tracing the direction of the vein there. He stumbled through memories of going to confession, of what price the Saint had asked of him for similar sins. He decided on a cut to his sword wrist, something painful and inconvenient, that would take time to heal.

“Your Saint,” Wels said, and Helsknight paused before he could draw the blade across his skin. “Does he have more knights?”

“They have many, yes.”

Wels nodded. He pried another link in place and sat back, running the chainmail beneath his hands. He hadn’t completely patched the hole the spear had made, but he was getting close. A few more links until the gap closed. He ran it over his hand again, making sure all the links were laying in the right directions.

“I heard you speak a little… before we came through to hels.” Wels admitted. “Something about bringing every knight and paladin in hels down on the place. Does that include your Order?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell… your Saint… everything that happened today, when you ask them all to come?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure your Saint will lend you hi-- their knights?”

Helsknight let out a slow breath. “My Saint doesn’t suffer cruelty.”

“So then, your Saint would approve of what you did today.”

Helsknight shook his head almost immediately. “No. They can’t.”

“You… uhm… you just said…”

“That was cruel,” Helsknight said. “That was terrible. I was terrible.”

Helsknight felt that smothering blanket of calm start to drape over him again, and he tried to shake it off. 

“I threatened-- I almost-- I would have--”

“They took your friend hostage. They tried to take you hostage.”

“I cut through so many people. You saw me. I was-- I was a bloody mess. I was a terror. I was a ruin.”

“They held you down and tried to disfigure you.”

“I would have torn that place apart brick by brick. I was one man, and I would have razed that place to the ground. I was the wrath of gods, working under my own will.”

“They stabbed you in the gut and tortured you with it.”

“Stop-- stop--- stop acting like I was being reasonable.”

“Then stop acting like you deserve to suffer for it.”

Helsknight flinched at another touch to his shoulder. He glared at Wels, and then blinked in puzzlement. Wels held out a hand to him, palm up, waiting patiently. Helsknight really must have been tired, because it took him far too long to realize Wels was asking for the knife back. 

“They tortured you once already,” Wels said quietly, sternly. “Don’t retread the ground for them.”

Helsknight’s chest felt tight. Something like panic welled up inside him so fast it was nearly blinding. He was scared. He was terrified. Not just by what he’d done, but what he was capable of doing. No man, no matter how desperate, or for how good a cause, should be allowed to do what he had done today. Not on their own. Not without divine intervention, something holy telling them what they’d done was right. He could not be trusted with the responsibility of starting his own crusade. He had no right to be judge and executioner, but he’d done it nonetheless, and it terrified him. And it terrified to know that, after doing it once, he now knew he could do it again. That couldn’t be right. That wasn’t allowed to be right.

Helsknight and Wels both moved at the same time. Helsknight, on the sudden unstoppable impulse to punish himself for what he’d done. Wels, feeling his intentions the instant they focused themselves into something actionable. Wels lunged at him, one hand a vice on his wrist, the other catching the knife before he could use it. 

“Helsknight,” Wels commanded, his voice glory-gold and relentless, “your Saint doesn’t abide cruelty.”

Helsknight scowled. He wanted to say yes! Exactly! He wanted to say that’s the entire point, you idiot! He wanted, very badly, to feel the blade running across his skin. He wanted to do something quick, and painful, and immediate to alleviate his guilt. He wanted--

“Does that include being cruel to yourself?”

Helsknight managed to twist his hands free of Wels’s grasp.

“Answer me.”

Helsknight shook his head.

“Is that a no?”

“I don’t-- I’m not being--”

“You are.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“It does!” Wels snapped, his composure finally slipping. “A good knight abides by his tenets.”

Helsknight sprang to his feet suddenly, his panic exploding into something white hot and angry. “You don’t know my Saint! You don’t know my Saint’s will!”

Wels rose to his feet as well, and this, this was familiar. This was normalcy. This was the world set to order and correctness and--

“You’re right,” Wels said, stern and determined, but not angry. “I don’t know. But you do. So answer me. What does your Saint say about being cruel to yourself?”

Helsknight shoved him. Hard. Hard enough that Wels stumbled back over his seat and fell to the ground. Then he turned, angrier now that he’d acted, and kicked over the grindstone. Helsknight paced, full of angry, anxious energy. The rage and fury that chases fear. He wanted to run. He wanted to bite and kick and punch. He wanted to-- he wanted-- he wanted--

Wels, still laying in the grass, started counting again. Counting, and breathing. He was trying so, so hard not to spiral. To not give in to the way their emotions circled each other. Beneath the determination to try, to keep a grip on his sanity, was a depth of sympathy and compassion that was nauseating in its intensity. Someone who had witnessed atrocity, and for once, didn’t blame Helsknight for it. It hurt. It ached. It pushed its way into Helsknight’s chest, and begged him to relent, to be kinder. It was so different. It was so human. It wasn’t how the Hermits were supposed to be. He needed them not to be kind. He needed-- he wanted--

Helsknight realized he was crying again, only because he blinked and realized his world had blurred beyond recognition, turning to smears of blue and green. A sob hiccupped its way up his ribs, and he felt so stupid. There came another, thick and harsh and ugly, and then he couldn’t stop himself. He stood there in the grass like an idiot and he cried, loud uncontrollable sobs. It was the kind of cry he hadn’t had in years, maybe never. The kind that made him feel like a child, with emotions too big to keep in his body.

At some point, Wels crossed to him, and very gently, as though trying his best not to intrude, he took the knife from his hand. Then he righted the grindstone, and finished snapping the links into place on Helsknight’s armor. By the time he’d finished, Helsknight had managed to pull himself back together again, little by little. 

“U-uhm. We all, uh, we all alive out here?”

Helsknight swore colorfully. He passed his hand over his face, and demanded hoarsely, “How long have you been here, Tango?”

“Who, me?” Tango asked, a nervous laugh in his voice. Something behind Helsknight shuffled -- Tango grabbing up something to take back into the house with him, maybe. “Not long. Definitely. Probably. I wasn’t-- you know. Keeping tabs on you two in case you got a little too knightly or anything. I wouldn’t do that. I trust you. Implicitly.”

Helsknight snorted.

“It’s just, uh, you know. Food’s done.” Tango continued. “And uh. Also if anything else bad happened today, I think Tanguish would break in half.”

“We’re fine,” Wels said, calm, quiet. “We’ll be inside shortly.” He paused, and then added, “Uh, knight’s honor.”

“Right.”

Tango retreated, footsteps cushioned by the greenery. Helsknight was not used to the sound of grass. Stone, basalt, netherrack, hyphae. He had the sound of footsteps on those memorized. Grass was a rushing, soothing noise, almost like water in its consistency.

“I think your armor is as clean as it’s getting, without going over it with a fine brush,” Wels said. “I have more netherite plate. Spare stuff, in case I lose sets in the End.”

“Keep it.”

“It’s not charity. I owe you a set, from when we last fought, and you fell in the End.”

“It’s not… because of the charity.” Helsknight crossed his arms. “I haven’t worn plate for awhile.”

“Hm.”

“Why.”

Wels tilted his head to the side questioningly.

“The calm. The kindness. The…” Helsknight gestured broadly. “We hate each other.”

“We do.”

“So why.”

Wels looked away from him, quietly considering the ground. At length he said, “Apparently… your Saint isn’t the only person who can’t abide cruelty.” 

Wels reached a hand up to his chest and sighed. “When Tango came and got me… I didn’t want to come and help you. I could feel… something. Struggle. But you’re right. We hate each other.” 

He sighed again. “And then I stepped into hels.”

Wels chuckled bitterly. “Fear. And helplessness. And desperation. And Pain.”

He looked up at Helsknight. “I thought I was going to respawn on the spot. And I wasn’t you.”

“We hate each other,” Helsknight repeated. 

“We do,” Wels agreed. “But… I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

Welsknight offered Helsknight an ironic smile, “Not even you.”

The two knights watched each other. Nervous. Awkward. Worried. And underneath it all, an undercurrent of surreality and ridiculousness. Two enemies forced to admit some things could be worse than their rivalry.

“Anyway,” Welsknight said, “when you go back and storm the place, you have my sword, if you want it."

[pomefioredove]

Hi! not sure if u write for content that isn't a character x reader, if not, feel free to ignore this req!

but I'd like to req some timeskip hcs for the twst charas.. like what would they be after graduation? I could totally see Riddle being a lawyer but I'm not entirely sure for the rest of the twst cast 🤔

Thank you in advance! Take all the time u need !

ohhh actually speculation/analysis is something I write a lot of! I hail from a very literary fandom and these sorts of prompts are some of my favorites to do!

I could def give my thoughts, just based on what we already know + my own headcanons

➼Deuce: Deuce, to me, is a hands-on learner type. I could see him getting really into mechanics, but... my heart says house husband. tells his kids bedtime stories about Cauldron Deuce (with... um, better morals, we'll say)

➼Ace: professional moocher hmmm Ace is kind of a wild card (pun) to me. I can see his life going in a lot of different directions depending on how the story goes

➼Riddle: definitely something prestigious. we know his parents are doctors, it's likely he'd feel pressured to follow in their footsteps, with other high-paying professions close behind (such as lawyer)

➼Cater: trophy husband(/influencer)

➼Trey: takes on the family bakery. I can see him getting settled down relatively fast compared to everyone else. he just needs a spouse whose as weird as he is

➼Leona: professional moocher (for real this time). In an ideal world he would get fed up with his family and move out, either to another palace they own (you know how it is with royalty and their real estate) or to his own place. but that freedom might get him to really apply himself to something he cares about, independent of his family. would get married if the opportunity presented itself, would NOT have kids

➼Ruggie: Leona's little buddy. Leona assured him a job after school, sooo probably not much different from what he's doing already, but paid. sends fat checks home to his grandma every month

➼Jack: whatever it is, he's committed to it. I can't see him working a dead-end job with no hopes of improving himself, so nothing too academic. the obvious answer is athletics... but he could just as likely become a sculptor. just something that he can apply himself to and continue improving in

➼Azul: businessman. he just has a thing for it. he's running multiple restaurant chains and dabbling in retail before age thirty, and always looking for more opportunities

➼Jade: Azul definitely guarantees him a job, but I think he'd be more interested in staying on land and doing field work. mycologist... or anything that really captures his interest

➼Floyd: cliché answer, he can't decide. likely bounces between working with his brother and working with Azul. may just stay within the "family business" which is implied to be. mafia?

➼Kalim: do we even know what the al-Asims do. besides be rich. well whatever it is, he's doing that. definitely gets married fast, probably has a bunch of kids already. they're just as loud and excitable as he is

➼Jamil: oh Jamil :( please please have a happy ending. I can see him really enjoying academics, especially in positions where he can publish papers and get feedback. good for his ego. may start some insane academic drama, though (nothing he can't handle)

➼Vil: actor/model. confirmed! probably waits a while to get married, he's put off his career long enough

➼Rook: the fact that he wants to go into archaeology is so cute... being an ex archeology (now religious studies) major myself I think it's just so... Rook of him to be interested in history. I would love to talk to him about the Minoans. Or the Xia dynasty. can I marry him while we're at it? he eventually settles down somewhere in the woods

➼Epel: eughhrrggg can I say farming. sorry. I'm from a family of farmers and kinda sentimental about it. the connection to the land is very real and very emotional. but he does other stuff, too

➼Idia: [cue book 6 angst]

diasomnia fam is up in the air for now considering... *gestures to all of book 7*

➼bonus rollo: judge. because it would be funny.

[thesimblrofficedirectory]

Welcome to The Simblr Office Directory

This blog is an archive of the submissions for the office-centric OC prompt posted by the light of Simblr, @kashisun.

Here you can browse all the amazing creations submitted by your fellow simblrs. Feel free to scroll to your delight or click one of the links under the cut to see who's on roster under (or over) a particular bureau or delegation.

Want to be added to the directory or confirm that you've been queued? Just include a link to your post in an ask off anon and it will be queued within 48 hours. Until we get through the backlog and can queue at a more leisurely pace, all ask submissions will receive a confirmation. You can always mention us, but we won't be able to provided confirmation for that method.

Leaving the company? If you'd like your post removed, just include a link to the post in an ask off anon and it will be removed. Sideblogs may require additional verification. Please allow, at most, 48 hours for the request to be honored. Removal requests will not be confirmed, only acted upon.

Every company's hierarchy is a little different. Designations for this directory are based on some of the companies I've worked for, but especially on the multi-media marketing company I work for now.

Bureaus and Their Delegations

Delegations with an * currently have low or no headcount (posted and queued). Excludes leadership.

Bureau of Client Engagement

Leadership

Billing*

Escalations*

Product Support*

Quality Assurance*

Sales*

Bureau of Compliance (Bureau-specific Internal Affairs and Auditing)

Leadership

Client Engagement*

Facilities*

Finance*

Human Resources*

Information and Technology*

Legal (General)

Legal (Leadership)

Marketing*

Bureau of Facilities

Leadership

Catering*

Environmental (Janitorial, HVAC, and Plumbing)*

Mechanical (Electrical, Elevators, Equipment Maintenance)*

Premise* (Grounds Maintenance and Real Estate)

Purchasing* (From pushpins to pallet jacks)

Security

Warehousing* (Shipping, Receiving, Mail room, and Inventory)

Bureau of Finance

Leadership

Accounting

Asset Management*

Investments*

Travel and Accommodations*

Vendor Relations*

Bureau of Human Resources

Leadership

Career Development (Internships and Internal Role Transitions)

Dependent Care*

Employee Activities Committee (Members are volunteers)

Employee Benefits*

Floating Delegates (Administration) (For profiles that list a nondescript secretary/admin/receptionist/assistant role)

Floating Delegates (General) (For profiles that do not list a position)

Floating Delegates (Leadership) (For profiles that list a nondescript managerial role)

Health Services*

Payroll*

Recruiting*

Training*

Union Relations*

Bureau of Information & Technology

Leadership

Data Security*

Infrastructure*

Public Relations

Research and Development*

Systems and Devices*

Telecommunications*

Bureau of Marketing

Leadership

Copy

Design

Planning and Implementation*

Board of Directors

Chief Officers

CEO - Chief Executive Officer/President

COO - Chief Operations Officer/Vice President

CCO - Chief Compliance Officer/Vice President

CFO - Chief Finance Officer/Vice President

CITO - Chief Information and Technology Officer/Vice President

CMO - Chief Marketing Officer/Vice President

Executive Administration* (Admins that report to chief officers)

[bittersweetresilience]

how do you write so many fics for one ship? i respect your dedication so much, but for me, i just can't think of that many ideas :( do you have a prompt list or something you use?

ohh anon that's such a good question!! and i completely relate, actually. after i'd written my first 30k for renjing i thought i was done. then i thought i was done again at 45k, then 60k, then 100k, then 250k, and i still kind of feel like i'm done now. but magically, i've still kept writing 🤣 don't limit yourself... as long as you keep thinking about them and sharing with others, the ideas will keep coming 🙏

as for concrete pieces of advice... the first i can give you is just not to worry about writing the same thing! i've written almost a dozen stabbing related fics now... if you find an idea you like, you don't have to let go of it after you write it once. you still like it, don't you!! when i get a craving for the same thing i sometimes reread my fics, but sometimes i'm like. well, that was good, but i kind of want a different flavor of this cake now. so i'll write it again and just add a different side ingredient. switch the pov. make it a modern au. change it from 'forced to do it' to 'did it of own volition but regretted it'. change it from 'this person found him' to 'that person found him'. or just injure a different part of the body 😌 i'm always interested in something, and so there are a million ways to engage with that thing again and again!

as for new ideas... the absolute best advice i can give you is to engage with other people's works!! read fics. read headcanons. read unfinished fics. read fics that aren't even about your ship, and then make them about your ship. make friends with an author and get in their dms and absorb their ideas and then give them your own spin!! half of my ideas and spontaneous fic inspirations come from either talking to my friends or reading other people's fics. if you read a fic of mine that ended tragically and you want to give it a happy ending? give it a happy ending!!! if you read a crack fic and thought it could be a little more angsty? add the angst into it!!! it's free real estate... we're here to share and get excited together and be inspired by each other. sometimes i even read jing yuan fics that aren't renjing and then i take the premise and make it renjing* :33

*i awkwardly feel like i can't post these fics, not because it's not allowed but because i am usually too shy to ask the author and list them as inspiration, but i can still have fun writing and so can you.

and thirdly... never be afraid to go back through your own fics 🙏 all the time i leave drabbles or concepts unfinished and then i go back and add a sentence to them every month or i reread them and then i get a new related or even unrelated idea... your brain is precious. believe in it!!! and even if you don't have ideas right now, just give it time. look out in the real world. watch a random movie and think about a crossover. and even if you really really can't think of anything to write... don't beat yourself up about it. you're still valued just as you are. as long as you're having fun 🥰

[sapphim]

reverse unpopular opinion: sebastian

i like him and i'm braver than a marine for that

WE are braver than any marine for that.

sebastian suffers in part, in my opinion, from the same problem that many other characters in this series suffer from, which is that his backstory is really complex and compelling but then his actual writing is very one-note and fails to really elaborate on any of it to the level of depth it deserves.

like, he was the cast-off youngest child, disowned by his family, who were later murdered in cold blood. he's done a complete about-face from hedonism to asceticism. his closest attachment in the wake of, again, the murder of his entire family and their household, immediately prior to the start of the game, is to a woman whose standards he is always trying to live up to but never quite seems to fulfill. he has no idea who he is or who he should strive to be, torn between two different paths set out for him, but feeling inadequate to both. there's a great amount of depth to work with there.

but what I like most about sebastian is that. he's just a good guy! like, genuinely. and he wants to be a good person, genuinely. he strives to be good. but he doesn't always, like, succeed? he's sheltered and naive. he trusts the people he trusts and is prone to harboring misconceptions about others. he very often won't examine his preconceptions without prompting. his definition of "doing good, helping others" is often motivated at a base level by "doing what I want to do (being a murder gremlin with my best friend hawke) and then telling myself I'm doing this to help others."

but take all of his flaws and even when he is at his worst, his most vengeful, hot off the murder of the person who took him in after his (also murdered!) family booted him out, seeing the face of her murderer on every mage in the gallows—all of his flaws, and say to him "andraste would not have stood for this. she would have sided with the victims." and what does he say? he says "you're right" and also "I shouldn't have needed you to remind me." good. guy. genuinely.

is he the most tragically underwritten character in a series of tragically underwritten characters? yes. but you know what? he's free real estate. he's mine now. I've picked him up out of the cardboard box he was dumped in off the side of the road and have rehomed him

[reverse unpopular opinion - send me a topic and I'll say what I like about it (or die trying)]

[leggerefiore]

Tom Nook x reader prompts 💖

anon. I have been clenching my hand trying to pretend I haven't been replaying ACNH and dreaming about having a domestic life with Nook again. you are. forcing my hand.

cw: fluff,

🍃Tom Nook General Romance HCs🦝

🪙 The tanuki admittedly does not have much time to focus on relationships with his focus entirely on his career. His time in the city had ended badly, and it was his chance to begin again back in his hometown. The shop and his (failing) real estate ventures were the only things on his mind, barring the two kids he had taken in as well. He was a busy man with financial struggles. A relationship truly was the furthest thing on his mind.

🪙 Well, until a certain newcomer moved to town. A call from Rover asking him to give a hand gave him an opportunity to finally offload some of the useless real estate he was sitting on and make some money from it. Of course, life was cruel, and they were broke. Even working part-time under him barely got their mortgage down to a reasonable price. Though, they seemed extremely determined to work it off. Their presence became a frequent quest in his store, often to chat and barter. It was only after seeing you gently handle Timmy and Tommy that he began to grasp something odd. He quite liked them despite everything.

🪙 PDA is not something the older man is admittedly a fan of. Though, at the same time, he barely has the energy to reject it. He lets you do whatever to him as long as it is not in front of customers or business partners. Your arms around him and face nuzzled into his shoulder was overwhelming, but he was far too uninterested in prying you from him. Kisses pecked to his face were simply a part of his life. Though, if one watched closely, they may see his tail start to wag. He regularly greets you with a simple kiss despite his more iffy-ness on public affection.

🪙 In private, he is a bit more open. An arm is often around you as he finds himself a bit more interested in touch. If you are ever doing anything, you may find yourself embraced from behind as a kiss is pressed to your head. Other times, you would find yourself pulled into his lap as he cuddles with you for an extended period. He is always busy, no matter what. Having these moments with you almost certainly feels of grand importance to him, cuddling is simply a nice way to unwind after his long hours. Any sleeping activities also involve large amounts of cuddling. He is quite affectionate in the right environment.

🪙 Just the same as in public, you have free rein to do whatever to the businessman. He simply has no energy to reject it and quite typically enjoys the doting affection. Kisses pressed all over his face while sitting in his lap results in a sigh from him. Tight hugs to bury your face into his chest. He simply brings his arms around you and enjoys the affection. Admittedly, he quite enjoys the positive attention since his customers can be quite hard to please despite his best efforts. Your adoration truly warms his heart.

🪙 Dates… Often times, it is simply a walk out together through the town. There is not much to do, after all. Though, he does quite enjoy trips to The Roost with you where you both languidly enjoy a coffee and each other's presence. Most of all, when he has a moment away from his work, he does wish to spend it with you. He may wander the museum at your side or enjoy a leisurely walk along the beach. (Though, notably, after the town becomes more developed and his career shifts solely to real estate, he often frequents the places on Main Street alongside you. After the Deserted Island Getaway, he often enjoys exploring other islands with you.)

🪙 Nook is not the jealous sort. Why would he be? His confidence in himself is plain as can be. Besides, you pursued him, and that alone assures him there is no need to worry of you straying away from him. His trust in you is truly high. Though, one person sets him off. Seeing Redd literally anywhere near you makes him rush over his astonishing speed and put himself between you both. He has no interest in letting that fox anywhere near you. Even you mentioning purchasing from him leads to a chiding rant about how untrustworthy he is. It is the one time you can ever see him flustered, so enjoy it.

🪙 Domestic moments are quite frequent. He would argue that your relationship with him is built on them. You began bringing him lunches during his long shifts after upgrading his store to Nook'N'Go, and that has stayed a tradition since. Isabelle often giggles at the sight of you popping into Resident Services to drop off a meal for the tanuki. He seems quite excited to take it and have a moment with his partner. Your presence in his life was truly a booster to his ability to work. You even help him take care of Timmy and Tommy, of which he was extremely grateful for. In his heart, he really felt like he had achieved everything needed in his personal life.

🪙 In truth, your unyielding support in his endeavours played a small part in his ability to grow his small-town shop into the land development business it was now. He truly feels that you are an important presence in his life, even if you started off as a debtor to him. Everything from how you helped him with the boys to generally helping with the economics of his shop (by shopping and selling) helped him immensely in his early days. For that, you truly do have his heart.

🪙 Your relationship with the tanuki goes from tumultuous and a bit awkward to something of true domestic bliss. Nook does really love you and respect you as his partner, but he can be a bit distant with his work unintentionally. He never wishes for you to feel unwanted, though. It often surprises people when he mentions his partner since he never really speaks on his personal life. Though anyone who has seen you visit him knows truly how loved the man is. You end up settled happily into a patchwork family with a loving husband. Just let him handle the finances. He can be quite demanding on that.

[weewoo911]

I keep thinking about it and I need Buck to see Tommy pulling off a dangerous stunt to secure a rescue and being worried and mad snapping how could he be so reckless only to have the rest of the 118 looking at him like

Give me Tommy Goes Full Buck! The man flew a helicopter into a hurricane!

Also if you wanted bonus angst points maybe Tommy doesn’t think twice about doing dangerous rescues bc he’s not used to having anyone to worry about him okaythanks ✨

[sisterdivinium]

[this was originally posted at femslashfete for the "beg" prompt]

All hell is breaking loose around them: the pope is a pile of cooling ash, fried to death during a global broadcast; an already weakened OCS risks losing even more of its elite warriors as it continues to fight a false angel who is always one step ahead; and even sunlight becomes a curse upon the flesh of those brave few who have not bowed down to Adriel's cult. In the midst of it all, Lilith pauses her battle against Ava and asks her to join her cause.

Why?

If momentarily, Lilith has the upper hand. Ava is skewered to the side, with a sword stuck all the way through her middle, and the battleground was one Lilith chose, her own ancestral home with which she is deeply acquainted. Up until this point, Lilith has not demonstrated a great inclination to ask — she obeys, such as when Duretti has her track Ava down regardless of costs or morals; she demands, whether by “requesting silence” of Camila or teleporting her way into Jillian’s estate without patience; and she even whimpers and cries in Mary’s arms when they are by the tomb, but how often do we see Lilith beg? Even as Adriel drives his fingers into her eyes, she does not plead for mercy.

Perhaps begging seems too strong a word to describe her last attempt at winning Ava over. Perhaps Lilith is only trying to use a language which, foreign to her, could resonate with Ava’s disposition, stubborn as she is, uninclined to obey just because someone stronger and meaner said so. Fighting costs stamina and time, precious time, and the sooner Adriel can get ahead in the “holy war”, the better, so if words can more easily and more quickly attract the halo and its bearer to his camp, well, it’s worth a shot, right?

Except Lilith had already eschewed diplomacy and opted for aggression first of all. The time to talk would have been atop Adriel’s cathedral, before Duretti is killed, when first Ava looks upon Lilith after her defection and the more radical changes in her body are visible.

Instead, they fight. Instead, Lilith makes use of the halo’s malfunctioning to get a few good blows in, whether physical or emotional, what with her little spiel on breaking free from her frustrated goals when Ava took her place as the warrior nun. Now, unlike Ava, she is free of expectations and responsibilities.

But is she? Has Lilith shed her past self as she has been shedding skin for her multiplying scale? Can she — or anyone?

If rejecting her mother, the plans that had been made by the same woman, and even the OCS, which was arguably the thing that had given Lilith’s life all its meaning, if rejecting all of this is a way to reject who she was, why return to her family home for her showdown with Ava? Why choose a place central to the past she is renouncing? Strange would be the prisoner who, shortly after a successful jailbreak, decided to rush back into that same jail, now with a friend in tow.

When Lilith crumbles in Mary’s arms, she is vulnerable. She opens up, if only a little (“you said I was heartless”). Amid the mess and the violence, Lilith chooses to open up to Ava, too. It’s not Superion or Beatrice or Camila or Mary or even Adriel himself, who has helped her “see reality”, whom she takes home, to the centre of her wounded intimacy. It’s Ava.

Ava gets to witness the trinkets of medieval times, symbols of the burden Lilith must carry as a member of her family, so profuse in warrior nuns along the centuries — a burden they share, as Ava must bear the halo and correspond to others’ ideas of her without a real say in the matter. They are equivalent, they are the same even despite all their differences, the same value but inverted. Both have fates tied to the halo, terrible and overbearing, only now Ava has that circle on her back and Lilith boasts of that strange but also “open” pattern upon her chest, as some sort of negative halo.

Back in season one, when Lilith tries to cut Ava open to retrieve the object that defines the OCS perhaps more than the cruciform sword itself, she has Ava pinned down, face on the ground. She doesn’t hesitate as she plunges the divinium blade into the reticent halobearer’s back, her inferior, unworthy even of actual direct confrontation.

But now, under the sickly glow of Adriel’s cursed light, after Lilith has opened her eyes, Ava is impaled on the sword right where Lilith wanted and they are facing one another, eye in the eye. They are, blood notwithstanding, on the same level.

This isn’t the first time Lilith hurts her. At the Cat’s Cradle, in 1x03, Lilith uses the cruciform sword to slice at Ava’s arm; later, it’s the same weapon she intends to wield against Ava at the orphanage exit; as mentioned, she stabs Ava with a divinium knife before being herself pierced by a tarask. As her body changes, Lilith uses her claws on Ava, drawing blood, and finally pushes her into that sword in her home, leaving her hanging in the air — much like Lilith hung in the air at the end of the tarask’s claw in 1x05. So there is a recurrent theme by which Lilith not only seeks to hurt Ava, but to perforate, penetrate, enter her in what is some pretty sexually aggressive symbolism.

And, as they look upon one another while Ava is traversed by a weapon just as Lilith had been, a twisted mirror image of herself, as if Lilith could recreate her own experience in Ava so as to change her mind by making her feel what she felt, the rogue nun asks her to join her. Lilith has not only shown Ava her past, but replicated it on her — she should be ready to “see reality” too, she should be ready to choose. For, if the halo chose Ava when they were both marked for it, then Ava might just as well choose her, as no one else had ever done, not even Adriel since it was Lilith who approached him.

She has been burnt and passed over enough. Lilith has been made to fight Mary, she has been stabbed by a demon, her body has started to change without her control or her consent… “No more talking” indeed. Lilith wants something new. From the look in her eyes and the intonation Lorena Andrea gives her, Lilith isn’t just playing Ava. She means it. She wants Ava on her side. Adriel is an excuse. She can see they’re on the same level and surely Ava can, too. She’s the agent of change after all, Lilith recognises this — so can’t Ava recognise her?

Hers is the name Lilith calls out when she returns from the dead before she passes out inside ArqTech. Hers are the eyes that look inside Lilith, at her decadent household and past. Hers is the flesh that experiences the pain, the demonic stockade Lilith suffered. It’s not just the halo, it’s Ava or else Lilith wouldn’t waste time asking and she’d just rip the halo out the way she threatens to do at a refusal. Ava must see her, as Adriel supposedly does.

It’s not about him in the end. She barely bats an eyelash when he is defeated. After all, when she opens her eyes, Lilith’s diagnosis is that “this is how Ava sees”. Ava is the parameter, Ava is the prize.

This enemy Lilith has been trying to slice, stab, maim, kill, who conquers her one ally in the world, is the same person she helps to save as she aids Beatrice in taking a mortally injured Ava to the ark, to the portal “to the other side”, the only way to save her. Even after Ava denies her and hurts her further, Lilith ultimately helps her.

Ava and Beatrice might be the canon couple, but this ambiguous and potent connection between Lilith and Ava, as they skirt around one another in a dance that has them alternating between foes and friends at the erratic beat of the drum, was likely to electrify coming seasons of the show, had it not been cancelled. It’s indeed surprising to realise Ava/Lilith isn’t as popular a ship as one might assume it would be given the dynamics contained within. There are certainly many elements to explore between them.

Perhaps, had their relationship been graced with a few more episodes to keep developing in its intriguing spiral pattern of attraction and repulsion, it would be one more of the myriad reasons why so many fans have not gotten over Netflix’s decision and so continue, themselves, to beg for more.

[notbecauseofvictories]

Halloween Week of Horror (Games)

It’s that most horrible time of year, and I've decided to explore the spooky world of text-based games. My list of games is cribbed from this post and this post.

GAMEIFY HORROR // DAY 1

DAY 2: 13 laurel road, unbecoming, what girls do in the dark, the open house, return

13 laurel road 

an interactive fiction game about the relationships we have with places and reconciling with trauma. You play as a young man named Noah who has been tasked with picking up some things from his cousin’s old house.

This one was surprisingly affective, given that there is no objective horror—no jumpscares, no mysterious noises, no ghosts beyond the perfectly ordinary ones that plague all of us.

Still, the set up (a young man, tasked with grabbing some things from the old family house) and the conclusion (coming to terms with the intergenerational cycles we fall into, giving you the chance to break free from them) worked wonderfully for me. In particular, I liked the way the game conveyed Noah's internal conflict---the refrain of "I won't think about that," and the way that you as a player aren't quite clear who is still alive as you move through the abandoned family home.

...I am a little disappointed that there weren't ghosts though.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 1/10, mostly for ambient horror and decay

OVERALL GRADE: B-

unbecoming

a sonically-textured interactive horror fiction exploring cycles of trauma and unspeakable forces of nature in a mythic rural American landscape.

Well, damn. I think that’s the second time I’ve put that in my notes, but also—damn. Damn does this game deserve it. Despite the lack of images (just text, white and sharp except when bleeding into red) it felt extremely well-realized, lived in. Maybe it's just because I know these places, have been to these farms, have looked at Dust Bowl photographs of children on buckling front porches, but the scenery was its own character---which is amazing when there's no actual scenery.

Not to mention that the story gets into one of my soft places and digs---the fraught ritual and cycles of repeated harm; the kind of blurry boundaries that make such effective horror. Family as obligation and a horror story you can't always escape. Not to mention how the gameplay makes you complicit in continuing that horror...

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, not necessarily overtly, but uh. There is a giant hungering pit, and corpses in beds.

OVERALL GRADE: A-

what girls do in the dark

This little game is based off one of the greatest fears they had as a teenage girl: showing up late to a stranger’s slumber party.

Of all the games on this list, this was the first one that—as soon as the credits rolled—I immediately wanted to play again. I wanted to see if I could get a different ending, if I could somehow "win." There’s just something about those haunting scraps of “maybe you could have saved yourself...” that tantalize you, and make you want to try for a happier ending.

....not to mention that I have a well-documented weakness for deals with the devil.

I'll also add that the almost MS DOS style prompts ("TAKE [ITEM]" "OPEN DOOR") were devastatingly effective; a way of narrowing your choices while also giving you the illusion of choice.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 3/10, given the blood and the creeping horror

OVERALL GRADE: A-

the open house

We at Northtree Real Estate (in partnership with Optix Dynamix Labs) are proud to present our new, state-of-the-art, open house simulator!  Come and take a quick tour of 15615 Hollow Oak Lane, a familiar and comfortable showcase home in one of our premier developments!

This particular game is just cool as hell. As someone who (like many millennials) has been addicted to Zillow and other house-hunting websites, this landed with immediate effect. What if scrolling through virtual walkthroughs on your local house hunting website opened up a portal to the unknown? What if it showed murders immediately after they were committed? What if, as you go further and further into this virtual house, you were going out---into something vast, unknown, and chilling?

Amazing, clever, wonderful.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 5/10, largely for unreality and a couple creepy images that still linger with me.

OVERALL GRADE: A

return

a text-based horror game about coming home

The more of these games I play, the more it becomes clear that what I like is horror that verges on the inexplicable—dream logic and images that refuse to resolve into reasonableness. I loved that here: the static, the mycelium, the pier with its strange dead-already fish, the self that guides you through the next cycle. What does it say about our horror stories if there is no going home? If it's just cycles of returning and rebirth and horror we can't escape?

(Sidenote, I am in love with Carver, and the little bit woven in about cybernetic/android assistive devices was tantalizing.)

Again, it's amazing how these text-based games manage to convey so much, so richly, with just words. Or maybe I just have an overactive imagination.

SPOOKY LEVEL: 7/10, just because the sense of unreality is so strong, I wouldn't recommend it for anyone who doesn't enjoy that

OVERALL GRADE: B

[tickle-bugs]

If prompt requests are still open, I have a beetlejuice one! We all know Adam is a huge jokester. I like to imagine that Adam and Barbara like to play around and see who can make Lydia laugh the hardest. Adam is always winning with his jokes, so Barbara decided to take matters in her own hands and tickle Lydia since the game just said to make Lydia laugh, but never said it could only be jokes. Adam accused Barbara of cheating and the jumps on her and tickles her and Lydia. Sorry if this doesn’t make sense lol feel free to disregard it if it doesn’t make sense or if prompt requests are closed. Thanks!

Okay, I Believe You

Summary: After a long drought of joy, the Maitlands hold a competition to see who can make Lydia laugh first. No Beetlejuice AU where Lydia summons the Maitlands on accident while trying to bring her mom back.

Something that Barbara will always love about her husband is his unflappable sense of joy. His light never wavers. As a bit of a cynic, she used to take it for granted, but now…his light is the single-most important blessing a ghost could ask for. 

Even now, doing a crossword from almost twelve years ago, Adam’s still smiling. She’s watching him delight himself every time he figures out an answer and it should be more heartwarming than it is, but her mind keeps drifting. 

She flips through one of the Deetz’s photo albums. Dozens of pictures of Lydia, lovingly arranged, spell the story of her childhood. A wobbly, gap-toothed toddler in too-big rain boots grows into a shaggy, unabashedly weird child. Smiling. 

“Do you think Lydia likes us?” Barbara’s gaze turns towards the attic door. Lydia’s trapped downstairs at one of her father’s real estate dinners. Her absence guts Barbara a bit. 

“Of course, honey. Yesterday, she said we were ‘pretty okay’, remember? That’s a big upgrade from ‘tolerable’!” He straightens out the newspaper and watches her over it. She averts her eyes.

“Yeah, maybe.” Barbara chews on her thumb. “Sometimes I wonder if she wished she’d gotten her mom back, instead of us.”

Wordlessly, Adam stands and folds her into a hug. She tucks into the frigid crook of his neck and sighs. Even in death, they fit together perfectly.

“I think—“ He pauses to run his fingers through her hair— “that Lydia shows her affection much differently from other people. We shouldn’t take her normal as anything strange.”

“You’re right.” Barbara sighs. “It’s just…when I think of her, I think of her frowning. Even with all these pictures, I can’t imagine her smile. Her joy.” 

“Tell ya what. I’ll get her to crack a smile and you’ll see what I mean.” Adam leans back a bit to catch Barbara’s eye. 

“You think you can make her smile?” She looks up, sliding her hands to his waist. 

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll make her laugh.” He grins. 

“So confident. Maybe I’ll beat you to the punch.” She raises her brow. He laughs heartily.

“You’re on.” Adam sticks out his hand to shake and Barbara takes it. 

….

A dreary scene unfolds at the dining room table. Real estate execs politely choke down Delia’s food as Charles attempts to dazzle them with his nightmare house. Maxie Dean seems to be the only one enjoying himself--his loud, grating guffaw bursts out every few minutes. A giant taxidermy bear, poised and ferocious, rattles on its stand behind him. The giant red bow on it threatens to slip free. 

Lydia, wearing a frilly yellow nightmare of a dress, busies herself with trying to kill Delia with her eyes. The pointed impact of her silverware against the near-inedible steak on her plate sets a pace for the whole affair.  

“Hey, Lydia.” Adam leans on the back of Lydia’s chair. Immediately, she sits up straighter. 

“What are you guys doing down here? They’ll see you!” Lydia hisses under her breath. When the table breaks out in mechanical laughter, she rolls her eyes. 

Barbara thinks of the time she walked in on Charles and Delia and shudders.

“They definitely can’t see us. Don’t worry about it.” Barbara pats her shoulder.

“We just had to visit our favorite occult expert.” Adam ruffles her hair. Delia looks over curiously. Lydia glares until she turns away. 

“This seems like a drag.” Barbara surveys the table. “What’s with the bear?”

“That wasn’t always there? I thought that was one of your dad’s…choices.” Adam squints at it. Lydia sighs.

“Gift from Maxie. Kill me now,” Lydia mutters, flicking a piece of rubbery steak across the table. When it hits the plate of the agent across from her, she levels him with a challenging stare.

“Well, I can’t do that, but…bear with me.” Adam gestures to the bear with a mischievous grin. 

A bowler hat lifts off of the hat rack and bobs through the air, ducking behind ugly sculptures and chandeliers to avoid prying eyes. It lands haphazardly atop the bear’s head. Adam gestures with more enthusiasm. 

Lydia snorts quietly.

“I’d offer him some of this steak, but…it seems he’s already stuffed.” Adam scrunches his nose and an apple floats into the bear’s open mouth. Lydia ducks her head to hide her smile. 

“What do you think a bear’s favorite constitutional amendment is?” Adam whispers, already chuckling at himself. “The right to bear arms. He’s already halfway there!” 

Lydia rolls her eyes with deadly force, but she’s still smiling. Barbara puts a hand over Adam’s mouth before he can gear up for another unbearable joke. 

“Okay, my turn.” Barbara grins mischievously. 

Maxie Dean taps a knife against his glass for the attention of the table. All eyes turn to him and the bear. 

Barbara flicks her wrist and a vinyl on the other side of the room slips free. It lowers itself onto the record player and the needle drops harshly. A gentle beating of drums fills the room. 

“Whoa, well that was…convenient—“ He looks uneasily towards the turntable—“but I love some mood music.”

When Maxie next opens his mouth, it’s not his squeaky voice that leaves him. Instead, in a guttural shout, he booms:

“DAAAY-O!”

The dining room goes quiet, save for the record. Maxie clears his throat. Lydia’s eyes widen. 

“Sorry, I’m not sure what--me say day me say day me say daaaayyy-o--”

Chaos erupts in the dining room. Harry Belafonte’s crooning voice fills the space as everyone but Lydia is forced to their feet. A conga line of disgruntled real estate mooks chugs around the table. Charles stiffly beats an ice bucket like a drum. The bear rocks around the room on its stand, shimmying with the music. Delia and Maxie spin like tops. 

Lydia sits at the perfect center of the storm, watching the whole thing with a gaping grin. Barbara waits for even a chuckle of disbelief, but all she gets is:

“Make Delia put the fruit bowl on her head.”

… 

“I can’t believe that didn’t work!” Adam pathetically kicks a pile of their junk and shakes a few things loose. A magic eight ball rolls across the attic floor and disappears in some far off corner. 

“Honey, you’ll have to do better than a hat on a bear.” Barbara snorts. “I’m shocked my plan didn’t work.”

“...you are?” Adam raises his eyebrow. Barbara swats his arm. 

“I brought the roasted pig to life and made it chacha! That’s precisely her sense of humor.” 

Lydia comes up into the attic humming. The door squeaks but doesn’t shut behind her. 

“That was awesome.” She sighs happily and twirls. “Almost made wearing this dishrag of a dress worth it.”

“I think you look positively haunting.” Barbara twirls Lydia under her arm, trying to shake a giggle out of an already-silly mood. No dice. Lydia gives a playful curtsy and flops down on a milk crate.

The attic door creaks open and Delia tumbles in. The levity evaporates. 

“Why are you poking around up here?” Lydia scowls. 

“I was not poking, I was…observing the feng shui of the attic stairs.” Delia sniffs and dusts herself off. She steps tentatively into the attic, looking at the various piles of Maitland-Deetz junk with distaste. 

“What do you want? I’m busy.” Lydia taps her foot against the floorboards. Delia approaches her gently. 

“Have you ever read Matilda?” Delia asks loftily. Lydia glares at her hard enough to elicit a squeak of fear. 

“In that charming novella, the titular young heroine develops…supernatural abilities under extreme emotional stress. But ultimately she uses them to rid herself of her greatest enemy and becomes a hero.” Delia gestures fervently at Lydia and receives a blank stare in return. 

“So does Carrie. What’s your point?”

“Look, when I was a youth…I often felt trapped and holed up. I know you must feel that way now, in our new house—“ 

“You think I’m trapped in here with you? You’re trapped in here with me. This is my house.”  Lydia leaps to her feet suddenly. The motion destabilizes a pile of junk at the end of the room. An old lamp falls over. 

“Lydia--” Delia swallows nervously. Adam, seizing the moment, rattles the shutters and piles of clutter. Barbara grins at him. He winks. 

“This can’t be happening.” Delia’s eyes dart around. Adam nudges the magic eight ball towards her. It stops at her feet. Outlook not so good.

“Perception is reality, right? You said it yourself.” Lydia stalks towards her. 

“Hang on, kiddo,” Barbara murmurs in Lydia’s ear, then concentrates. Lydia’s feet rise slowly off the ground as she levitates. She squeaks in surprise, then resolves her face back into murderous mischief. 

“Leave this place!” Lydia shouts, and Adam flings a cross stitch kit from a high shelf. Delia yelps and scrambles backwards. She looks up at Lydia in terror. 

Is this healthy for their relationship long-term? No. Is it fun? Absolutely. 

Delia screams and flees the attic, falling down a few stairs by the sound of it. Adam slams the door shut behind her. 

Lydia grins, bright and free, and it’s the most distinct show of joy they’ve seen from her…ever. Much like the pictures gathering dust up here, she’s radiant. But…still no laughter. Barbara’s not above admitting when she’s desperate. 

“You can put me down now.” Lydia twists to peer at her, still bobbing in place. Barbara chews the inside of her cheek. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. 

“Remember, you can’t kill me if I’m already dead,” she murmurs, then skitters her fingers over Lydia’s stomach. 

Lydia giggles, then cackles, kicking her legs where she still floats in the air. 

The Maitlands gasp in unison--Barbara in sheer joy and Adam in betrayal. 

“B-Barbara!” Lydia throws her head back as she laughs. Barbara squeezes her sides once, gently, and she squeals, shaking with the force of her laughter. Barbara thinks back to the photo albums--Lydia has her mother’s smile. 

“I didn’t think this would work.” Barbara’s hand passes through Lydia by accident and her voice leaps an octave or five. Lydia scrambles for her hand and pulls it out of her stomach. 

“That’ssobad,” Lydia gasps out, giggling like a maniac. Her eyes glitter with sheer joy as she squeezes Barbara’s hand. She almost seems to be waiting for something. 

Oh. How sweet. 

Barbara scuttles her fingers up Lydia’s ribs and her voice completely drops out. She hides her face in her hands but it does nothing to dim the room. It takes her a moment to uncurl once the tickling stops, but Adam catches the flash of disappointment that she tries to smother. 

Lydia floats back down, bewildered and bright pink, as Barbara takes a victory lap around her husband. 

“I win! Yes!” Barbara floats straight off the ground in a joyous little spin. Adam splutters and gestures at her. She sticks her tongue out at him. He splutters louder. 

“You are disqualified for eternity--” 

“On whose authority--” She snickers. 

“What is happening?” Lydia throws an old pillow directly through both of them. It thumps uselessly to the ground. 

“We were having a little contest to see if we could make you laugh. I won.” Barbara grins. Adam growls and starts reeling her into his arms. She gasps and starts trying to worm away. 

“You did not win, you cheated--”

“You guys are so…weird. Why do you care if I smile?” Lydia’s nose wrinkles with the force of her thoughts. She doesn’t look upset, which is promising, but she’s quickly reaching neon levels of blush. Her teenage need to look cool is very visibly warring with her smile. 

“Well, kiddo--” Adam speaks smoothly while wrestling with a giggling Barbara-- “We care about you. Is that such a radical concept?” 

As Lydia stands there, quietly bowled over that someone would look at her with such care, Adam busies himself with tickling his wife within an inch of her undead life. Barbara’s laughter floods the attic, the lights flickering in time with the music of it.

It’s so simple to them, Lydia thinks. Joy. 

“You gonna stand there like a ghost or are you gonna help?” Adam grins, lifting Barbara clear off the ground. She shrieks in surprise and starts stumbling her way through bargaining. Lydia coos at her mockingly and accepts Adam’s invitation. As she approaches, Barbara starts talking faster, and Lydia’s heart warms. 

“Wait, guys, we can talk about this--”

Adam buries her face into her neck and she squeals, somehow higher pitched than Lydia. Barbara throws her head back to laugh and it’s warm in its familiarity. Lydia dismisses the memories swirling like watercolors at the edges of her mind, instead opting to tase Barbara’s ribs. She snorts through her next peal of laughter, tossing her head from side to side as she tries to hide. The snorts find her anyway. 

Adam and Lydia exchange a mischievous look. 

Adam descends on one side, Lydia on the other, and Barbara giggles so violently that she phases directly through the floor. Adam and Lydia burst out laughing, leaning on each other for support. Barbara trudges back up the attic stairs, grumbling, and it sets them off again. 

“Next time, we’re setting up rules.” Adam wipes his eyes.

“Next time I’m sending you through the floor,” Barbara fires back, wiggling her fingers in his direction. Adam yelps and disappears entirely. 

Lydia’s too busy laughing at him to acknowledge the flutter of excitement at ‘next time’, but she’s overjoyed that it’s there.

[vigilskeep]

Hiya, do u have a carrd or anything with info on your ocs? I love reading about ocs n all that crap but the tumblr search function is like actually evil. Keir seems super interesting but it’s like killing me trying to find posts to recap his lore 😭

i don’t i’m afraid!! it’s just his enormous mess of a tag as the lore built up... i might make something sometime??? i hadnt thought abt it tbh. in the meantime feel free to ask me any and all questions even if it’s something i’ve probably already said, i love going over this stuff and will do so forever if even slightly prompted. on that note, if it helps, here is a briefly condensed version:

keir is a red personality (aggressive/direct) non-mage hawke. i did his full playthrough as a warrior, i sometimes talk about switching him to rogue, but the only really important thing is that he’s a reaver and will bite you for real

he’s a man of few words, extremely blunt and threatening to the point of being absurdly over-the-top with pretty much all strangers, and much softer but still bluntly earnest with the small group of people he considers his own. he considers himself first and foremost a protector and would do anything to keep those people safe. his father malcolm was a strict man who raised him to do this and he accepted that wholeheartedly. consider him a guard dog. killed his first templar in defence of the family aged 15

he adores and idolises magic and fiercely supports mage freedom, though ultimately he would absolutely sacrifice a wider “cause” if doing so would keep his mages safe. fortunately or unfortunately, he can’t do that because the two are inextricable

he’s a proud fereldan and cares very little for kirkwall (hates kirkwall. hates kirkwall. someone please get him out of here) and its nobility, which tends to show in his appearance and behaviour. long braided hair, the streak across his nose is kaddis, and takes his mabari, silla, absolutely everywhere

he’s elf-blooded via his father, who was the bastard son of a fereldan elven servant girl and an orlesian chevalier who was with the occupation

his playthrough has circle mage bethany. he adores her and he would do anything for her but her acceptance of her fate and disillusionment with his overprotectiveness meant they had an increasingly strained relationship. it was because she was trapped that he couldn’t leave the city. once he was champion, meredith essentially had a knife to his sister’s throat whenever she wanted his compliance, not to mention the looming threat to anders and merrill, making those three years the worst and most terrifying in his life

he romances anders! friendmance and they escape kirkwall together in the end. not always easy but he really loves him, justice half included. there’s a lot of lore here ummm if i mention the “and they were housemates” timeline, that’s my silly mutual pining alternate version of events where anders moves into the amell estate for safekeeping before he and keir actually get together. if i mention aura hawke, that’s the potential daughter i occasionally hc for them

he had previous relationships with morrigan (in lothering as young 20-somethings) and merrill (during act 1). you cannot keep him away from those romanceable mages

he’s still close friends with merrill. isabela is his best friend. he has a complicated, semi-antagonistic friendship with varric, who was really closer with anders but now after the fact doesn’t want to remember that. he deeply respects and is friends with fenris. he did rivalry with sebastian, but in an agree-to-disagree way where they considered each other friends nonetheless until All That happened. he had a more genuine rivalry with aveline though still coloured by their trauma bonding

i THINK those are the main beats of his lore but he’s my most discussed and developed dragon age character so i’m sure i’ve missed some of the assorted junkyard of thoughts

[altrie]

my gjhm hcs/prompts/scenario/drabbles 5️⃣🎶💘

more personal hcs i have! also in continuation/addition to my utahime hcs post 👍 this is just a mix of gjhm, utahime and some sprinkle of utashoko, sugushoko hcs if you stare hard enough..

i stand by the idea that these two started out as hot and cold frenemies during their time as students. so not exactly fluffy/shippy material here but i digress, it's fun to speculate what gjhm were like as annoying students getting on everyone's nerves.. i think those two would have been adorable, funny, and annoying 😂

also, i wrote this in mind that gojo is the one that fell first and fell hard for utahime. so almost everything here is just a perspective of someone crushing on their senpai LMAO. in my head, utahime doesn't start noticing gojo until they're both in their twenties. i feel those two would be a slow burn like a very angsty slow burn 🫠🫠🫠

note: i had to research more of the tokyo tech school, calculate the years, ages to try and be accurate as possible to the canon timeline. this long list starts at around 2005/2006 pre-HI arc. if gege doesn't state something explicitly, i feel it's free real estate to interpret and develop headcanons 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

young gojo and utahime formally met around late spring to early summer of 2005 and immediately had a rocky start. they met through shoko one afternoon after class. however, gojo has already known about utahime prior to this. while not paying attention to yaga's lecture. he noticed the senior singing to herself as she tended the campus community garden with the other upperclassmens/sorcerers. her soothing voice is what he notices first

gojo was awe struck by utahime at first glance and it's been bad for him since then. his senior who is 2-almost 3 years older, short, calm and too easy of a target to pick on is very much adorable when angy

bc of the nature of shoko and utahime's CT, they're often at the main campus ground together. they'll hang out in the infirmary or chilling somewhere nearby. post missions, the boys tend to visit the infirmary just to annoy them and get treatments/checkups even if they don't have a visible scratch

the gang made it a tradition to have dinner every sunday, every week as possible. it started with utashoko going to a potluck/bbq restaurant frequently until the boys learned about it and crashed it >_>. since then, they have dinner at campus where they all cook together. everyone has to pitch in. utahime likes to incorporate in-season crops to the cooking. gojo doesn't usually eat veggies but somehow can have seconds of songstress's hotpot

when on missions, utahime keeps a journal and a camera to document memories. gojo makes fun of her for it, but ends up enjoying it and helping her with the camera work, finding spots to take pics. he sometimes helps take pics too bc of his tall stature

the tokyo tech high campus is LOUD when gjhm are bickering. and they're always bickering! it doesn't matter who started it (it's gojo always), so those two end up getting scolded by yaga often

on days when utahime is paired with another sorcerer for support, the campus is quiet and gojo is sad :(. when he gets sent to missions, he doesn't get the same support. he's aware he's a special grade and don't need it but it's so boring to do it alone!

when utahime comes back from missions, she always brings back treats and souvenirs for everyone. yes, that includes her annoying junior who in return starts doing the same thing at his missions. she ends up bringing him sweets, like tons of sweets she thinks he'll like (he does). gojo started doing the same gesture but he tends to lie that he didn't bring anything for utahime--which she'll say she doesn't care. but by the time she returns to her room, she'll find a gift bag and a note placed on her desk from the same junior who likes to be dramatic about everything

since utahime is the top student at their campus and aces every exam they have. it's become a thing for her to lead their study sessions. she does her best to tutor and simplify things for them. gojo tends to be a distraction at first but tends to help her out on these sessions. they end up pass out next to each other with his uniform jacket placed on her as a blanket. the others often wake up early before those two and notes how peaceful they are

sugushoko definitely picks up on gojo's crush on utahime before gojo is even aware himself. they been quiet about it the whole time, just watching the disaster unfold. shoko brings up the idea of mentioning it to one of them at one point but geto wants to see how much longer until one of them realizes it or something funny happens

geto one day asks gojo who's his type. gojo's answer makes it so obvious he's describing utahime but he doesn't even know. geto teases him that he just described their senior. gojo just gives him an annoyed look and changes the subject

shoko just drops the information about gojo's crush to utahime out of the blue and utahime just gives her a disgusted look. "gojo just likes to be a brat." utahime goes into a long tangent about gojo. shoko notes the songstress definitely does not look at gojo like that except as an annoying junior and laughs to herself about it. poor gojo 🤭

utahime gets asked out a lot by upperclassmen and non-sorcerers. it definitely doesn't bother gojo! nope, not at all! but he makes it a goal to disturb whoever he sees talking to his senior when utahime should be studying or tutoring. their courtship is distracting the flow of education! utahime ends up apologizing for her junior's bratty actions

december 2005: gojo turns 16 and the new years are near. the trio decides to celebrate over break. everyone except utahime are present during this month. due to the songstress graduating in a few months, she's been occupied in missions back to back. it doesn't bother gojo that she's not present during his bday or the gang's winter break or for new years celebration. but he is annoyed he doesn't even get a simple text or email from her! what kind of senior is she not to acknowledge her junior's bday or greet a simple new years? he definitely does not miss her or wait for her message on his phone 💢🙄

what he doesn't expect is to find himself walking to campus in the crisp january weather after new years. he sees utahime sitting on one the benches. she stands up after noticing him and waves at him. gojo quickens his steps towards her, already planned out what snarky comment to say. what he doesn't expect is for her to suddenly reach out a big giftbag to him. gojo pauses and looks at her. "happy belated birthday and a happy new year, gojo"

utahime's gifts to him were handful of sweets, varying from different prefectures. there are mochi, chocolate, pastries, etc. one that stood out to him was a stuffed white cat keychain wearing some dark glasses. she states she saw it and thought it resembled him. she got matching ones for sugushoko as well and can't wait to give it give to them. gojo doesn't have a joke or anything in return to say and thanked her for the gifts. he doesn't end up using the keychain but places it in his desk inside his campus room. displaying it neatly next to his lamp and a picture of their friend group

gjhm rarely fights. sure, they get into arguments, bickering contests, loud banter--but fights are very rare. when they do fight, it's usually something that started from stubbornness, pettiness, even miscommunication. but they're both willing to apologize soon right after the heat of the moment ends. they don't like giving each other the cold shoulder

since gjhm are pretty young and are still inexperienced, i think them apologizing won't be so direct. they're both equally stubborn when it comes to each other and stumble with getting their thoughts across but they'll make it up halfway towards other means (likes small gifts, tea, nonchalant convos about it, etc)

[lostbutterflyutau]

Reflections

Note: This "missing scene," like all my Furuba fics, takes place in my headcanon in which all canon events still occur, but my OC is part of the story and things change a bit after the OG ending. Because I still consider it free real estate.

I'll explain various plot elements as needed. For this one, all you really need to know is that my OC plays a major role and it might help to read about her (HERE).

Also, this is my first time in a while writing for this fandom and participating in a fandom event, so hoping it goes alright.

(Didn't have time to give it to my beta before posting, so I apologise for any silly mistakes).

**** Prompt: Missing Scene

Timeline: Chapter 132/Season 3, Episode 12 (Before the Meeting) **** “You have really long eyelashes,” Shima complimented, gently brushing mascara over them.  

“Is that a good thing?” Akito asked, doing her best to keep still even as she spoke.

Shima already had to re-apply her eyeliner twice due to her not being used to the feeling and accidentally smearing it. But Akito couldn’t help it. She’d never had makeup put on her before. It was strange, just like her ensemble. And everything else that had happened in the past few weeks.

Even just a few months ago, she would have never thought of being friends with people like Tohru and Shima. In fact, Shima’s hair still irritated her at times, which she seemed to pick up on given how it was tied back now, or maybe that was just to keep it out of her face. Akito wasn’t sure, but also knew that it didn’t matter. She was just grateful for the help from both her new friend and the maids that had helped her dress.

“It is. They’re pretty.” Shima sat back, put the wand in the tube. “Now you just need some lipstick.”  

Akito didn’t respond, only watched as Shima turned to the small bag sitting at her side and pulled three tubes from it. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to such words being directed at her and wanted to protest, but she knew it was fruitless. Shima wasn’t one to backpedal on her words. She and Shigure had that in common. Besides, there were much more important things at hand.

While she didn’t say anything, Shima could tell from the look on Akito’s face that she felt awkward, which was more than understandable. Dressing up this way – hell, just being a girl in general –  was still a foreign concept to her. And, on top of that, she was about to go and reveal that fact – and more – to her former Zodiac.

Unfortunately, it was one of those rare occurrences where she was at a loss for what to say. As much as she hated admitting it, anything having to do with the inner circle was outside her understanding. Always had been. She’d been foolish enough to think she understood once, but recent events proved that she never really had. It was something she was still coming around to even as she decided to look ahead instead of behind her. So many things had happened and today was going to be the official start of a new path for all of them, including Akito.

“Definitely this one,” She decided, twisting open one of the tubes.

“What is that?” Akito asked, looking over the applicator in Shima’s hand. Though she knew very little about makeup, it still didn’t look like any lipstick she’d seen before.

“Liquid lipstick,” Shima explained, gently slid her hand underneath Akito’s chin and tipped her head up.

She applied the colour delicately, smiled at the finished result before putting the makeup aside and pulling out the headband holding Akito’s hair back, watching as her fringe fell into place. She then swept up the flowers and pins, moved over to the side to complete the final touch.

For a moment, neither spoke, unsure of what to say. Navigating this friendship was new for both of them, and Akito wasn’t sure what she could or couldn’t say or if Shima would even understand the weight on her heart. The one that she wasn’t sure she was even allowed to have after everything. But, on the other end, there was any one else she could talk to aside from Tohru, but she wasn’t here. Shima was. And being the sister of one previously possessed, she’d lived with the cloud of the curse much longer, albeit in a different way.

Finally, she took in a breath, decided to take her chance.  

“Shima?”

“Hm?” Shima murmured. It was the most she could muster with the pins in her mouth.

“Do you think this is even worth it?

Shima didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, she kept her focus on the task at hand, contemplating her response as her hands worked. Despite having a vague idea of what Akito was asking, she still decided to ask as she pulled the final pin out of her mouth,

“Depends. What exactly is ‘it?’”

Akito flicked her eyes down to her hands, fiddled with the end of one of her sleeves. “This whole thing, I suppose. They have to know what happened. And after everything, would they even listen to what I have to say?”

Cautiously, Shima reached over, placed a hand over hers. “I think they will. Especially after you come in like this. Remind me. What did Gure say when he gave this to you?”

Keeping her eyes down, Akito recalled, “He said it was both a parting and a welcome gift. That I was leaving behind the person everyone wanted me to be and becoming a new me. Whoever that is.”  

Shima smiled. She knew the answer. Had it stuck in her head since Akito told her a few days prior. But she needed her to say it, hoping that if she did, she would start to believe his words.

“In other words, it’s an external representation of the internal.”

 At that, Akito finally looked up, her expression telling Shima that while she probably got the gist of what she meant, she still didn’t appreciate her use of writer speak.

“They can’t see the change in your heart,” Shima explained. “At least not yet. But by doing this, you can show them that you’re taking the first big step to becoming your authentic self.”

“But even with the ‘external,’ will they believe me?”

“I can’t speak for them, but I like to think that they would. Even if it takes time.” She shifted then, and despite knowing it was a risk, moved to wrap her arms around the smaller woman.

“And if it helps, I believe you.”  

Though it wasn’t the first time and far less shocking than the time Arisa Uotani had hugged her, Akito still wasn’t sure what to make of her affection. Reassuring, but not pitiful, just like her words. Shima knew she didn’t need anyone’s pity. Not anymore. So, as she reached up and gently squeezed Shima’s arm, Akito chose to believe she only wanted to let her know she was there. That there was one more person in her corner.

“Akito?” Another voice interrupted as the door slid open, the maid first blinking at the unusual sight before shaking it off and continuing as Shima returned to her previous position.  “Are you ready?”  

Akito sighed to herself. There was no turning back now. It didn’t matter if she was ready. The time had come to take the first step into a life that was truly her own and begin her atonement. Whether anyone would accept it or not, especially without the pull of the curse, was another question, but one she had to face.

It had never been a matter of whether she could do this. It was something she had to do. For them. And to a lesser degree, herself. And even after today, there would still be a long road ahead. One without the eternity she had been previously promised. A world full of strangers.  

“Hey.”

A faint whisper caught her attention and it, along with a gentle touch, brought her back to reality. She turned, saw in Shima’s eyes nothing but warmth and support – underserved, she thought, but earnest.

“You got this.”   

It was such a small, simple declaration, but something about it eased the tension stirring up inside her, making way for a wave of relief she hadn’t felt before now. While it didn’t shake off all her nerves, the thought that maybe the world wasn’t completely full of strangers and that she had a few people – including Shima – on her side was enough to make her finally stand.

Releasing another deep sigh, Akito took a step forward, the movement as firm as her reply.

“Ready as I’ll ever be."

[panur]

Radskier Warlord AU

warlord!AU (geralt!Warlord) and Redenia sends Radovid as a [spy? diplomat? potential husband?] to KM

Radovid spends there maybe 15 minutes before falling tits over teakettle for the bard

PLOT TWIST: it all works out bc honestly Geralt is there to look intimidating and grunt, the real minds behind the politics are Yen, Jaskier and Eskel, so Radovid successfully seduces 1/3 of Kaer Morhen figurehead, and since he's staying no one can kill Vizimir!

Radovid gets to live the rest of his life surrounded by extremely attractive men and getting his back blown by a sexy poet live the romance he always dreamed of, good for him! LOVE WINS!

...

Also Vizimir and Hedwig ask for law of surpise as a joke and get a child of surprise of their own so woo! Redenia's got legitimate heirs now.

#it's free real estate prompt just tag me so i can read