#as fragmented & miserable as it all is. he will remember. yes that they once lived i fucking guess idk thst line didnt hit ME as much

[windupaidoneus]

today again i ponder. my beautiful modern au where the events of the game did happen but wayy into the past & theyre both reincarnated or some shit. & hilde gets very vivid dreams of these past life events which he would tell hades all about because hes a chatterbox & likes sharing things with him. right. & its always like, this was really weirdly realistic & they kinda all fit together, such interesting dreams! they dont usually do that i dont think maybe its just another way my brain is weird lol. but then he gets to the shb shit. & past a certain point hes a lot less willing to talk. because if these arent just dreams. he would have to tell hades what he did to him in what might just be their actual past lives. he would never want to hurt him with that kind of information

& i mean hades def notices something is off & probably prods him about it but it doesnt really amount to much until hildes gotten to experience elpis in dream again which. Well.. guy who wakes up crying of course. & they have to talk about it now.

[eliemo]

Solitary

Summary: Logan wakes up. He wasn't supposed to this time.

TWs: aftermath of a suicide attempt, implied/referenced self harm, self hatred and self esteem issues, hopeful ending

Notes: Mind the tags pls, I wrote this with no plan at like 1am. Platonic LAMP

When Logan woke up, the first thing he registered was a splitting headache, white hot pain spreading down his head to his spine like his skull was being snapped in two.

The next was the pulsing agony in both of his arms, shooting up to his shoulders with a sudden intensity that made him gasp before he could stop himself, only to be met with another stabbing pain in his throat.

“Hey hey hey, easy.” A vaguely familiar voice filtered in from somewhere nearby, but Logan was pretty sure the pain would only worsen if he opened his eyes to look. “Easy, Lo. You’re safe, you’re ok.”

All Logan was able to manage was an awful sounding croak. He felt someone running their hand gently through his hair, another holding the side of his face.

“Breathe, kiddo. You’re ok.”

Patton. A bit of the rising alarm faded when he recognized the moral side’s voice, but something still pulled at his chest when he realized how scared Pat sounded. What was going on?

“Can you open your eyes?” Patton asked, soft and concerned right beside his ear. “We really miss you, Logan.”

Patton’s voice broke a bit at the end, miserable and pleading, and that was enough for Logan to risk pain that came with the sudden light, making another weak noise in the back of his throat as he pried his eyes open, surprised and a little frustrated over how much effort it took.

Like he’d warily expected, the barrage of light did feel like someone was repeatedly taking a knife to his eyes, but it wasn't nearly as intense as he’d anticipated.

It took a second for everything to come into focus, but when it did Logan could make out that he was on the couch in the living room, a dark blue blanket draped over him, the curtains closed over the windows to keep the sunlight out of the dim room.

Patton was crouched beside him, fingers still running through Logan’s hair, slow and gentle. Virgil was perched on the other end of the couch, eyeshadow smeared and staining his face with dried black tears.

Roman was standing beside the armchair just a few paces away, looking like he’d just been startled out of his seat, face pale, eyes wide and shiny.

They all looked...awful. They looked about as bad as Logan felt right now.

“Wh-what?” It hurt to talk, voice raspy and shaking, but the confusion was only making his head hurt more. “What’s happening, I—”

“I’ll, uh- I’ll get him some water,” Roman said hastily, failing to hide the worried glance he sent Patton’s way. “Hang in there, Teach.”

Roman was gone before Logan could say anything, and his gaze wandered instead to Virgil who was still planted by his feet, shifting anxiously where he sat, glancing between Logan and Patton like he was waiting for someone to speak.

Luckily Roman wasn’t gone for long, hurrying back into the room within seconds and practically thrusting a glass of water in Logan’s face.

He moved to sit up and take it, only to hiss at the pain shooting up his arms at the tiniest of movements, falling limply back onto the cushions.

“Don’t use your hands, honey,” Patton said, a second too late. “Here, let me help you, ok?”

Any other time Logan would have protested. He was perfectly capable of drinking a cup of water by himself. But right now all he had the energy to do was give a tiny nod and let Patton help him to sit up.

He didn’t have the energy to fight, keeping his aching arms under the blanket and letting Patton bring the cup to his lips. The cold water eased the pain in his throat somewhat, even if it took a frustratingly long time for Logan to swallow a few sips.

“There you go,” Patton said when he saw done, and Logan hated how overly gentle the other side was being with him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Logan said, despite how badly everything hurt. “What...happened?”

He saw the three of them exchange worried glances among themselves, trying and failing once again to hide it from Logan. His head was still too heavy to remember what had put him in this position in the first place, but their concern was only worsening his rising anxiety. Or maybe he was just picking up on some of Virgil’s distress.

The anxious side shifted again, brows drawn together as he looked Logan over. “Do you not...remember what happened?”

Logan took a moment, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing against the lump in his throat, taking a moment to catalogue his aching body, his headache, and the searing pain shooting up his arms.

“Was I...injured?”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Patton immediately burst into tears. To his dismay, Roman and Virgil’s eyes started welling up at the same time.

Oh, god. Logan was even less prepared to deal with their emotions than he usually was.

“Is that…” he trailed off, swallowed, and tried again. “Is that a yes?”

Patton only began crying harder, and before Logan could try to apologize the moral side was throwing himself forward, arms wrapped around Logan as best he could, sobbing loudly into his chest.

“Patton, I—”

“I’m so sorry!” Patton wailed, only further growing Logan’s confusion. “I’m so sorry Lo, I’m so sorry! We didn’t- we didn’t know! I swear we had no idea!”

“Let him take a moment to wake up, Padre,” Roman said, still hovering anxiously. He and Virgil were being much quieter about their distress, but both of their faces were soaked with tears. “But we...we really are sorry. Gosh, Logan we’re so so sorry.”

Logan screwed his eyes shut again, still coming up blank when he tried to connect the dots. “What...what on earth are you apologizing for?”

“For not realizing you felt that way, Lo.” Virgil moved to put a hand on Logan’s leg, refusing to look the logical side in the eyes. “Jeez- you’re family and we never...we never noticed.”

Patton was still bawling into his shirt, Virgil tightened his own hold, Roman began pacing as he tended to do when he was stressed, and Logan still had absolutely no clue what was going on. Why wouldn’t someone just tell him what had happened?

“Patton...” Logan stopped, first from the pain that came with raising his hand to touch Patton’s shoulder, then from the shock of seeing his arms. “I—”

“Don’t look, baby,” Patton said, gently guiding his hands back under the blanket like Logan hadn’t gotten a clear view of blood stained bandages wrapped around his arms from his wrists to his elbows. “You’re ok.”

His arms were...had he...?

Roman cleared his throat, and Logan looked over at the sound. The Prince held a wrinkled piece of paper in his hand, crumpled and a little stained, and the writing Logan could just barely make out was suddenly alarmingly familiar.

“We, uhm. We found your note.”

And just like that it all came rushing back- the overwhelming pain, the emotions, everything spiraling out of his usually so strict control as he finally let everything out onto a flimsy piece of notebook paper.

He’d lost control, no longer able to see a better way out. All he’d been focused on was the horrible pain in his arms soaked with blood that signified an ending he hadn’t even been sure he really wanted.

It came back in a fragmented blur, and Logan abruptly remembered that he wasn’t supposed to have woken up.

Oh. Oh no.

“I am...so sorry,” Logan said, at a loss for what else to do. “It was never my intention for you all to—”

“Your intention was pretty fucking clear,” Virgil snapped, and Logan was taken aback by the hostility in Anxiety’s voice. “Jesus Christ, Lo! What were you thinking?”

“Virgil,” Patton snapped, but the wavering in his voice overshadowed any vehemence. “That’s...let’s calm down, kiddo. Ok?”

Virgil wiped his eyes with his sleeves, shoulders hunched as he crossed his arms and stared at the ground. Logan’s chest squeezed, guilt and panic overwhelming.

“How long was I...asleep?”

Patton gave a shaky sigh, going back to running his hands through Logan’s hair. “Since last night. It’s...I think three in the afternoon now.”

Logan’s stomach dropped, and the pain in his arms flared up again as he struggled to sit up, only to fall limp against the back of the couch. He’d been out all day, forcing the other sides to stop what they were doing and look after him.

He couldn’t imagine how much damage and stress he’d caused. The one thing he’d been trying to avoid doing any more of.

“I’m very sorry,” Logan said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “My intentions were not to be an inconvenience or cause any unnecessary stress. I will attempt to get back on schedule as soon as possible and—”

“Get back on schedule?”

Logan couldn’t remember hearing Virgil yell like this, shrinking back into Patton’s arms before he could stop himself, the anxious side having stood up from the couch, eyes wide and brimming with new tears.

Logan cleared his throat, struggling to speak with his heart hammering in his chest. “I...apologize for—”

“You think we’re upset over the schedule?” Virgil snapped, flinching when Roman moved closer to put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve been sitting here for hours waiting for you to wake up after you tried to kill yourself and you think we’re upset because we’re behind schedule? Are you fucking serious, Logan?”

The screaming eventually dissolved into ragged sobs, and Logan watched as Roman gathered Virgil up his arms and pulled him close, the anxious side burying his face into the Prince’s chest.

Roman hadn’t stopped silently crying, silent tears sliding down his cheeks as he pressed his nose to Virgil’s hair, trembling with the strength it took to hold back his sobs. And Patton hadn’t let go of him, half of Logan’s shirt soaked with the moral side’s tears.

He hadn’t...expected this. Any of it.

Honestly, Logan hadn’t expected anyone to even notice his absence at first. He supposed they might not have known he’d...passed at all if he hadn’t been found before he’d finished.

He'd expected them to be mildly agitated when they found out he was gone, a little annoyed that he’d taken such drastic measures instead of continuing to ignore it and move on for Thomas’s sake. They'd have to make their schedules themselves now, and his death would likely push a few things back.

Things might be a bit less efficient without him but...they’d realize it was for the best eventually. They would be happier without him around. The air would be lighter.

It would be quieter. They wouldn’t have to constantly hide their annoyance every time he opened his mouth.

They wouldn’t have to deal with him at all anymore.

He hadn’t...expected anyone to be upset over the thought of losing him. He hadn’t even succeeded, he was perfectly fine, and every single one of them was in very clear distress.

“I am...very sorry,” he tried again, wondering if all he’d managed to do was ruin things irreparably. “I never wanted to upset any of you.”

“It isn’t about us,” Patton said, reaching over to quickly squeeze Virgil’s hand. “It’s not about our feelings. It’s about yours.”

“No, Virgil is right. It was selfish of me to—”

“It wasn’t selfish,” Virgil said quickly. He pulled away from Roman, just enough to look at Logan. “It’s not...it wasn’t selfish, Lo. It wasn’t your fault.”

Logan frowned, because that...was an exceptionally strange thing to say. Especially when he had every right to scream until his voice was hoarse. “Of course it was. I did it to myself. I was fully aware of what I was doing.”

That made Patton tighten his hold and Virgil’s gaze drop to the floor, but Logan didn’t falter. It was the truth. He wasn’t going to make excuses or pretend to be ashamed. He’d been convinced it was the right thing to do.

Roman suddenly sighed, trembling and quiet, the only one able to meet Logan’s eyes. “Sometimes our brains tell us things, Lo. They aren’t true and they’re awful but it’s...hard not to listen. You just need some help quieting the thoughts.”

“My thoughts are...perfectly rational,” Logan said, despite the situation. “I was simply mistaken. I thought I was doing what was best.”

“You thought we hated you!” Patton was crying again, sobbing with nothing holding him back, and Logan suddenly couldn’t bring himself to look at the note left on the coffee table. “You thought...Lo, the things you said—”

“I was wrong,” Logan said curtly, even as a prickle of dread settled in his stomach. “I was...I was wrong, wasn’t I?”

He was a bit taken aback by how quickly the three of them burst into affirmations, all of them suddenly crowded around him, holding him close as gently as possible. Keeping him safe.

“We love you,” Virgil was saying, and the anxious side had somehow managed to half commandeer his lap, his arms wrapped around his Logan’s middle. “I love you, Logan, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not...your fault,” Logan said, wishing his arms didn't hurt quite so bad. He couldn’t even attempt to hug anyone back. “I shouldn’t—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Roman spoke up, placing a gentle but grounding hand on Logan’s back. “I know it feels like you did, Teach. I know. But you didn’t.”

“I tried to...I- I thought—”

“You’re in a bad place and we didn’t notice,” Virgil said, barely audible from where his face was pressed into Logan’s shirt. “That’s our fault. We- I should have been there to help, I didn’t know you—”

“I was attempting to hide it.” Hiding it had become normal. He’d hoped it would all simply go away, or fade away to the background at the very least if he just pretended.

But it had only grown worse, leaving him feeling empty and numb and hurt each time he was ignored and talked over, each time an argument went a little too far, each time he felt like a burden for simply speaking his mind. For having a thought in the first place.

He’d thought they hated him. He thought they hated the sound of his voice, his presence in their lives, his existence. A bitter part of him had wondered if they’d celebrate his death before erasing him from their memories entirely.

He hadn’t been able to say it aloud. But he’d finally been able to sit down and put it all on paper, finalizing it into one last goodbye.

Logan has been stupid. Logic had failed, and he’d done something irrational.

If he couldn’t even do his job well enough to keep himself alive, what even was the point in keeping him around? Thomas might be better off without him after all—

“Logan.” Patton was right in front of him now, warm hands on Logan’s cheeks, effectively cutting off his spiraling thoughts. “We’re here now. We’re here and we know.”

Logan curled his shoulders and nodded, the thought equally comforting and terrifying. He’d never planned on having to face the consequences of this decision. Of his awful, irrational feelings.

“We’re gonna help you kiddo,” Patton continued. “You’re not alone, Logan. You never ever have been. I’m so sorry you thought you were.”

Logan swallowed, alarmed at how tight his throat was becoming, vision quickly becoming blurred. “I...I don’t want to cause any pointless stress. We’re all busy.”

“We’re worried about you,” Patton said softly, never letting go of Logan. “You worry about the people you love. You worry about family.”

“I...” he paused, closing his eyes as the tears finally spilled over. “I wasn’t...sure that I was.”

Virgil lifted his head and frowned, but Logan refused to look down at him, staring blankly at the wall instead. “You weren’t...what? Family?”

Logan didn’t respond, didn’t jump to correct the assumption because he...couldn’t. He’d questioned his place for so long, somewhere along the way he’d begun assuming nobody cared. That it wasn’t a question for anyone else.

The heartbroken noises from the other three sides made him flinch, and he melted into their touch as they rushed to assure him once again, hard as it was to focus on anything they were saying.

He’d been so stupid. How could he have mistaken this for anything but love?

“You’re family, Logan,” Roman said, holding him from behind with his head now rested on Logan’s shoulder. “You will always be family. I’m so sorry it got this bad.”

Logan wasn’t sure when he’d started letting himself cry in earnest, but now that he’d started he couldn’t stop.

There were three pairs of arms around him, holding him close while he trembled and sobbed and tried to force out apologies that kept getting caught in his throat.

He’d been selfish, and he’d upset them all so much but…

But he’d been so hurt. He’d felt so hurt for months and none of them had noticed. Nobody had asked. He wasn’t angry, he knew they would never have left him like that if they could have known. But it didn’t change the fact that it had happened.

But it was...going to be better now. Logan wanted so badly to believe it was going to get better.

“We’re going to fix this,” Patton said, and Logan’s eyes slipped shut when the moral side once again began playing with his hair. “We’re gonna be right here, Lo. We’ve got you. It won’t ever get this bad again.”

Logan felt himself drifting back to sleep, the pain fading to a dull ache in the background, and he didn’t try to fight against it. His chest was still heavy, mind clouded with distorted thoughts and doubts, and he knew none of that would disappear the next time he woke up. He wasn’t naive enough to hope it would.

But he had a way to fix it now. A way that wasn’t quite so final as his original plan.

And his family would be there when he woke up. He didn’t have to do this by himself anymore. He didn’t have to be the only one trying to fix this.

Logan believed them. He wouldn’t have to do it alone. Never again.

[girlucifer]

“tell me you love me

...because i don’t think i could handle it otherwise.”

one of my favorite quotes in the game is when lucifer and the mc are alone, where they choose to hug him after they returned to the devildom, and he whispers how he wants the human to tell him they thought of him everyday they were away- not of his brothers, but of him alone. because he ‘couldn’t handle it otherwise.” i love that soft, wanting aspect of lucifer, a side we don’t really see often. i wanted to expand a bit on this, so here is a small fic, lucifer x gender neutral mc, under the cut!

word count: 1200 or so

tags: lucifer x gender neutral mc, obey me! angst, fluff, romance, tension, slow build, spoilers*** for lesson 20 and below  

they knocked on the study's door that towered over them, its very aura dominating, fearsome- behind this door leads to him and his gaze, as sharp and red as the thin thread that ties the two together, cutting and suffocating. his gaze always lingered in the human's mind behind closed eyes, behind closed doors- his gaze, red as blood, as marks left on their neck after a daring evening alone, as red as the human's heart that beats wildly as they raised their hand to knock upon the door. warm firelight spilled through the crevice underneath the door. they knew he was inside- he had been avoiding them ever since the night they spent together- this much, the human could tell. he was a hard one to decipher; he always had a sort of cloudiness hovering over him, always a bit restrained, a bit hesitant. he would look over his shoulder, never wear his heart there. it wasn't until that night the human must've said something small, something innocent, an accidental graze of fingertips, a mistakenly seductive glance. parted lips, inching noses... he had revealed what really lurked in the depths of his soul with shallow gasps and light moans, interlocked fingers across black silken sheets.

the smell of wooded musk lingered in the air- his candles were lit. the forest from home, the human thought- he always seemed to smell of fresh orchards. it was fitting he'd smell of such, after all, the human reflected, as every moment with him seemed akin to taking a bite of a fruit from a forbidden tree- he was the first prince of hell, second only to the devil himself. lucifer, a name feared throughout the human world just as much as the underworld- a taboo name, malevolent, a name called by the evil and wicked. the human remembered the fear that took hold of their heart when meeting the brothers- six demons stood behind a particularly shining one, his presence far more immutable than the others. lucifer, the morning star. poison to the soul, pomegranate seeds to the tongue. they knocked once more- the door finally opened.

their eyes met immediately, as the human drew closer to him. he sat on one of the small couches that accentuated his study, holding a glass of dark, almost jet-black liquid. the top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone, his tie hanging down his chest, his collarbone just slightly exposed- enough the have the human avert their gaze, face flushing as if exposed to something far too indulgent. without another word, lucifer took another glass, pouring demonus for the other as they sat besides him. he reached out his hand, to which the human accepted the glass. no words were exchanged as the two drank silently, the human stealing glances towards the demon. the lit fireplace quietly danced behind him, his silhouette outlined with the warm orange color, flooding his features. in his light, he almost seemed holy, heavenly, like a fragment of his previous celestial incarnation was shining through.

"you're avoiding me."

"is that what it seems like to you?" his lips balanced on the edge of sneering and smiling. then like a flicker of one of the candles dotting his small study, he turned his head, downing the rest of his liquor.

"do you think... do you think I can be a bit selfish and ask you to listen to me? I might say things that don't quite make sense, or run off on long tangents, or maybe circle back and say nothing of any use. but maybe, maybe I'll say what I need to and we'll both be better off. could you? could you listen to me?" he reached out his hand, it wavering every so slightly before falling short just inches of the human's fingertips.

"my life is simply full of mistakes. just, utter grievances, embarrassments, all plunders on my part. I never acknowledge them- I'm the first prince of hell- I take pride in everything I do, even the mistakes. but, by heaven and hell, I regret so much. the fall- one of my most grand achievements, inspiration to renaissance painters, punishment to god-fearing populace, martyrdom to revolutionaires, but to me- a failure. the death of my sister... meant the death of me, my brothers. the one person who didn't deserve a single hair on their head harmed- they lost their life for my stupid, arrogant cause. at least, out of that wrath towards myself, satan was spawned, and seeing him grow to be a wise, powerful demon, it gives me solace that something came out of my foolishness. but, lilith's death could never be repaid. I remember thinking that, over and over, as she laid in my arms, her lifeless corpse... growing cold. lord diavolo, he saw the despair in my eyes, my heart, and he offered a resolution. something that just maybe, maybe I can redeem myself, if it meant lilith could have a chance at normal life. a life as a human, as a daughter, a lover, as a mother. if she could live in bliss for thirty-odd years, well that's all that I could ask for. my undying loyalty for all of eternity... a small price to pay for knowing she smiled one more time before my pride got her killed. but, after millennia, it's hard to remember what it was all for. living day in and day out for the prince, to subject myself to bootlicking work, to be a puppet to the most powerful demon in the devildom- what an ironic fate for the avatar of pride. some nights, I forget what it was all for- the pledge of allegiance to the demon king, twisting my brothers to do his bidding, locking belphegor away, spending nights in here," he raised his arms, drawing attention to the stuffy room, paperwork stacked atop his desk like endless buildings across the horizon. "it's all for lilith, it's all for her- like a mantra in my head every time diavolo asks for a kiss upon his boots, every time he embraces me with a whisper of an order to my ear. but, its just words- something to tell myself, lest I go insane. I never did have that closure that she did live her life, a grand life, full of love and happiness. I had no idea what had become of her, how she met her humanistic fate. until..." he trailed off, his hand clenched, knuckles white.

"until me," the human finished for him, their thumbs circling around each other as they looked down, intently focused on the wood flooring. "yes, you're living proof she lived, she loved. you're... comfort to me, that at least once in my miserable life, I had made the right choice." he raised his hand, brushing his fingertips across the human's cheek, a strand of hair falling over their eyes. like gravity, their very souls the source of attraction, the two inched closer, slowly, bit by bit, a journey to a land of milk and honey. his face was flushed- either from the demonus or because their faces were so close, they couldn't tell. lucifer took the fallen lock of hair, tucking it behind their ear, a soft smile gracing his features. "could you kiss me? kiss me once and tell me i'm doing fine? that lilith would be proud- that my brothers are too? tell me you love me. tell me, because I don't think I could handle it otherwise." and the human closed the gap between their lips, kissing him again and again and again.

[yellowocaballero]

Jon & Sasha Arson fic

Little fragment of an idea that never went anywhere. No reason for it. Just thought it would be funny. I was right. Rest under the cut. 

Most people who were unlucky enough to meet Jonathan Sims assumed he had no friends.

This was true, up to a point two weeks after Jon became a researcher at the Magnus Institute: afterwards Jon had no friends, except for Sasha James.

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

Most people who were unlucky enough to meet Jonathan Sims assumed he had no friends. 

This was true, up to a point two weeks after Jon became a researcher at the Magnus Institute: afterwards Jon had no friends, except for Sasha James. 

*******

Sasha James was attributable to arson.

Arson was attributable to a bookshelf of Leitners, humming strange songs and spewing toxic energy into the air in rhythmic hissing motions. The Leitners were attributable to Artifact Storage, a testament to mankind’s hubris and a modern-day tower of Babel where a group of underpaid academics found themselves stress testing kevlar and fire suppression systems each day. Artifact Storage was attributable to the Magnus Institute, where Jon had managed to land a job after three months of desolate post-graduate unemployment. And the Magnus Institute was attributable to - well, probably Jonah Magnus, but Jon found that it was likely a bit of a reach to blame a long dead Regency gentleman for all of his problems. 

Jon needed this job. London was expensive and so were funerals, and he couldn’t keep living on life insurance forever. It was even a good job, with decent pay and the exact kind of limp, half-hearted academia that the private sector promised disillusioned English mastery holders. His coworkers were nice - well, Tim was nice, everybody else seemed to hate him for the same reason that everybody else hated him, likely intimidated by how smart he was - and the commute was short. He couldn’t afford to lose this job. Spiritually, metaphysically, and literally. 

Which was why he should stop staring at this piece of paper. The follow-up research to a statement given by some idiot unlucky enough to cross paths with what was certainly a Leitner. 

‘ORIGINATION OF PHENOMENA ISOLATED’, the page read out professionally, yet chipperly, like a young woman in a new office job. ‘ITEM QUARANTINED WITHIN ARTIFACT STORAGE (46B.1)’. 

Hm. 

Jon pushed down on the floor, rolling himself a meter to the left.

“Say, er, Mr. Stoker.”

Tim “I’m only four years older than you, please call me Tim” Stoker, who had been thumping away on his cheap plastic keyboard either writing up a report or messaging someone on one of those infernal casual sex websites, pulled down his headphones and blinked at Jon owlishly, before splitting his face into a grin. Jon could practically hear the David Attenborough-style narration within his mind: ‘After long weeks leaving out food for the wild Simothan, the feral yet gentle animal approaches the researcher of his own volition. A win for scientists everywhere.’

“Yes, Jon?” Tim asked, in an uncanny yet hopefully unintentional RP drawl. 

“What’s Artifact Storage?”

“God, I wish I was you,” Tim said feelingly. But he nodded sagely anyway, milking his ‘wise senpai’ thing for all it was worth. Jon could practically feel Tim calling himself a senpai. It was kind of embarrassing. “You know the shady room locked deep within the basement that exudes a terrible aura of malice and hatred towards you specifically?”

“The gender neutral bathroom?” Jon asked, confused. 

“No, the one that always smells somewhat of blood. You hear screams sometimes?”

“The Archives!”

“Yes, but no! It’s Artifact Storage. If the researchers dig up any creepy shit from a statement, or if a statement giver brings in something that melts the metal detector, then we dump it in Artifact Storage and let those miserable fucks take care of it.”

“Is it more of a containment facility, or would you say that they conduct experiments?”

But Tim just shrugged. “My source down there tells me that they do some experiments to justify their budget, but it’s mostly unscientific. Poke this and I’ll give you twenty quid, that kind of thing. They say that if you really want a sick day, all you have to do is touch a mysterious rock and whisper your mother’s name -”

“Fantastic, thank you for your help, must go back to filling now,” Jon said quickly, skittering back to his own desk. He tried to distract himself from the terrifying thought of the basement full of supernatural nuclear bombs underneath his feet by trying to remember his mother’s name, but he was stuck on if it was Marjorie or Margaret. Mary Anne?

Maybe Tim’s personal Meerkat Manor series of Jon’s life had paid off - Sims Shack? - more than Jon would like, because Tim squinted at Jon in an unsettlingly familiar way. As if he knew exactly what Jon was thinking about the literature of mass destruction, and he really wanted Jon to be thinking literally anything else. 

“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you, Jon,” Tim warned, sounding a little like a horror movie trailer. “Bushy tailed college grads who go down there don’t come out the same as they went in.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Stoker.”

“For the love of christ call me Tim!”

It really was a pity - Jon had actually liked this job. 

*******

It was remarkably easy to commit arson in central London.

Jon had done it once or twice. Three times, actually, although when you think about it arson was a criminal charge and only truly existed so long as someone was charged with it, so technically you could say that Jon had done arson zero times. In his defense, you try making it through Oxford without doing anything embarrassing. 90% of your time was in class or schoolwork and 10% of it was being hazed. At least Jon hadn’t fucked any pigs. 

Jon hit up the usual stores, and stashed the usual implements in his rucksack. It was a careful week after his conversation with Tim, as he couldn’t afford for the older man to connect the dots. He made a show of going home at a timely five pm, startling everybody around him, and paced in a tight circle around his flat until he gave up and watched mindless telly until the clock struck midnight. 

He took a cab to the park a few blocks down from the Institute, and walked the rest of the way. It was a cool, dim night in London, and the foot-traffic had slowed down to a steady trickle of young people in tight clothing. Jon pulled down his baseball cap on his head, fished a key out from his pocket given to him by a helpful and friendly janitor, and took a back entrance into the Institute. 

Said helpful and friendly janitor, whose allegiance had been won because Jon was a “nice young lad” and “I always wanted to burn down the place myself, I’m happy to see the next generation give it a go” had helpfully told Jon that there were no security cameras inside the Institute. A grievous oversight, but good luck for Jon tonight. He took the stairs down to the basement, zipping his jacket up tight against the inescapable chill, and pushed his hat further down his head as he navigated his way towards Artifact Storage.

He unlocked the door with the janitor’s key, hands shaking, and slipped inside into the dusky and unlit room. 

It was pitch-black, and Jon quickly fished a torch out of his backpack. He flipped it on, letting it slowly scan the room. It was the lobby into Artifact Storage, familiar from his stake-out missions: you walked in, met the bored woman behind the desk, checked in or checked out what you wanted, and if you needed to go inside she would press the button that unlocked the heavy climate-controlled door and let you into the hallway inside. The only other door in the lobby was to the office of the Director of Artifact Storage, a terrifying short and squat woman with silver hair pulled into a bun. 

Jon leaned over the counter and jammed the button, holding his breath until he heard the door click open. He quickly twisted the handle, swung the heavy door out, and slipped inside, taking care to grab one of the chairs in the lobby and prop it open. Quick escapes were necessary. 

He was in. 

The torch lit up a map taped up to the wall, and Jon squinted at it. Section A, Section B, Section C...he remembered the classification from the document he read a week ago, and slowly walked down the hallway until he found the heavy climate controlled door marked ‘SECTION B’. He carefully wrenched it open, taking care to grab a rolling cart and using it to prop the door open, before stepping inside. He fished the canister of gasoline and the lighter out of his backpack, giving the gasoline a good shake. 

It was a library. Small, and instead of shelves there were long metal racks with filing boxes stretching long into the darkness, but Jon knew a library when he saw one. Each box had a clipboard attached to it, and most boxes had very large and terrifying stickers on them painted sickly yellow or dangerous red. 

The only thing in the library that wasn’t a filing rack was a battered and beat couch. And the only person in the room besides Jon was a woman, blinking up at Jon blearily from where she had been passed out on the couch. 

“Er,” Jon said. 

The woman sat up, squinting at Jon’s torchlight until he guiltily aimed it just to her left. She had a wild mane of curly brown hair, and was wearing a pencil skirt and ruffled burgundy blouse. A blazer was folded at one end of the couch, clearly being used as a pillow, and she looked strongly as if Jon had just woken her up from a very nice nap. 

“Whuh,” the sleepy woman said. 

“My mistake,” Jon said, “this isn’t the loo. Go back to bed, this is - er, a very bad dream, goodnight.”

“Whutuhiseet,” the woman slurred. 

“It’s - very late, go back to bed.”

“Alright,” the woman said, falling back on the couch. After a second, her snores echoed through the room again. 

Jon very slowly crept backwards. Actually, on second thought, his mission could wait for tomorrow. Bit of a cock block, this, but that was alright - 

“Hey! Who are you!”

Jon, hand on the handle of the door, squeaked and turned around. 

The woman was back up again, and this time she seemed actually awake. She was frowning mightily at Jon, and was already sliding off the couch in stocking feet to glare at him. Jon was aware that he did not look like an innocent person in these events. The gasoline did not help.

The woman’s eyes trailed to the gasoline, then widened. Jon ineffectually tried to hide it behind his back. 

“You’re trying to burn down Artifact Storage!” the woman accused, somewhat fairly.

“Not all of Artifact Storage,” Jon said guiltily, “just the Leitners.”

The woman stared at him further, as if she was a special guest on Tim’s Sims Shack nature documentary. 

“Why,” the woman said slowly, “would you want to do that?”

Despite himself, Jon found himself puffing up in indignation. “They’re evil, nasty little books that shouldn’t exist. Forget studying and - and containing them, we should be making sure no more of them ever disgrace the world again. We should be burning every one we see. They’re pure evil given literary form, they are a disgrace to books and libraries, and if I ever met Leitner myself I would beat him to death with a rusty pipe for subjecting me to his fucked up books.”

The woman stared at him. 

Finally, she said, “I’m Sasha James. Want some help?”

“I - er, wouldn’t that get you in trouble, Ms. James?” 

“I like this job but I hate Leitner and his fucked up books more,” Sasha said gravely. 

Jon, having found a kindred spirit, held out the lighter. 

Sasha James took it, a wide grin splitting her face. 

*********

Jon didn’t remember much else of that night. 

There was definitely arson involved - or, seeing as they hadn’t gotten caught, just some good old-fashioned fire starting. He had the sense that they had both been so giddy with adrenaline that they had immediately joined the raging uni students in the late night bars, toasting their success in toasting. There had probably been quite a bit of alcohol.

When he woke up the next morning, it was in his narrow and uncomfortable bed, face to face with an unfamiliar snoring woman. For a second, two, Jon was briefly convinced that he had done something so drastically out of character it meant that a fucked up book had body swapped him with Tim. Bodyswapping was more likely than him having casual sex. 

Then Jon remembered the arson, and he exhaled in relief as his life made sense again. 

“Ms. James,” Jon whispered, poking her in the arm. She snuffled and muttered something. Jon poked her harder. “Ms. James, we have work.”

Sasha turned around, turning her back to him and pulling up the blankets. “Go back to bed, Tim.”

Ti - oh god. Jon felt like he was in a CW drama. This was why he didn’t interact with people, far too much likelihood that he would accidentally end up interacting with somebody who had sex.

“Ms. James,” Jon hissed, extremely embarrassed, “you have to get up!”

“Mergh mergh fuck off,” Sasha James said. 

Jon, like a true gentleman and hero, got up and made them both strong tea. He squinted at Sasha, recalling everything he knew about her (slept a lot, liked arson, hated Jurgen Leitner) before digging out some instant coffee and making some of that too. Finally, after shoving a hot cup of sludgey black liquid at the woman, she grabbed the cup and chugged it until she was able to sit up and open her eyes. 

She blinked at Jon, who was already picking his hair in an attempt to get ready for work. He could clearly see the thoughts ‘you aren’t Tim’ run through her brain. Hah! He could be the narrator of the nature documentary for once!

“Uh,” Sasha James said, “I’m sorry, did we…?”

“Commit arson? Yes.” Jon paused a beat. “But as I don’t believe we were caught, call it an indoor campfire.”

Sasha James drank more of her coffee. Jon grabbed his clothing and disappeared into the loo to get changed. 

When he re-entered his bedroom, she snapped her fingers at him. “Right! We got pissed after! Good times, mate!”

“I have to assume,” Jon said politely. He was doing his very best to be very polite, because Jon knew he was rude and didn’t want his new coworkers to know that until his probation period was over. Maybe he should have waited until after his probation period for the arson? Would it look bad on his annual review? “Do you need to borrow some clothing? I think we’re about the same size.” Oh, no, was that rude to say to a woman?

Sasha James squinted at him. “It’s like you’re not hungover at all. How old are you?”

“Twenty five?” Be polite, Jon! “And you’re...thirty seven?”

“I’m thirty one, asshole!”

Oh no. Women hated it when you called them old. “You don’t look a day over twenty seven!” Jon cried, panicked. 

“Have you met a woman?”

“I had a grandmother?”

“I’m going back to bed,” Sasha James said. 

Unfortunately, Jon knew that it would be very suspicious if they both skipped, so he forced Sasha into one of his suits that...looked much nicer on her than him, but whatever, and hustled them both to work. Now that the adrenaline had worn away and the sense of purpose in his holy mission had burned up with the cleansing flames, Jon found himself biting his nails in agony in the Underground. 

They had to know. Someone must have caught them. Maybe there were secret CCTVs in the Institute. Maybe Sasha was going to rat him out - but she had helped, so wouldn’t she just be ratting out herself? Was she a double agent? Mr. Bouchard was never going to forgive him, no matter how nice he was and how much he seemed to like Jon to the point where he rather wished someone had given him the ‘Stranger Danger’ speech as a child so he would know what to do. Jon was going to go to jail, or worse - get fired. 

Sasha, cooly sipping her coffee and looking somewhat fly in sunglasses and his suit, did not seem disturbed by any of this. Jon’s rapidly spiralling panic attack must have been obvious, because she casually flicked a finger on his forehead. Jon yelped with pain. 

“Take it easy, mate. If they catch us, I’ll just say that the books made us do it.”

Jon scowled at her, rubbing his smarting forehead. “The books?”

“Sure.” She waved her fingers spookily as the Underground rattled forward into the heart of London. “Brainwashed us to do their evil bidding of -”

“Destroying them?”

“There’s a lot of arson Leitners,” Sasha James said sagely. “Trust me, this is just a normal day in Artifact Storage.” She clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and Jon fought a blush. “Don’t worry. We performed a public service, kiddo. St. Peter’s gonna give us a medal when we get to the pearly gates.”

“I’m an adult,” Jon said, scandalized. He had gray hair!

“Well, I guess, but I don’t know your name, so…”

 Jon squinted at her. She squinted at him back. 

“You’re thinking that if you don’t give me your name I can’t rat you out to the feds,” Sasha said flatly. 

Jon pursed his lips. 

Finally, he settled on, “You don’t rat me out to the feds and I won’t tell them that you’re in an illicit relationship with Mr. Stoker.”

“Mr. - how did - what!”

“It’s Jonathan Sims,” Jon said gruffly, crossing his arms. He was slightly hungover and his nerve were jittery and he had set fire to his workplace the previous night, but somehow Jon thought that his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest for a different reason. Somehow Jon felt as if his heart couldn’t stop thumping behind his sternum because Sasha James was staring at him, head cocked, as if he was a mystery she was interested in finding out. “That’s my name.”

Sasha James stared at him, as if surprised, before her face broke into a wide and happy smile. Jon hunched his shoulders up, embarrassed, faintly aware he was blushing. “It’s nice to meet you, Jonathan!” Then she grabbed him by the collar, shaking him slightly. “And there is nothing illicit about me and Tim, and there is nothing between me and Tim at all, we are just friends, so get that out of your little head -”

The train rattled on towards the Magnus Institute, and towards the slight smell of smoke in the air. 

*******

Sasha: are you coming 2 the pub w/us 2nite?

Sasha: come onnn you should comeee don’t feel awkwardddd 

Sasha: I know you hate a) group settings b) drunk people c) Tim in a group d) drunk Tim and e) Tim drunk in a group but that’s no reason not to come!

Sasha: Tim is physiologically incapable of not adopting men 3-5 years younger than him it’s in his blood you can’t escape his affection

Sasha: or at least I find it funny so I’m not letting you

Sasha: Jonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

Jon: Yes I’ll come, I need to talk to both of you.

Sasha: WAHOO

Sasha: wait

Sasha: really?

Sasha: did you commit ars*on again

Sasha: wait if you did don’t tell me the courts can request text transcripts

Jon: No, I just need your advice on an urgent matter.

Sasha: do you need to be drunk to do it

Jon: ...maybe.

Jon: ....Mr. Bouchard offered me the Head Archivist Job?

Jon: Which is stupid because I’ve worked here for barely four years and you’ve worked here for about ten years I think. And you’ve published five papers in parapsychological research. I know I helped you figure out that this place is a weird trauma mill but it was really mostly you. It’s completely ridiculous to promote me and I’m afraid it’s favoritism. For potentially heinous ends? This feels awful because it’s such an honor but I would never stop feeling stressed and guilty because I know so many more people (like you) are so much more qualified. Or qualified at all.

Sasha: holy shit

Sasha: ...do you remember the speech I gave you on stranger danger?

Jon: I’m afraid to mention this to Tim because he might beat up Mr. Bouchard for both my honor and yours.

Sasha: Jesus at this point I don’t even want a fucking job anymore. What bullshit. I’m never going to get promoted and I just need to accept that. This isn’t your fault, Jon, seriously, thank you for telling me. 

Sasha: we can talk about this at the pub

Sasha: in private. Off the radar. 

Jon: Looking forward to it :)

Jon: did I use the emoticon right?

Sasha: Yes, Jon, you did everything right. 

[blrush]

If Nobleman Ryu’s Wedding was a serious drama with hour long episodes. Part 4: Everything Is Torn Apart.

[The final part of my fic, enjoy! It gets dark but has a happy ending]

As Ki Wan looked at Ho Seon’s open and trusting face, fragments of a scene play out in his mind like a dream …

… Ki Wan is in beautiful robes, he can feel the weight of jewels in his hair, just like on his wedding day. He is in the palace grounds, splendour and opulence engulf him, women in bright gowns, stairs with gold and red carpets lead up to the king and queen who sit atop their pedestal like gods on a mountain. Hundreds of lords and ladies watch him with beady eyes. Tae Hyung is holding him, parading him in front of the king, his nails digging into Ki Wan’s forearm. Ho Seon watches on, held by palace guards. The crowd sneers and jeers, Tae Hyung’s voice echoes through across the forecourt, lecturing, accusing … then he rips at Ki Wan’s robes, jewels and silks cascade to the floor, and Ki Wan is standing naked – the crowd is gasping, Ho Seon is yelling for his wife, the guards beat him into submission …

No. That won’t happen. He won’t let that happen.

“Ho Seon, I have to tell you. I …. I’m not really your wife. What I mean is … I’m not a woman. I’m a man. And Tae Hyung knows...”

~~~

“I don’t understand.”

Hwa Jin was looking at Ho Seon with such earnestness in his face, that Ho Seon knew he must pay attention, he must take this seriously. But he couldn’t understand, he couldn’t comprehend the words forming on Hwa Jin’s lips. After everything that had happened that afternoon, he was still pre-occupied with Tae Hyung’s order that he join the palace court. Now his head was spinning!

“I don’t understand” he fumbled again. “You’re my wife. I mean, you were betrothed to me by my uncle – why would my uncle marry me to a man? …Oh. Oh I see!” his voice began to raise in anger and derision. “Is this some sort of joke?! To teach me a lesson? Who knew? Did my mother tell him? Are you all playing a trick on me!?” He withdrew his hands from where Hwa Jin was still grasping them in his lap.

He brought his hands up to face, shaking his head in dismay. This was all too much to bare. He trusted his wife implicitly, completely. Had she betrayed him? No, HE had HE betrayed him?

~ 
Ki Wan was taken a back, he had predicted anger, but Ho Seon’s reaction was totally unexpected, this defensiveness and barrage of self-pity. What was he talking about, and why was his anger not directed at Ki Wan? Whilst he knew, rationally, that any attempt at physical contact in such a moment was unwise, and may invite a violent reaction from Ho Seon, Ki Wan felt pity swelling in him – the man before him was hurt and confused, his friend and companion, who needed comfort. So, he reached out and gently put his hands over Ho Seons’, softly guiding them down, away from his face and back to his lap, where he held them tight once again.

“Ho Seon. Please” he begged. “Listen to me. No one knew of this. No one! I don’t know what kind of plot of ploy you think has been concocted here, but believe me it was all my doing. You were betrothed to my sister, Hwa Jin, and when she ran away, I decided that I must take her place – it was the only way to save our families name and to save my father from dept. And …” Oh no, it was all tumbling out now, everything he had bottled up so tightly all these months. “I had to leave. There was nothing for me at home, I had no one, and I thought maybe I could have a better life here … with you…And I was going to tell you and I kept waiting for the right moment but it never came, and the longer I stayed with you and the more I got to know you the more hurt I knew you would be and I couldn’t bear the thought of you hating me, and I know I was selfish and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ki Wan was crying now, how abysmal. All these months of effort and lying and torment, for what? So that he could fall to pieces at the mercy of Ho Seon, just as he feared he would on his wedding night in the first place.

They were both sitting still, looking down at their clenched hands between them. Neither one pulling away. The only sound Ki Wan could hear was Ho Seon’s breath and his own pathetic sniffling.

“I don’t hate you.” Ho Seon broke the silence. “I hate myself.”

“Hm?” Ki Wan looked up at Ho Seon, who was still miserably staring down.

“I hate myself for being so stupid. For not knowing. For not realising what was right in front of me. I hate myself for hiding from you, for not telling you the truth. We could have been honest with each other so long ago. I’m sorry you had to go through all of this, because of me.”

“It’s not your fault!” Ki Wan was appalled, how could sweet Ho Seon be blaming himself for anything in this mess? He was completely blameless, the victim in all of this – surely?

“The only reason my mother was so desperate to marry me off, the only reason my uncle was involved – and I suspect, the reason your family was paid off – was because of me. Because I would never marry. If I had been less stubborn, or maybe if my mother was less stubborn – this could have all been avoided. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry for lying to you, to your mother, to everyone. I’m sorry for taking the place of someone else – you should have married a beautiful and accomplished noble-woman like my sister. I’m sorry.”

They sat in stilted silence once again, until Ho Seon’s face began to change, and to Ki Wan’s surprise, was smiling.

“It’s ironic really.” He scoffed. Ki Wan knew Ho Seon to be good natured, but to find humour in this situation was beyond reason!

“What is?”

“That I couldn’t marry because I like men, and that – without my knowledge – I then married a man.”

“You… like…. Men?” Ki Wan was stunned. Though it made sense, given Ho Seon’s disinterest in ever consummating their marriage, he had never heard someone state such a secret in this matter of fact manner.

“Yes, well I suppose since we are sharing secrets, it shouldn’t matter if you are the first to know mine and I am the first to know yours? We’re even I guess!” He was smiling broadly.

“You’re not the first” Ki Wan remembered with a sinking heart. Just when he thought he had avoided disaster thanks to Ho Seon’s implausibly open heart, reality struck.

“Tae Hyung knows.” He continued. “That’s why I had to tell you. He caught me this afternoon, bathing – remember?”

“Oh.” Ho Seon began seriously, “I see. Well – I mean, I suppose we could speak with him? He’s and old friend. I’m sure he would understand.”

“NO!” Ki Wan startled them both in the quiet space.

“No.” He began again, whispering. “Ho Seon, this afternoon he … I don’t think he’s such a good man. I don’t think we can trust him.”

“Why not? He seemed to like you, he told me himself how jealous he was of my wife. Wait, but you said he saw you at the baths – are you sure he saw that you are a man, he seemed convinced that you were a woman when we spoke over dinner. He said how pretty you are…”

“He knows, Ho Seon, believe me – he was toying with you.”

“Don’t be paranoid! He is an important man – I doubt he has time to worry about such matters. He was here on business anyway, and why would he ask me to come to the capital as his confidant if he thought I was harbouring a secret male-bride?”

“HO SEON!” Ki Wan ripped his hands away and sat up on his haunches. “You are not listening to me! He is a cruel and power-hungry man. You may have been friends as children, but you do not know this man. He has worked his way up in the royal courts, he is ambitious and cunning. You have lived a cloistered world with your mother in the country, Ho Seon, you have no idea what kind of man you are dealing with!”

He knew he was sounding harsh. Perhaps if he were still pretending to be Hwa Jin, he would have been forced to take a softer approach to persuade Ho Seon – but now that he was speaking as Ki Wan, he felt free to speak his mind, and this onslaught of truth was more than he had spoken in months. He felt drained and his head was pounding. Sweet, sheltered Ho Seon was going to get them both in deep trouble, and Ki Wan felt like he was throwing pebbles at a stone wall. He sat back down, exhausted in a heap.

“It doesn’t matter much anyway.” Ho Seon sighed. “He is my senior, and has given me an order. So, we will move to the capital, and we will have to take each day as it comes. Together.”

“I cannot go Ho Seon. Don’t you see? There is no way I could show my face in court, it is liking walking into a bear trap. Ho Seon. We cannot leave.”

Ho Seon sat for a moment, and Ki Wan could see he was thinking deeply.

“No, I must go. It is my duty, and if I don’t – he will pester us. Perhaps if I leave, it will be enough to keep good standing, and no one will question you remaining here with my mother.”

He spoke in such a finite manner, Ki Wan knew there was no more discussion to be had. They had reached an impasse and they both knew there was no other choice. Ki Wan, suspected that Tae Hyung was playing some larger game they could not see, and who was using his old friend Ho Seon as a pawn. But he knew this was the only compromise that might save them from Tae Hyung’s curiosity or meddling. Whilst Ho Seon, believed with his naïve noble spirit, that following his superior’s orders and abandoning his family was the right thing for a gentleman to do.

It was late into the night by the time they went to bed. Ki Wan had begrudgingly helped Ho Seon pack a trunk of clothes and necessities. They spoke very little, as Ki Wan folded Ho Seon’s robes into neat little bundles and Ho Seon pored over his books, deciding which he might need to take with him to the city.

“I am leaving all these behind” he motioned to his shelves of books, “you can read as many as much as you like whilst I’m away.” He smiled warmly. He radiated his usual positive outlook, as if he was simply going on a short holiday. Whilst Ki Wan could not shake the sickening feeling of dread and fear that Ho Seon would never return.

They silently fell back into their nightly routine, almost as if the revelations of the evening had not occurred, and that they were once again just ‘husband and wife’. They changed their robes, doused the candles and tucked themselves under the covers.

Lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling, neither of them fell asleep. Ki Wan was too exhausted to speak or move, and he could feel Ho Seon lying tense beside him. He moved his hand under the blanket slightly, and felt Ho Seon shift too. Soon, the back of their hands were touching under the blankets. Ki Wan closed his eyes, and focused on the single point of connection between his skin and Ho Seon’s. Ho Seon’s skin was warm and smooth, and if he focused harder he could imagine warmth radiating from that single point outwards throughout his own body. Ho Seon’s hand moved slightly, and he carefully laced his fingers with Ki Wan’s. Ki Wan wondered, if he turned his head slightly, would Ho Seon be looking at him too? Would their eyes meet? What would happen if he leaned closer…? But they remained still and silent, holding hands under the covers, and Ki Wan felt his own breathing begin to match Ho Seon’s until he slowly drifted off to sleep.

~ ~ ~

Early in the morning, at the news of Ho Seon’s imminent departure, his mother kicked up a fuss over breakfast. Demanding to know when this decision had been made, and by whom – she was quickly silenced by the notion of a “royal decree” and Tae Hyung’s position as Defence Minister.

“I’m sorry Eomma,” Ho Seon pleaded, “I didn’t want to leave but I must, it’s my duty. I will come home soon I promise!”

“And what of your wife?!” She interrupted. “You’re going to leave your wife here all alone! How are you going to have children if you don’t even live with your wife Ho Seon! You fool!”

“Eomeoni,” Ki Wan placated, “It’s okay, I want to stay here and look after you. I don’t want to move to court, it sounds scary and besides, I like it here with you. Please.”

Unsatisfied but suitably calmed, Ho Seon’s mother agreed to stay home with Hwa Jin. The servants took away the breakfast that had barely been touched, and all that was left was for them to see Ho Seon off at the gates.

Tae Hyung was waiting with the horses saddled up, a cart with Ho Seon’s luggage affixed behind one of them. Ho Seon went ahead to check on his horse, and Ki Wan stood in the courtyard, supporting Ho Seon’s mother on his arm. The picture of a perfect filial daughter in law. It was all too surreal, like a scene from a play that Ki Wan was watching from the crowd, rather than partaking in.

Tae Hyung came over and gave Ho Seon’s mother a formal greeting, followed by a swift farewell and a joking apology about stealing away her son. He charmed her over easily, before addressing Ki Wan beside her.

“Lady Hwa Jin. It is such a shame you couldn’t be persuaded to join your husband at court. I was so hoping to get to know you better.” Again, his charming voice was undercut with a threatening gaze in his eyes. Ki Wan did not curtsey or offer his hand, but clung to his mother-in-law stubbornly, as if completely subject to the weight of holding her up, and Tae Hyung walked away – seemingly unbothered and above it all, to mount his horse.

Ho Seon approached them, head hung low, holding his hat in his hands – as if putting it on would be too final.

“Eomma,” he pulled his mother in for a hug, her shrinking stature swallowed up in his mammoth embrace. “I’ll see you soon.”

His mother, for once, was quiet. Her pride overpowering her emotion, she pushed him away toward Ki Wan, though still clutching the robes at his waist with one hand – whether to steady herself from falling, or to stop him from leaving.

Ho Seon turned to Ki Wan, looked briefly into his face, and though it seemed at first like he was hesitating – Ho Seon suddenly dropped his hat to the ground and Ki Wan was hauled into his arms.

Ho Seon clung to him, his hands on Ki Wan’s back were grasping at the material of his dress, and he buried his face into the crook of Ki Wan’s neck. Ki Wan barely had time to respond, he reached his arms up - hooked them over the top of Ho Seon’s shoulders, let his fingers slide into Ho Seon’s hair, messing up his tight top not, and held his face against Ho Seon’s.

In that moment, he saw an alternate life before him; Their life if Tae Hyung had never arrived, if he had told Ho Seon the truth earlier, they were happy and laughing in this alternate life - two men holding each other, reading together, swimming, sleeping…

“Please.” He whispered desperately into Ho Seon’s ear. “Please come home.”

With that, Ho Seon peeled himself away, clenching his jaw and looking more serious than Ki Wan had ever seen him.

Ki Wan bent down to pick up Ho Seon’s hat. He dusted it off, and placed it carefully on Ho Seon’s head. He neatly tucked away some stray hairs, and tied the ribbons under Ho Seon’s chin – allowing his hands to linger a moment longer than necessary on Ho Seon’s chin. Ho Seon was watching him steadily, and he looked - for the first time since Ki Wan had married him – not like a boy, but like a grown man, a serious man with burdens and pain and a sense of honour – like a fire was burning behind his eyes. He leaned closer, and softly touched his lips to Ki Wan’s forehead.

Then he was gone. The horses disappeared out of the gates in a plume of dust and dirt. And Ki Wan was left standing with his mother-in-law in the empty courtyard.

~ ~ ~

At first, life in the home remained steady – Ki Wan cared for his mother-in-law and they kept each other company. He kept himself busy reading, or helping the maids with the chores. Though Ki Wan was free of his lie, and the fear of Ho Seon finding out his gender – he was filled with a new fear, that Ho Seon was lost to them forever. He could never shake the feeling of unease in his stomach, and at night, he tossed and turned, without the warmth of Ho Seon’s body beside him, or the sound of his low snoring. He lay awake imaging all sort of ill fates that could befall Ho Seon in the city. He imagined the plots of every play and story he had read, of bandits, and court intrigue, of war, poison, treason, fire.

But every fortnight a messenger arrived with a letter and a large sum of money.

“To my dear mother and my darling wife, all is well.”

It always began with this same refrain.

He would then go on to briefly update them on his work and something novel to tell them about the city, such as;

“I continue with my work with Tae Hyung on the defence of the northern border, and today I saw acrobats performing in the streets of the city! I wish you had seen them!” or “I have been tasked with a new administrative job in council, to do with military funding, it’s very dull, but last week I tried crab meat for the first time – very stringy, I would not recommend.”

It would always end the same way.

“I hope to return home soon. Your adoring son and doting husband, Ho Seon.”

And so, Ki Wan would sleep more soundly for a night, until the anxieties returned.

Seasons came and went, and the garden looked more splendid than ever as Ki Wan threw himself into its care, as his mother-in-law shouted instructions from the balcony, as she could no longer manage the physical labour herself.

The funds from Ho Seon’s new position were enough to keep the family in good food and other than Ho Seon’s sorely felt absence, life at Ryu manor was tranquil.

Then one day, the messenger stopped arriving. Perhaps there had been bad weather, his mother-in-law suggested - a landslide acorss the road perhaps?

Another fortnight passed and still no messenger. Perhaps Ho Seon had been held up at work, overrun with important court business and didn’t have a chance to write? Impossible.

Ho Seon tried to be patient, and on one evening, he half convinced himself this was some sort of cosmic sign – perhaps this was his way out? Perhaps his life as Hwa Jin was over, and he should move on? Finally, he could be free of this mundane country life, and he himself could move to the city as a nobleman – why should he wait around moping like some forlorn housewife?

But he knew he was only trying to trick himself into feeling less afraid. Somehow, without intending to – he had bound himself to this place and to Ho Seon. There was no turning back, and for all the pain he had suffered working so hard, pretending to be Ho Seon’s wife there was no way he going to let anyone else to take Ho Seon from him.

One morning, he announced to his mother-in-law that he was going to the imperial city to find Ho Seon. Though she did not seem against the idea, she was fearful for Hwa Jin’s safety.

“It’s alright Eomeoni” Ki Wan said. “I will not go as a noble-woman, but as a man. I will disguise myself as a man and no one will pay me any attention. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.” His mother-in-law demanded that the maids pack him some food, and that he be gone for no more than a week – otherwise she herself would send out a search party.

A week gave Ki Wan very little time to find Ho Seon, as the journey itself took 2 days. But, as his mother-in-law had said, if Hwa Jin arrived to find Ho Seon in fine health, there was no reason to linger – and, alternatively, if there was a problem, and Ho Seon could not be found, or the city proved dangerous, Hwa Jin was to return immediately and they would send word to Ho Seon’s great-uncle instead.

Ki Wan wore the plainest clothes of Ho Seon’s he could find, so as not to draw attention to himself and the ride to the city was uneventful. No bandits or landslides, just other travellers and tradesmen selling their wears along the imperial road.

The city was as Ki Wan had remembered it from his childhood, busy, messy, loud, confusing and full of a horrible odour. He wasted no time, a headed directly for the palace.

On the road leading toward the imposing palace gates, beggars and dogs lined the street, stopping wealthy gentry on their way past, begging for food or money, and usually getting a slap for their efforts, or an occasional coin tossed at their feet.

Ki Wan felt sorry for them, and felt the weight of his money purse at his hip. A boisterous man with very few teeth bounded up to Ki Wan’s horse.

“Good sir! Are you feeling generous today? My friends and I are starving, a warm cup of tea would do us good – it’s cold out here at night you know Sir!?”

“Here,” Ki Wan, reached into his purse and pulled out several copper coins. “I don’t have time to treat you to a meal or tea, but I hope this will help. Please share it among your companions.”

“Oh Sir! How generous! How wonderful! What a kind fellow!” He exclaimed, and bounded back to his friends sitting by the side of the road. For beggars, Ki Wan thought, some of them looked rather well dressed – perhaps they were con artists – he thought. Though, even if they were, Ki Wan could spare the coins, and who was he to judge them – he himself was a con after-all.

He made his way up to the guards at the gates and introduced himself as a “Nobleman Ryu” who was looking for his cousin, Ryu Ho Seon who worked under the Minister of Defence, Kim Tae Hyung.” He tried to sound relaxed, yet formal and assertive, but he suspected it came across as arrogant.

The guards sent off a messenger, and Ki Wan waited patiently. Soon, the messenger returned followed by a court official – a young man in fine robes and military hat.

“Lord Ryu,” he bowed, “I’m afraid no one of your family name works or lives in the palace at this time, you must be confused.”

“And what of Lord Kim Tae Hyung, is he here?”

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to give out such sensitive information.”

He was getting the brush off and he knew it. This was bad. Something was definitely going on. He knew he would get nowhere with these men, so headed back into the town centre.

He checked himself in to an inn, and put his horse to water before heading inside.

Sitting downstairs to eat, he tried to concoct a plan. But he knew too little. Had there been some sort of political strife, was Ho Seon caught up in some imperial controversy? Or had Tae Hyung simply done away with him? Had he ever made it to the city in the first place? Had the letters been real? His mind was racing and he began panic. He couldn’t return home like this without answers!

At the table beside him, a group of men were drinking and huddled around, talking in low tones about “royal” this and “imperial” that. Ki Wan began to listen closely.

“I heard he’s in the King’s favour. That’s why he has been promoted so many times.”

“I heard he’s sleeping with the queen, THAT’s why he’s so favoured!”

“Well that’s one way to get into the good royal graces, by getting INTO her royal graces!” They chortled together.

“My cousin said the king was so furious he demanded a purge of the imperial staff. That’s why my cousin got dismissed.”

“But wasn’t your cousin just a cook?”

“Well exactly! They just decided who was in and who was out, no trial, no reasons. At least he got out with his life! Others weren’t so lucky, I heard he beheaded half a dozen eunuchs!”

Ki Wan was trying his best to keep up with the conversation, but it was hard to hear, and he had no context for the topic of their discussion.

“But if it was Lord Kim that was in charge, how did he end up with a promotion and not punished?”

KIM TAE HYUNG?! Ki Wan tried to remain calm and listen.

“Like I said, it seems he can do no wrong by the king and queen, so he just picked some scape goats to take the fall, and the king turned a blind eye as he always does.”

This was it! Ki Wan knew there had to be a reason Tae Hyung had gone to all the trouble of riding into the country to recruit an old friend into a government position. He needed pawns he could play with and toss around. Ho Seon could be rotting away in some dungeon!

“You know what the mad king’s like, he has favourites who he treats like princesses, and everybody else is just cannon fodder.”

“What, so Lord Kim just names names and the king has them executed?”

“Not all of them, just some eunuchs. I guess the higher up people were in the court, the worse their punishment was. The lower staff like my cousin were dismissed, and some ministers and lords were tortured. Whipped, burnt, blinded, or drawn in front of the king and queen - then turned out of the palace, like old scraps.”

“All I can say is, I’ve never been so glad to be a carpenter!” They laughed nervously, and downed their drinks, before an old man a table over told them to mind their tongues unless they themselves wanted a lashing.

Ki Wan felt sick, like the world was spinning around him. Ho Seon could be anywhere! With lashings on his back! or dying of a fever, left in the gutter on the street…. Oh! OH!

He was up with a jolt, sending the contents of his table flying, the innkeeper yelling at him as he raced out the door. He ran through the city, retracing his path back to the palace. It was dusk now, and there were less carriages and horses, though he nearly got run over twice in his haste through the streets. The beggars were still there, huddled by the sides of the road like stone plinths marking the path the palace.

Ki Wan was floundering, but he stopped running, slowed to a walk, and tried to catch his breath. The man who he had given copper coins to earlier approached him excitedly.

“My friend! How nice of you to visit again! Have you come to drink with us!”

“Please” Ki Wan choked out, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Well you’re in luck my good sir, as I know everyone!”

“His name is Ryu, Ryu Ho Seon ... he’s young – my age, and tall. He used to work in the palace. Please, do you know him.”

“I don’t know any Ryu” The man scratched at his stubble, and Ki Wan’s heart sank. “But I know a Ho Seon! Maybe that’s him?!”

“Oh please! Yes, please take me to him.”

The man lead Ki Wan further down the road, chatting away merrily, whilst Ki Wan felt like he might be sick from fear and nerves. What if it wasn’t his Ho Seon? What if his Ho Seon was dead? What if it was him but he wasn’t himself, how badly injured might he be?

Down the road a way, a man was seated alone, his back against a wall, his face turned up into the setting sunlight. His eyes were covered in bandages, yellowed with dirt and brown with dried blood. The man called out to him “Hey Ho Seon!” and he turned his head toward them. It was him!

“There’s someone looking for you.”

Ki Wan could barely move. He had stopped in his tracks at the sight of Ho Seon and couldn’t make his feet move any further. The man motioned Ki Wan to go ahead, and he left them.

Ki Wan forced himself forward, shuffling slowly and Ho Seon turned his head slightly to hear better.

Ki Wan crouched down in front of Ho Seon.

“Hello.” Was all he could say.

“Hello.” Ho Seon replied, his ever-present dimples still there, playing at the corners of his lips. Even in this state, he was able to smile a little.

Ki Wan’s voice was trapped in this throat.

“My friend says you know me, Sir?” Ho Seon asked.

“Yes.” Ki Wan wanted to speak, but could barely form words around the lump in his throat.

“And how do you know me?” Ho Seon was leaning forward, reaching out his hands to find the figure in front of him.

“It’s me.” Ki Wan barely whispered, trying to hold back tears.

Ho Seon’s hands found Ki Wan’s face and he began to feel his features, delicately tracing the shape of his nose, his cheeks, his lips…

“I’m your wife.” He finally managed to choke out.

“HWA JIN!” Ho Seon hauled him in violently, Ki Wan almost fell onto Ho Seon. Ho Seon pulled Ki Wan’s face toward his, so that their foreheads were touching. All the while he moved his hands over Ki Wan, tracing his face, hugging at his shoulders.

Ki Wan was crying, and was aware of all the people watching them. But he didn’t care. He held Ho Seon tightly until the sun had set. Then he began to pull him to his feet, careful to steady him, and checking that he wasn’t injured anywhere else.

“Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk! I have legs don’t I!?” Ho Seon laughed.

“Well sorry for asking!” Ki Wan berated, sarcastically.

“Although… I can’t read now. So, I’ll be needing those bed-time stories from now on.” He grinned, boyishly, and held onto Ki Wan’s arm for guidance.

“Come on.” Ki Wan rolled his eyes, “Let’s go home.”

...

The End

Or maybe not... if I have time to come back to it maybe I’ll write some more or fill in some blanks, because this was very rushed, today was my only day off and I was waiting for the finale to air before I wrote it haha Hope you guys enjoyed it! as you can tell The King and the Clown is my favourite movie of all time and no I will not be taking criticism for using blindness as a plot device, because this is a melodramatic historical fanfic, thank you. Hope you enjoyed the angst, sorry I couldn’t make it longer!

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 3

Kallus’ leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1 2 3 4  5

3. The Ghost

The day of reckoning arrives.

Thrawn appears in the doorway, and Kallus knows that it is over. The Admiral taunts Kallus with the jamming device, the Fulcrum symbol flashing across the small screen. He has failed, and at best, he will die quickly for this discovery.

But Kallus is not one to resign himself to whatever miserable fate lies ahead. He will go down fighting, and there remains a chance to warn the rebels of the danger, as cryptic and brief as the fragment of his message is.

Kallus surges forward, attacking Thrawn with all his might. The blows are rapid and unforgiving. Thrawn targets his bad leg, yet the adrenaline overpowers the pain. Still, it is not enough to overcome Thrawn.

“Your technique is good. But… limited by your training in the Imperial Academy. Predictable.”

Thrawn is quick, strong, precise. More so than Kallus, but he does not need to win and he does not need to escape.

He throws the helmet first, which Thrawn catches easily. But the blow to his legs knocks the jammer out of his hands, and Kallus crushes it beneath his boot.

It is like clockwork, what happens next. He stands his ground, he is overpowered.

Thrawn is observant, a tactical master. He knows the weaknesses of everyone around him, and how to use them to ensure that he is the most powerful in the room.

It’s no surprise, really, that a series of swift kicks are delivered to Kallus’ right leg, which is healed but not correctly, functional, but not without pain.

Kallus lands on his back and is about to rise again when Thrawn looms over him, and brings his heel down on the barely-fixed bone. 

His vision goes white instantly; he’s pretty sure he screams, but that fact matters less than the poison in every cell in his body, than the agony worse than death as the bone shatters.

It is worse than ever before. It is worse than the first break and the flare-ups, and the burning sensation after field missions. It is worse than the night he couldn’t sleep, overcome by the need for more bacta, convinced that he would be better off without the leg, when he desperately wished he had just sucked it up and gone to the medbay after Bahryn.

But here he is. He cannot even think to get to his feet, then Thrawn lifts Kallus by the front of his shirt and delivers a punch to his chest, sending him flying into the night air, where he collides with the durasteel railing.

That might have hurt, he registers dully, but it is insignificant compared to the agony in his leg.

He loses.

But the message got through. He has not failed in totality, and the rebels have a chance.

-

That he lives is cruel. Thrawn tortures Kallus, hangs him up by his wrists like a slab of meat, and beats him. He asks no questions, and Kallus knows he would not break, but the lack of interrogation is still a relief.

This, he deserves. Under Imperial law, it is only fair that a traitor is punished. Kallus would take this over an interrogation, which is sure to follow after the assault on the rebels, and he can only hope that Thrawn doesn’t deign to do so personally.

He does not want to break. He hopes he dies before he reveals any secrets of the rebellion- not that they trusted their spy with much, in the first place.

At the end of the day, the rebels prevail, as is so ingrained in their nature to succeed against impossible odds. What’s more is that he apparently does have the heart of a rebel- some of their lucky nature passes to him, and he finds himself safely aboard the Ghost, thanked by Kanan Jarrus and Hera Syndulla alike. It is surreal, and strange, but for the first time in months, he is safe. At peace, even, at least for now.

But he is left alone. The rebels are making do with what little they have. They are busy, and Kallus, who once wished for the end of the entire movement and every being involved, remains in a corner of the ship that rescued him, his mind racing.

That is one benefit to it all. He’s particularly sharp now, going over what Imperial Intelligence he has memorized and can share with the rebellion. He feels little pain and can even stand, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins fuels him until the Ghost rendezvous with a rebel command ship.

He’s the last to embark, hanging back until Hera claps him on the shoulder, nearly pushing him out the door.

“Come on,” she says, nodding towards the bustling hallway. If she’s tired, she doesn’t show it, and a small smile pulls at her lips. “I’ll take you to medical.”

“I’m fine,” Kallus insists, because he feels so. “It looks worse than it is, Captain.”

“Hera,” she corrects him instantly. “And I chose to believe that if you come with me to Command then go to the medbay straight after.”

Kallus nods, because he has confronted Hera’s will a great many times and seldom triumphed. They trudge through the unfamiliar halls together, Kallus bowing his head to avoid the stares of those passing or congratulating Hera, who promises a quick debriefing then rest before reorganizing in the morning. He doesn’t imagine it will be as easily delivered to him as it will be for her, but he thinks of sleeping in a room surrounded by people he isn’t actively betraying, and perhaps talking to Garazeb soon, and the thought calms him.

A spike of pain shoots through him with his next step forward. Kallus falters, then grits his teeth and presses forward.

“Agent- Kallus,” Hera says, frowning at him. She touches his arm, gently, and Kallus is surprised at the care. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he promises. Every step hurts progressively more.

She regards him, wary, and Kallus pretends he does not see the concern painted across her face. However, she continues to lead him towards the command center once he takes another step without wincing.

The pain is too familiar, and logically, Kallus knows that it will overcome him soon. But if he can suppress it for now, if he can confront the Rebellion's leadership first, then he can deal with the injury, once placated by an understanding of his future with the Alliance.

Hera indicates that they're close, her montrals swishing as she peers around the next corner. Kallus inhales sharply once her attention diverts from him, suddenly aware that he'd forgotten to breathe.

She waves him on. Kallus' leg feels like lead. He tries to go through the door, and stumbles, lightheaded.

"Kallus, are you sure-"

"Yes," he wheezes, bracing himself in the doorway. Officials in the command center look up at him- he recognizes faces but can recall no names.

"Kallus-"

He stands straight up, preparing to look Hera in the eye, but his leg buckles under the weight, and he cries out in pain. She's supporting him now, her hands under his arms, and she's saying something, her green eyes filled with alarm.

Kallus tries to look up at her, assure her that he’s fine, but the hurt widens and spreads until it is burning at him yet again and Kallus cannot remember a single word he was going to say. He’s doubled over, and he can’t speak, nor see, and the agony consumes him, and he’s falling, falling- then all goes black.

-

Kallus opens his eyes slowly. His eyelids are heavy, and his exhausted body begs him to go back to sleep, But he’s here, in the Chimera’s medbay, and he’s not sure if he’s yet safe-

He blinks again. Someone is next to his cot- someone- Zeb.

The Lasat is slumped over, clasping Kallus’ hand. Kallus stirs, reaching for Zeb, and croaks out his name.

Instantly, Zeb wakes, sitting up straight. “Kal,” he gasps, leaning forward. “You’re up.”

Kallus nods, too tired to speak. His brow furrows, but two questions come to mind, and he can’t decide which to ask first.

He doesn’t know where he is, but Zeb is here, so he must be safe. That issue is resolved then, so:

“‘s my leg still there?”

Zeb looks confused, glancing from Kallus to his legs beneath the sheets. Then, he huffs out a laugh and takes Kallus’ hand again.

“Yeah, Kal, it’s alright. You’re gonna be okay, you hear me?”

Kallus nods again, satisfied. That is enough for now, and he lets his eyes slide shut.

-

He is alone when he wakes again, save for the meddroid fiddling with the tubes in his arm. Kallus groans- his head hurts, and he still feels tired, but other than that, the pain is not bad.

“Kallus,” the droid says, its overly-large eyes peering at him. “You are awake.”

“Yes,” he agrees, then groans as he stretches, running a hand over his face. There’s stubble on his chin and his beard. He’s been out for most of a day, then, possibly longer. And he’s here, on some Rebel ship, and not the Chimera. This explains the droid, which looks ancient, scratched and dented. It appears to have been taped together in more than one place, and Kallus smiles to himself.

“We know nothing of your medical history.” The droid tells him. “Although I have conducted many tests, there are still questions.”

“Okay.” Kallus is pretty sure that his questions (where is he, what day is it, where is Zeb) should have higher priority, but he is too out of it to protest, so he nods. “You may ask them.”

“Excellent.” A beat. “What is your first name?”

He laughs, a deep, rumbling sound emitting from deep in his throat. It’s been a long time since he’s laughed like that, and his voice was already scratchy from underuse. “Alexsandr,” he says, then spells it. Perhaps he is a good spy, after all. He doubts that anyone in Imperial Command knows his first name, either, though this is attributed to a lack of care rather than insufficient information.

There are a few more basic questions about his background and history. Kallus realizes that he’s in the Rebellion’s system now, and he wonders what his file says. Alexsandr Kallus. Coruscanti. Previously Agent Kallus, ISB, Fulcrum. Wanted by the Empire for ten counts of treason; wanted by the Rebel Alliance for one hundred crimes against humanity.

He snorts. The meddroid, which was turning away from him, pauses. “Can I help you, Alexsandr?”

“No,” Kallus says quickly. “I mean- yes. Do you know where Garazeb Orrelios is?”

“The Lasat? He has been here for the last twenty-four standard hours. I do not know where he went.”

Oh. Kallus feels heat flame his cheeks, and a monitor next to him beeps. His blush deepens when he realizes that his heart monitor made the sound; his heartbeat has just spiked.

“I will get a medic to speak with you about your leg.” The droid looks at the monitor, then back at him. “Do not excite yourself further.”

Kallus coughs, unable to look at the droid. “Yes,” he mutters, ashamed. “I will do that.”

The medic is a Rodian, who speaks in a soft tone and seems to barely remember where she is. This fact isn’t particularly comforting, but she is kind enough and patient with all his questions.

His right leg had a severe initial break that never healed correctly, causing weakness in his tibia and impeding the muscles and tendons in his entire leg. The strain that later followed only made this worse, and almost two days ago, the leg was shattered again- he broke both his tibia and his fibula. Bone fragments have punctured both his muscle and his flesh, but in short- it will never heal right, and Kallus will be affected for the rest of his life.

She explains that they operated on him, once Hera and two other rebels dragged him into the infirmary. It was easier to keep him under after he had passed out, and they did the best they could trying to prevent infection and further blood loss. He’s also covered in extensive bruises, including on his ribs.

“How do you feel?” The Rodian concludes, fiddling with one of the machines next to him.

“Like I could run forty klicks,” he mutters, staring down at his leg. Right now, it’s wrapped in bandages and some sort of brace.

She brustles, looking shocked. “I thought I made it clear that wasn’t possible-”

“It’s-” he sighs. “I understand.”

“Well, I-”

“Kal!” The budding argument is halted in its tracks; Zeb stands in the doorway, disheveled but grinning. “You’re awake!”

“I am.” He’s not, technically- he’s hasn’t yet attempted to sit up, but Kallus cares very little about the nuance, and Zeb makes his way over to Kallus’ bedside. 

“Good.” Zeb scans him with barely-suppressed joy. “You scared us,” he admits. “Hera says you just collapsed.”

“Yes, well, the adrenaline wore off.” Kallus doesn’t look at Zeb. “I’m recovered now.”

“I know.” A smile creeps back into Zeb’s tone. “I don’t believe you can be kept down for long.”

“I can’t,” Kallus agrees, echoing Zeb’s humor.

“Do you remember anything?” Zeb stops fiddling with his pants and instead smooths out Kallus’ blanket.

“A little.” His brow furrows. “I remember that you were there for me.”

“I was.”

“The meddroid says you were with me for a full rotation.”

Zeb is suddenly very interested in a spare thread on his pants. “I was,” he mumbles, and Alexsandr suppresses another smile, glancing away so that Zeb doesn’t see.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Zeb continues, his shoulders slouching. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.”

“It’s okay.” Alexsandr didn’t know his voice could go this soft, but Zeb’s next words distract him from this point, his tone just as gentle.

“I’m sorry about your leg.”

“Don’t be.” It comes out flat, and Kallus looks away from Zeb.

It will heal. He’ll walk again, but he’ll be limping and limited. He’s going to have a cane adjusted to him tomorrow. He may never do fieldwork again.

“I am.” And Zeb sounds like it too, though his expression is devoid of pity. “Still, I thought you’d like to know that everyone in command is excited to have you here. It’s all anyone can talk about.”

“Really?” A jolt of surprise travels through him. “They don’t hate me?”

He sounds sarcastic, but Zeb looks back at him, completely serious. “You saved our necks more times than we can count. And you’re a goldmine for Imperial information.”

Right. His expression falls before he can help it. “You’re a badass ‘n a hero, Kal. That’s what they care about.”

“I’m not sure if I am. Or that I will be.” Kallus gestures to his leg, bound and immobile before them both.

Zeb’s expression softens, and he rests his hand on Kallus’ arm. “Right. I’m sure that will stop you.”

“It’s different. How can I help that?”

“So are you gonna retire? Hide in the medbay or go to the Outer Rim until the war is over?”

Frustration builds in Kallus, and he sits completely upright, clenching the sheets in his hands. “It’s not that simple! Of course I’m not going to- to kriff off and die- but I can’t walk!”

“Not forever.” Zeb amends. “And you’re one of the greatest minds we have.” Zeb glances around the empty room. “Don’t tell anybody I said that.”

“I’m a former Imperial, a spy and I have months of recovery ahead. I’m not entirely convinced people want me here.”

“I do,” Zeb says immediately, then glances away, scratching the back of his head. “I, er- well, I do. And so do a lot of other people.”

Kallus looks up at him, and Zeb meets his eyes again after a long moment. “Do you want to be here?” He asks softly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Zeb grins, but there is tenderness in his gaze. “Then you’ll put your mind to it and everything will work out.”

“You sound very confident in this fact.”

“I’m confident in you.”

---

I am distinctly aware of the lack of research that I’ve done. I’m doing my best to be canon-compliant here but sometimes I don’t have the energy to remember that a shower is a sonic and not a shower… so here we are.

Additionally, please take any medical jargon with a grain of salt. I am not a doctor, and I’m mostly going with “yeah that seems like it could happen” as far as realism goes. Nevertheless, thank you for the warmth with which this story has been received, and thank you all for your support!

[rumor-imbris]

Hello, Lady Connor! I want to ask out of unbearable, suffocating curiosity in my heart, even though in the previous post you already said to not mention "that certain comic". Could you please enlighten me about your view on that comic and what you despise about it? I would love to read your detailed thoughts about it even if just once. But if this is too triggering for you, I'm truly sorry for your discomfort and you don't need to answer it.

Hello, dear Anon and welcome ^-^ It's weird you naturally called me Lady Connor, as usually only my little fairy @giuliettaluce does. Well, I guess her magic put a spell on everybody here!!

If you really care to know, I'll answer, but brace yourself, it's going to be very long, almost an essay, because I can be very detailed about that comic being a failure in its every part. There's so much to say. You're right, as I mentioned before, it can trigger me, but I have attentively analized it and I know it makes not a single atom of sense. So nothing can actually bother me that much, don't worry ^_-

First of all, my general consideration of the AC Reflections comic issue #4, (yeah, that thing -.-) is that of a mere attempt to desperately make Bayek's remote vision through Senu's eyes a canon feature. It was created and published in 2017, the same year AC Origins was released and yes, they needed an excuse to make believe Connor's alleged daughter inherited a skill someone (who isn't even their direct ancestor!!) that lived 1700 years ago in ancient Egypt had! OMG, this should be funny enough, but I'll go on. Also, I think it was likely a carelessly arranged way to satisfy those AC3 fans demanding a "happy ending" for unlucky Connor (quite 5 years later, of course).

I'll better go step by step to figure out where to start from, seriously.

1) In the comic, when Otso Berg opens the file related to Connor, the scene is set in "1796: Upstate New York." Now this is chronologically and spacially incoherent and illogical. We see Connor still wears his assassin outfit in it, right? According to AC Initiates (2012) in 1804 Connor invites the Dominican assassin Eseosa at the Davenport homestead to provide him some advices and further training as he's involved in the leading of the Haitian Revolution. That's a really cool character, read about him, if you want!

So, until then Connor is still an assassin, probably the mentor (by now) of the Colonial Brotherhood. He still runs the homestead and he still commands the Aquila, I guess, he's the captain still. I calculated the distance between the homestead and the then upper NY frontier territories is approximately 260 miles (quite far nowadays with cars and planes as well). Then, why the hell should he have a family located in the forest upstate NY? It sounds very unconfortable to run back and forth to reach them and go back to take care of all the Brotherhood matters, doesn't it? Unless he knew about teleportation!!! Also, wow, he lives all alone in a nice massive villa with all the comforts of that time while his children and wife still live in a Native village constantly menaced by settlers wanting to steal their land? Beside the fact that Connor, at least in my point of view, seemed at last very familiar with european way of living by the end of the game, this leads us to the next point.

2) By the time the game and the comic are set (second half of 18th century), most of the East Coast Native tribes were facing the tragic and forced migration to western and northern territories (mostly towards Canada, protected by the British) because of all the consequences of the Revolutionary War (lost territories, failed alliances, settlers advancing and buying their lands and so on). So tells us history, unfortunately. It's a fact. And this is wisely showed to us in the AC3 main game when, after all the Kanien'kehá:ka tribes had left the territory around Connor's village (yes, even those near New York, to be clear) even Connor's own tribe at last migrates west, leaving an empty ghost village. They had remained all along to protect the secret temple, but in the end they as well were forced to leave. So, to me it's highly improbable that in upstate NY, one could still find a tribe and even if so, that Connor would let his family live there and risk their safety everyday.

3) The whole comic plot revolves around the fact that Io:nhiòte has a "special gift"... She inexplicably knows how to read the ground and find animal traces, she also can perform a perfect twisted acrobatic flip in the air and land unharmed to the ground. Do we know why? No, don't ask! xD She simply knows U.U, even if right after the next scene she slips and falls miserably down a cliff xD, but... ok!! Beside that, when Connor is far away to search for some water and is about to be attacked by a wolf hidden in the grass nearby, she sees the whole scene from the eyes of an eagle flying in the sky above her. As I said before, this reminds us of Bayek's (never clearly explained) ability to see through his eagle Senu's eyes and spot dangers and enemies. Now can you tell me why the hell this little girl has super powers and a skill Bayek had? As I said, they are not even directely related, as Bayek is not one of Desmond Miles' ancestor, we know him simply because Layla's new Animus is magical and can inexplicably read fragmented DNA from people who died a thousand years ago (it can also prepair coffee, I think!). So, where did she get that from? Magic? Mysteries of life? Convenient improbable connections for marketing's sake? We'll never know and you should simply accept that and ask no question!

4) From her height, way of speaking/moving/running, I assume Io:nhiòte is at least 8 years old, 8 - 9 minimum. She's the youngest of three siblings, who must be at least two years older than her and than each other (according to a human woman pregnancy timing!). If the comic events are set 12 years after the main game ending (1784, when Connor also starts to train the young ex-slave Patience Gibbs, arriving at the Davenport homestead with Aveline De Grandpré, according to AC IV Black Flag bonus mission with Aveline), so, this means that in that same year Connor must have found hastily the love of his life in a Native village (as if he was easy to open himself with other people after all he's been through), married her, impregnated her and seen her give birth to their first child, all in the same year when (let's not foget! xD) he still is the leader of the Colonial Assassin Brotherhood at the Davenport homestead training novices. Now, this may even be possible humanly speaking, (well, if you force the things a bit and hurry up!) but highly unlikely to happen!! xD

These are the main problems affecting the logic of the comic in my opinion, the points making its foundations crumble apart. Though I'm sure there are many little others to point out, such as Otso Berg "opening" Connor's files... like what? Where did those data come out from? I remember playing AC IV Black Flag and uncovering a file where Abstergo researchers themselves closed access to his memories as there was "nothing appealing to this character anymore"! So, if no more researches were conducted on him since 2013, where did Mr Berg magically or conveniently discovered such data in 2017?

Or... do we want to talk about the cover? It shows Connor in the spirit outfit from the Tyranny of King Washington DLC, which has apparently nothing to do with the comic, since it is set in his present day and he wears his assassin standard robe. Now, I think that can be either a simple marketing choice to make the comic more appealing, as... well, that cover is so cool, let's admit that, or maybe the subtle suggestion that the events told in it are just a parallel Disney-like reality and are not to be considered true at all! xD i don't know, maybe both explanations are right.

I'm sure that the deeper i dig, the more nothing rational I'll find!

If you played the old games, if you know well the franchise and its lore, the true, good, old AC lore, you definitely realize by yourself how that comic is useless and senseless.

This doesn't mean I do not wish an "happy ending" for Connor. But I'd rather accept something coherent with the main game events and AC chronology. Also, it doesn't necessarily needs to be a "happy" ending, as they conveniently created to please complaining fans. I wished for something real... coherent with his personality, acquired life-style and endless sense of duty and values.

Maybe that's what pushed me to write my FanFic novel in the first place, after all... To give him MY OWN cohesive ending, including my love, for love is always needed, I guess.

I'm so sorry if the answer took this long in time and words, but you were warned! ^w^

Though, thank you... Seriously, thank you so much for asking. You made me reflect once more about this matter.

Come visit me again, if you want. Take care

- Rumor Imbris 🦋

P.S. Oh, and if you're interested, this is my "jelousy song", for when things like this trigger my inner witch!! xD

[eggytranslations]

Volume 1, Chapter 1-Ambush

Content warnings: death, ableism, suicidal thoughts, mention of racism?

The whole thing happened so suddenly.

“Thump—”,  a small blue and white porcelain bowl fell to the ground, rolled twice, and fractured into several small pieces. At the same time, the shiny brass bell that had been polished by time also fell from a great height, jingling twice with an especially alarming panic, and then slumped over beside the fragments.

“Shaoye…shaoye, shaoye...somebody help! Shaoye has been bitten by a snake!...”

The shrill voice cut through this early spring afternoon, a rare bright and sunny day. Very quickly, endless bustling footsteps came from the originally tranquil mountain courtyard—kick and clatter—you could even hear the sounds of these panicked footsteps knocking over things. 

Shen Qingxuan widened his eyes to stare ahead, working hard, trying to get a glimpse of the beast that had bit him, but his eyes were blurred, as if they were covered by a layer of thin white gauze, so no matter how hard he tried he could not see clearly. Internally, he could not help but be stunned by the snake’s powerful venom, but also secretly think, man proposes but God disposes. He had thought of countless ways of dying, yet how could he have foreseen that he would ultimately end by a snake’s venomous fangs?

Thinking up to now, in his heart of hearts, he was not shocked, and just closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware that the servants who rushed over had moved him from the chair, and were frantically calling for the physician while yelling for someone to fetch the antidote pills.

And anything after that, he did not know at all.

The eldest young master of the Shen family was bit by a snake in his mountain villa.

This news travelled like the birds in the mountain forest had flapped their wings and carried it out themselves, taking only a cup of tea’s time before sounds of horse feet came from the originally tranquil mountain path. One after another, the horse carriage and silk sedan chair

finally arrived outside the doors of the mountain villa in a rush. 

The rider on the horse and the noble in the sedan hurriedly disembarked, entered through the doors, and without anyone greeting them, burst into Shen Qingxuan’s room. 

The man lay behind green gauze curtains with both eyes shut tight. His forehead was overtaken by an unclear black-purple color, that dense color was even gradually spreading throughout his whole face. His originally light colored lips became strangely flushed red from the contrast of his black-purple face. His refreshing outer appearance was completely gone. At a glance, he actually looked like three parts human and seven parts ghost already.

“Xiao Xuan!” An elder with lightly frosted temples saw Shen Qingxuan’s state and let out a low cry that was sorrowful and grieved to the utmost point. “My son!” He cried, as if he still had words to say, but could only choke.

“Laoye.” The uninvolved steward who stood to the side quickly interrupted his master’s grief, and reminded him, “Laoye should not be grieving now, the proper thing to do is to think of an idea to save shaoye’s life first.”

“Yes, yes.” Under the rush of grief for his son, Master Shen only woke up to his error through that warning, and he quickly got up with a hand over his eyes. Still choking with sobs, he asked the servant beside him: “Did you all remove the toxin yet?”

“There are always snakes, insects, rats, and ants on the mountain, therefore all the regular medicines are supplied. The antidote pills for snake venom have just been given to shaoye, but...the effects are not clear.”

“What kind of snake was it, could you see clearly?” the steward hurriedly asked.

“It was too chaotic then, this lowly servant could not see clearly. It was coiled on the pergola

in the yard, but it was also blocked by the branches. In my quick glance, I only saw a section that was as big as the mouth of a bowl…” the servant spoke and gestured, but once he finished speaking, his forehead was firmly slapped. The steward angrily said, “Glib-tongued servant, you are full of nonsense!” Ignoring the servant’s tearful complaints, the steward simply explained to Master Shen, “Laoye, Lu-mou also lived in the mountain forests as a child, but I have never heard of a snake that could grow that thick and big. Unless it is a python, but big as pythons are, they do not easily bite people, and their toxicity is even less likely to be this fierce. This servant must be speaking rubbish, he is only describing it so dreadfully so that he can be punished less.”

Master Shen was terribly upset, and could not handle this presently. He just angrily told the retainer to scram.

“Where is the bite?” The steward asked again of the servant girl who was shaking by the doorpost. She was Shen Qingxuan’s personal handmaid.

“On the wrist.” The maidservand’s face was pallid, and she anxiously added, “Since the sunshine was good today, shaoye wanted to sunbathe, so I wheeled him into the yard. As usual, shaoye wanted to drink a pot of floral tea at that moment. After making the tea for shaoye, I was going to bring some tea cakes, but just as I turned around and walked a couple steps, I heard the tea cup fall to the ground. When I turned back around, shaoye had already been bitten by the snake...” At this point, the maidservant already had tears in her eyes, and was sobbing.

“You saw that snake?”

“I saw it. That person was not lying. That snake really was as thick as the mouth of a bowl, and perched on the railing. When I saw it, it had just drawn back. I saw it was pitch-black, only its abdomen had a bit of gold. I have been on this mountain serving shaoye all these years, and saw some snakes that were beaten dead, but I have never seen such a large snake...”

“It was really that big?” The steward was still uncertain.

Her knees went soft, the girl kneeled on the ground, crying while vowing: “How would this maidservant lie about such an important matter? If there is a trace of a lie, then this maidservant shall die miserably!”

On this side of the room, the steward checked the testimony. On the other side, Master Shen suppressed his sadness to observe his son’s injuries. When he pulled out his eldest son’s wrist, he saw that the injury bitten by the snake’s fangs had already been crossed through with a knife. This helped him relax a bit, knowing a servant was quick-witted enough to promptly slit an opening and suck out the poisonous blood. But this snake venom is too aggressive; in just a short period, it caused a grown man to lose all his senses. Unfortunately, this toxin may have already entered the bloodstream, and would be difficult to clear!

Master Shen grasped that thin and pale wrist, his heart filling with sorrow. It is said that the eldest son is the pillar of his family. He did not have a son until he was 30, yet he let Shen Qingxuan fall into an ice cave at the age of eight. After the rescue and a high fever, not only did his son become mute, but his lower limbs were also damaged by the frostbite, and could only ever be paralyzed on the daybed. Master Shen originally thought it would be easy to raise and support him. There was no need for him to obtain fame and fortune; with the Shen family fortunes, there was no issue supporting the eldest son for his whole, peaceful life. However, who would have thought that at age 27, he would be bitten by a snake.

“That ruinous beast!” With a low shout, Master Shen even had thoughts to catch that snake and eat its meat raw.

“Laoye, do not worry.” The old steward, who has looked after the Shen family his whole life, yet again consoled. “Shaoye’s health has always been weak. Year in and year out, he has been rehabilitating in the mountain villa, therefore all kinds of precious medicines are more or less prepared. Maybe there is still a means.”

“What kind of means?”

“Does laoye still remember what happened during last year’s Mid-Autumn? Someone from Nanman, who had dealt business with the Shen family, gave a tribute of two pills that were said to be capable of relieving all the world’s strangest poisons?”

“I remember, I remember. I saved that medicine. ...Does it really work?”

“Laoshen does not know either, I am just told that the Nanman wetlands contain poisonous insects and wild beasts in numbers. This pill might really have miraculous effects, perhaps?”

“Then why have you not fetched it?” Master Shen stood up in a hurry.

“Aye.”

The medication was quickly retrieved, dissolved in warm water, and administered. As he was fed the medicine, Shen Qingxuan’s jaw was clenched tight, his facial muscles rigid, seemingly a hair’s breadth away from death.

The whole room was engulfed in a state of panic, and the air felt heavy.

Night fell, and the servants lit the oil lamps. Light and shadow quivered.

Shen Qingxuan’s bedroom door opened sometimes and closed sometimes, people shuffling out and in.

Yet not one person noticed, in the swaying shadow of the oil lamp, there quietly stood a man.

Black hair flowed loosely down to his waist. He was also dressed in a black robe, standing with both hands behind his back. The lapels of his robe were embroidered with gold thread into simple decorative patterns. Expression ice cold and lips pursed, he was standing there for who knows how long.

Not one person noticed, and even the people who brushed past him did not cast a glance at him. If anyone had seen him, they surely would not turn a blind eye to this man that looked like a demon on earth.

But indeed, not a single person knew his presence.

The night grew late, Master Shen was tired in both body and heart. He wanted to keep vigil by his son’s bedside, but old age ruthlessly shackled his parental affections. It was the end of February, and although spring had begun, the nights were still cold. After a few soft coughs, Master Shen faintly felt his head start to hurt. Under the steward’s encouragement, although he was loath to leave, he still went to a room warmed by charcoal fire and lay down on the bed.

In the bedroom, there were only the steward and three servants left still looking after Shen Qingxuan.

After another two double-hours passed, Shen Qingxuan, whose breathing had been shallow, gradually gained a steadier and stronger breathing sound. In the shadows, the unmoved, standing man slightly raised his eyes. His eyes showed a spark of surprise; he did not believe this world had an antidote that could actually detoxify his venom.

As expected, when he concentrated a bit to take a closer look at the gaunt and frail man lying on the bed, it dawned on him: this is the so-called rally before death.

Those antidote drugs, at most, only delayed a few threads of time. Antidote? Pure delusion.

Shen Qingxuan struggled to open his eyes. His heavy eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, no matter how he tried, he could not open them.

However, the servant girl waiting by him saw his movements, and joyfully shouted: “Shaoye, shaoye!"

Her noise had a rash joy, and woke up the small courtyard and mountain forest that just fell asleep.

Very quickly, Master Shen came over dressed in a cloak

and did not even stop to put on his socks and shoes. He frantically ran, and yelled: “Xuan’er, Xuan’er...Have you awakened, Xuan’er? Dad is worried sick...” 

Perhaps the calls of his family gave Shen Qingxuan strength, his quivering eyelids worked to open, and finally they budged. His eyes were slack, taking a moment to focus until the depths of his eyes had some liveliness. 

Shen Qingxuan slightly opened his mouth to speak, yet could not make a sound.

But everyone knew he said, “Dad.”

“Ah, dad is here...” the old man immediately burst into tears. Master Shen did not even care to consider how many years he spent with the stance of an elder, he shakingly grabbed his son’s hand, murmuring, “Qingxuan ah, do you feel better? If you are better, then Dad will be so relieved…”

Shen Qingxuan used all his strength, just to barely pull his rigid face into a small smile. Internally, however, he somehow knew he could not escape death this time. His whole body was entrapped in a sense of paralysis with no ability to move. Whenever he breathed, his nostrils filled with a fishy sweet scent; what’s more, in front of his eyes were bursts of pitch-black with intervals of clarity.

The sensations when one is on the brink of death are probably like this.

Actually, there was nothing to dread. For disabled people like him, death was really not as dreadful as living.

Only, he could not bear to leave his parents and younger brother.

These years, his family was the only pillar he had to support him in continuing to seek happiness in life. Everytime he thought about his parent’s pitiful grief after his passing from this world, he could not bear it in his heart.

He thought about his own death, not because he was abandoning and resigning himself to despair. These years in the wheelchair, he actually grew accustomed to this existence of not being able to take care of himself. Burying his childhood dreams of flourishing a whip and riding a horse was not a very challenging task at all.

He thought about his own death because his health was deteriorating year after year.

Before, he could occasionally bask in the sun, call someone to push him, and go for a stroll in the wooded forest.

But in the last two years, he was getting worse. Catch a little draft, and he would be ill for a period, each time more serious than the last. Eventually, it became so bad he could not get out of bed for a month or two.

This winter, he did not go outside. He barely even opened the windows.

He finally recovered, and wanted to bask a bit in the sun, yet he startled a snake that had just ended its winter hibernation and was out to bask in the sun as well.

Thinking of this, Shen Qingxuan could not help but smile, and think to himself that this sunbathing, it seems, whether for himself or the snake, was not comfortable.

He knew in his heart that the snake was just sunning itself on the railing at first, and he was sitting in his chair—man and snake minding their own business. 

They could have lived harmoniously in peace and returned to their respectives homes after sunbathing.

But somehow a soiled piece of leaf just had to fall into the clear tea water. His natural disposition preferred cleanliness, so he, immediately and without another thought, threw out the bowl of hot tea.

At the time, he did not see that snake. Once he realized it was improper, the tea had already been thrown out, and had drenched those shiny black scales with steaming hot water.

The startled snake turned its head around and took a bite out of the hand he did not retract in time.

In truth though, it was more of his own fault. Such hot water, nevermind a snake, even a mere rabbit would be startled enough to retaliate.

It was a very mighty snake. He only caught one glimpse of it, then got distracted by the pain and had to look away. But Shen Qingxuan still remembered that the snake was gleaming black all over; when crouched with its head erect, its neck and abdomen gleamed golden yellow, which was particularly dazzling in the light of the afternoon sun. Later, he wanted to take a closer look, but could not see clearly anymore. He also was not sure if that snake was scalded or not.

It is said these kinds of apodal animals are completely covered with small scales, and probably are not really easily harmed by a cup of hot tea.

In front of his eyes was another moment of extremely dizzying blackness, to the point that even the sound of his father’s voice by his ear was also drifting away. Shen Qingxuan still wanted to listen hard to what his father was saying, but could only hear the beating thunder in his ears. All the disorderly fragmented sentences came through the thundering, yet were still unable to reach his mind. Shen Qingxuan only knew that his father was speaking, but no matter how hard he exerted himself, he could not hear clearly what exactly his father was saying.

Shen Qingxuan knew well enough that his life was at its limit, internally, he was not sure if he was more melancholic or more relieved. He always knew he was a person not long for this world, but the arrival of this scene still caught him off guard.

The concern in his heart made him want to have one last look at this world that had accompanied him for 20 some years. Even if he barely had the strength to breathe, Shen Qingxuan still worked hard to open his eyes wide—the scattered expression within his eyes was also stubbornly gathered back—to gaze at his family. Focusing for a protracted moment.

His father who was normally healthy and well maintained, appeared old and ragged at this moment. The old steward who had rushed about and busied himself for the Shen family his whole life, the maidservant who had already cried into a mess, all of the familiar people who had been doing their best to take care of him all of these years...his eyes slowly, almost rigidly, moved over everyone’s face, Shen Qingxuan haltingly lifted the corners of his mouth, and showed a shallow smile. As if saying goodbye.

His smile was quite faint, appearing ferocious and crude on his currently three-parts-human-seven-parts-ghost-like face.

Yet, it displayed a profound fondness for and reluctance to let go of living.

Such a despairing fondness, yet it also carried a relief towards death.

Perhaps this smile was too striking for the eyes and too startling for the heart. The cold and still man in the shadows, who had watched this entire scene from beginning to end, raised his eyelids. His pupils, which were as dark as the waters of the deep abyss, rippled from a sudden splash.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 15

I can’t think of anything to say about this one haha, other than it has a good ending and was an interesting change of pace for me to write.  Make sure you check the warnings, as always!

Read on AO3

Read on FFN

Day 15 - Magical Healing/Science Gone Wrong

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: claustrophobia, blood, broken bones, mild body horror, mild gore, mild eye trauma (super mild, because eye trauma is a personal squick)

Keith had never had to go into a pod before. He had gotten plenty of bumps and bruises during his time in space, and even a few more serious wounds, but never anything bad enough that he couldn’t patch it up himself. He had gotten pretty good at self first aid over the course of his life, especially while living in the desert. 

And he was pretty happy about that. The thought of being locked in a pod, unconscious, completely helpless and unaware of what was happening to him and around him, made his stomach roll a bit. Obviously he’d never tell anybody that he was...not scared, definitely not scared, but...nervous about using a pod. That was something he’d just keep to himself.

But now...now he had no choice. And honestly, he didn’t care. He was in so much pain, so disoriented, that he just let everybody strip off his clothes, wrestle him into a pod suit, and usher him straight to the pod without even a word of protest.

He had taken on a Galra commander by himself. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he had lost miserably. The commander was huge, and he had managed to get a hold of Keith, wrapping one of his ginormous hands around his entire waist, before slamming him into a nearby wall. Repeatedly. 

Pretty much everything on the right side of his body was broken and/or bleeding. Including his poor, cracked armor. His helmet had been knocked off, so his skull had taken plenty of damage, with blood still pouring down and sticking his eye shut even while the pod was prepped. He was pretty sure something in his face was broken, too. Maybe more than one something. It was difficult to separate one pain from another.

“Alright, lad, in you go.” 

Keith barely held in a yell as he was lifted in, managing to stifle it to a strangled groan. 

“I know bud, I know.” Shiro gave him a tight, worried smile. ���You’ll just go right to sleep now, and next thing you know you’ll feel all better. Promise.” 

There was a momentary flutter in his stomach at the thought, but the idea of sleeping and no longer being in pain won out over his apprehension. As the glass slid shut, his other eye did, too.

He felt the blast of cold that filled the chamber. 

He felt his body succumb to the gas that froze him in place. 

He didn’t fall asleep.

Any second now, he kept thinking. It’ll happen soon. There’s just a little delay that no one mentioned. Maybe they didn’t remember. I probably won’t remember any of this later, either.

But the longer his body remained paralyzed and his brain aware, the more panicked he became. And then the healing began.

You’d think that would be a good thing. Healing takes away the pain, right? 

The first thing to start was his head. He hadn’t been aware that the pain there could get any more intense until it did. Bone fragments started shifting, locking themselves back into place, and he could feel every little bit of it. He could feel the broken skin beginning to knit itself together, millimeter by millimeter.

He wanted to throw up. He couldn’t. His body remained passive and completely out of his control, not responding in the least to his racing thoughts.

Why why why why why why why why why why why why why is this happening why did no one say this would happen this isn’t supposed to happen is it this doesn’t make any sense it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts make it stop please make it stop Shiro help me get me out of here make it stop make it stop

But his body remained still through it all. He couldn’t twitch a finger, couldn’t open his eyes so that the others would know he was still awake. Were they still watching? Did they have any idea that something was wrong? For all he knew, he was alone, and he wouldn’t be released from this nightmare until everything was healed.

Ribs were next. They slid slowly back into place, grinding against each other, slicing through muscle and tissue on their way. It hurt worse than anything he could have imagined. 

His arm and shoulder healed simultaneously, but still took an eternity. That was the worst part, how agonizingly slowly everything went. A doctor setting a bone worked quickly. There was pain, yes, but it was a sharp spike followed by relief. This went on for ages, healing every little crack and tear along the way as each bone was dragged back to where it belonged.

The only thing worse than that was not even being able to scream.

He hadn’t even realized anything was wrong with his knee until that got twisted and pulled straight again. The very last thing to heal was his face, starting with the bones in his cheek and around his eye, and ending with the eye itself, which was less excruciating in the pain sense and more in the fact that it felt like something was in his eye, pulling and probing and scratching, and he couldn’t even lift his hand to rub at it.

The good news about the whole process was that once something was healed, the pain did ease, leaving him with less areas hurting than before.

But rather than feeling like a mere tick had gone by, he was aware of every single tick that passed for the entire two quintants that he was in the pod.

When the glass finally, finally opened and he stumbled out into Shiro’s waiting arms, the first thing he did was open his eyes as wide as they could go, and open his mouth to suck in a lungful of fresh air. His body was his again. He could move. 

The second thing he did was slump boneless to the floor, not even Shiro able to keep him upright. He buried his face into his arms to hide the tears that spilled over without his permission, but that did nothing for the way his entire body trembled and for the gasping sobs that escaped.

“Whoa, Keith! What’s the matter? Are you still hurt?” Shiro’s hands grasped his arms gently. “Talk to me, bud, what is it?”

He tried his best to get himself under control, hating the fact that he was breaking apart in front of everybody. The others probably didn’t even think he was capable of crying before then. Lifting his head slightly, he wiped his face with the sleeve of the pod suit, then dropped his forehead back down onto his arms. 

“I-it…” He swallowed. “It was awful.”

“What do you mean?” He could hear the frown in Shiro’s voice. “What was awful?”

“The p-pod.”

A hand slid into his hair, cupping the back of his head. “I don’t understand, bud.”

“I was awake. The whole time.” 

Silence. Then, “What?”

Coran’s voice broke into the conversation. “That’s not possible. The first thing a healing pod does is to cryo-freeze its occupant. We saw it working ourselves!”

“It did freeze my body.” Keith looked up finally, but couldn’t quite bring himself to meet any of the several gazes that were on him. “Otherwise I would have been banging on the glass for someone to get me out of there. I couldn’t...I couldn’t move. But I was awake.” For a while he had wondered if it was the same for everyone, if Shiro and Lance had refrained from telling him, knowing that he wouldn’t want to go in. But eventually he had convinced himself that Shiro wouldn’t do that to him, and it seemed he was right.

“You’re telling us,” Shiro began slowly, “that you’ve been completely awake and aware for two days, unable to move, while the pod healed all of those broken bones and everything?”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“That shouldn’t be possible!” Coran repeated. “I’ve never heard of anything like it before! I can’t imagine...unless…” He broke off into unintelligible mumbling, crossing to the pod’s data screen and poking at it.

Hunk was next to speak up. “Keith...that sounds...terrifying.”

Gritting his teeth, he tried for a small smile. “Yeah, it...it was.” His brows pulled down. “I could feel all of it. All the bones moving, the skin and muscles and whatever going back together…” He shuddered, and if he wasn’t mistaken, nearly everyone else in the room did, too. “I don’t ever want to go back in a pod again.”

Coran cleared his throat. “My boy, I’m afraid I have quite an apology to make.” Keith looked up to see the advisor facing him again, but staring down at his feet. “It’s, uh...well, we’ve never had someone of...mixed species use the healing pods before.”

Keith shut his eyes. Of course. Of course it would come back to his Galra heritage.

“The data here indicates that the pod recognized you only as human, since it appears that most of your anatomy is, in fact, human. But the failure to account for the rest of your DNA is apparently where things went wrong. It obviously caused you great distress, and probably great pain, and...I’m terribly sorry, my boy. I should have taken more time to ensure that everything was set correctly at the beginning.”

“It’s not your fault, Coran,” Pidge interrupted before Keith could open his mouth to say the same exact thing. She had shimmied her way between the advisor and the screen and was bending over it, the light reflecting off of her glasses. “This thing literally has no clue how to deal with mixed species.” Looking over her shoulder at Keith, she smiled. “We’ll work on that, starting right now.”

“Well, still.” Coran twiddled with his moustache nervously. “I should have known that already. I should have had it ready for Number Four before he needed it.”

“It’s alright. I forgive you.” Keith mustered a smile, and Coran returned it brightly.

“Thank you, lad. Well, Number Five, are you ready to get tinkering?”

Pidge immediately launched into a longwinded explanation of her thoughts for the project, and Hunk quickly joined in. Shiro wrapped an arm around Keith’s shoulders and pulled him in close. 

“I’m really sorry you had to go through that. Looks like these three will have it all fixed for you if you ever need to go in again, though.”

Keith tensed, glancing up at the still looming pod and swallowing hard. “Yeah. Well...I’m gonna...try really hard to not need it again.”

Shiro squeezed him tighter. “That’s a good idea, regardless.”

[ilovelollipopx]

Thresh x reader

Title: Ghosted Memories

Summary: Seeing a familiar face in a fog of memories sure does erase the loneliness 

Warnings: A little angst and bad writing

Hidden from outsiders for many years, the Blessed Isles was dedicated to knowledge, philosophy, and the protection of magical artifacts from across Runeterra. The capital of the Blessed Isles, however, was filled with varying archaeologists, astronomers, and scholars of every conceivable discipline. The Blessed Isles were once a beautiful realm, at least to what you can still remember of it.

 What’s left is just a corrupted fragment of what it used to in its golden days. Where was your place in this? Where you a corrupted soul or a tormenter to the lost pieces of souls?” In truth, you were neither. Unfortunately, when you were in your mid-teens you had been struck with misfortune. Traveling so far to the blessed isles just to seek help from something that seemed to doom many around you. Unfortunately, there was no cure for pure death, instead of locking you away they saw the purity and fear in your heart, teaching to control and keep it under control. For that, you were so gracious and assisted those past scholars with whatever task was place upon you. Perhaps that is what you previously felt, what did it matter now in place of what used to be was a ruin. Those who gave their lives, as well as those who were dragged into unsuspecting chaos, were either lost in time swirling around aimlessly or most became corrupted versions of themselves.

Staring at the gloves covering what has made your life so miserable your brows furrowed, in the end you were left alone once more with yourself and the whispers of agony.Nothing changed much, supposedly would that be a gift of this curse? Not being affected by the curse? Oh how cruel fate was left alone with yourself and nevermore with death around you. A fleeting purpose of life takin away because of greed, grief, and betrayal. Now you a laughing stock embodiment of death once more was left in the prison of souls. 

Taking a breath you continued walking throughout the mist, passing souls alike. Similar to a lost fragmented soul you wondered searching for another purpose. Cold air passed by, another thing you’ve gotten used too. But the feeling of the air, that was much more different. An idling sensation had gone and instead, a sense of dread had pooled, cries of torture filled the air. There was no one to be seen, not even a single soul. Pausing in your steps your eyes fluttered closed focusing in on the distant sounds. A chain being dragged amongst the cobblestone ground, along with it was a burst of defiling laughter that sent chills up your spine, something even the atmosphere couldn’t do. 

This sparked a curiosity a feeling that you wouldn’t have if not given the circumstances. Onward you drifted closer to the noise, the swing of the chain becoming clearer to hear. Once close enough the outline of a figure appeared, its head wasn’t attached to its body and it wore familiar clothing their backside was turned to you. Yet that’s all you had wanted to know, even with you’re death aura you could still be hurt and severely injured by those who lied wake waiting in the mist. 

Not surprised when you tried continuing on past them they already caught your presence. So you stood still as they spoke,

“And where do you think you are going?” they spoke, the voice sounding more masculine so you naturally assumed they were a male.

“I...Im just a soul passing on by” your voice croaked out an answer, nearly forgetting that it had been centuries since you’d talked to someone that wasn’t fully dead or the air around.

His ghastly figure turned straight towards your direction and began walking towards you. 

“Do you think me foolish? I would know the sweet tones of the misery of a soul” his voice seemed more...amused

The short distance he crossed was realized once he got closer to you, and really you honestly didn’t have the energy in you to run. Instead of allowing him to get dangerously close to his face, as you had seen the chain that you had heard earlier, and it wasn’t as simple as you had thought.

At first, he didn’t say anything and you didn’t dare look him in those ghoulish eyes, if it was intimidation it was only half working because you just wanted him to go away. 

A claw-like finger was placed under your chin lifting up your head forcing you to peer into those green misty eyes.

“Something seems...familiar about you” he mumbled tracing the outlines of your face.

Your breath hitched in the back of your throat at the proximity, oddly enough the air didn’t feel suffocating and you really doubt he would hurt you since he seemed to know you. Shoulders slumped gaze burning back into his, a little more out of curiosity than caution. Quickly you went from fearful and cautious to fairly annoyed. 

Smacking his hand away you scoffed,

“Whoever you think I maybe you are probably mistaken.” 

Completely ignoring what you said he snapped his fingers as if he remembered something a menacing smirk somehow forming on his face. Though it didn’t matter as you had already started walking past him. You didn’t get very far before the sound of a chain being thrown was heard and had wrapped around your waist pulling you back to him.

“Where do you think you are going ‘Deaths Incarnate’?” his voice flowed through your ears with an echo.

Brows furrowing in confusion on how he knew the title that was first given to you by those who feared you,

Noticing the perplexed look he spoke,

“Did you really think you could live a peaceful life amongst them? No matter how much you helped, how much you resisted with the gift you were given you were never accepted now were you?” 

The chain wrapped around your waist had long fallen to the side and had been replaced by his clawed hand holding you against his frame as he murmured those things in your ear. As those words drifted into understanding your whole mood shifted once more, you didn’t want to hear about the past and your failed attempt of trying to fit in with society

Shivering against him of resurfaced memories you shook your head,

“What happened is in the past, I don’t know who you are and how you know me but I don’t care”

“Oh, but I guarantee you do dear~ Can’t you remember your lover?” 

Everything that was coming out of his mouth was just getting more and more confusing, sure if he somehow knew about your lover from your time in The Blessed Isles that’d be fine. However most were lost in the king’s ruination so naturally, you had gone searching for him immediately, but all you found was an empty vault and no lover to be found. He was a lowly warden gone by the name of Thresh, both of you being shunned away from those who were considered normal. On the contrary, you didn’t mind his much more sadistic mindset, although he tried a little too many experiments with you.  It took a moment to click all of the information together but once it did you were surprised.

“T...Thresh?” your voice quivered as a name that fell from your lips so long ago had returned.

You wouldn’t deny and be surprised about him being alive, after all, there was nobody, no soul fragment left behind. He had been encountered by the Ruined king so you assumed he cunned his way out, but with no crumbs to pick up on his location you gave up on many years of searching for him.

“The one and only”

Relief flooded through your body, releasing much tension acquired through the years. You didn’t cry, nor did you get angry simply you turned around and placed a head on to his chest even if it was colder than the warm touch you were used too. Instead, you let out an amused chuckle,

“Who would’ve thought that the two of us changed so much huh?” your voice was just above a whisper.

He hugged you closer as well, 

“There is no mortality and morals to hold us back, I simply embraced my true wants, no its time for you to do the same dear”

Whatever he was implying you simply didn’t care, perhaps yes his sadistic ways have evolved into one of a murderer but you didn’t care. Whether you were to join him in his ways or not all you wanted to relish in was his embrace.

Because now you could finally hold his hands without the thought of mortality

[lihikainanea]

hi lei, life has been insanity lately but our two idiots find their way into my head. there’s an idea that has been just fluttering, where tiger and bill had been apart, just life taking them in different directions, and one year around christmas she just shows up at his house. he always sent her his address when he moved, he always did secretly hope she’d come back, and she sees his little girl for the first time in person. she ends up staying with them and forms a bond with her and one night after she’s in bed, they just look at each other and kiss mumbling i missed you’s.

Oh god kid, way to hit me in my feels tonight. Look, every once in awhile, I catch myself kind of just glancing back at that # future bill and tiger few drabbles that I blurted out, just to break my own heart. I don’t know, it’s weirdly comforting to me. I’ve talked a bit before about the shades of grey that dominate my life, and how I kind of love them right? How complex people are.

When I was in my early 20s, I had this sort of...black or white way of looking at things. People are together because they love each other. People break up because they stopped loving each other. Like, that’s it. Just that. People who do drugs are bad. People who don’t do drugs are good.

I lived in the polarity. You were one thing, or you were the other.

Then as I got older, my life became littered with all of these shades of grey that really gave me a meltdown and had me questioning everything I ever believed. I learned that love is usually the last reason why two people are still together--but I also learned that’s okay. Watching a friend in a miserable relationship, stay with her dude and hate her life--all because they had a kid. And yes, it was awful for her. But as she so eloquently told me once--as an adult, your choices are not about what’s easy and what’s hard. Sometimes your choices are about which of two terrible options sucks less. And for her, staying with the dude so her son would have at least a BIT of support was a terrible option for her, but it was the option that sucked less.

You realize how many people actually do drugs. Hard drugs. Like, actually. And you realize that you still think they’re good people.

You learn that sometimes you break up with somebody BECAUSE you love them. You learn that sometimes love destroys as much as it builds. You learn that wanting something so bad doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll ever get it.

But I think, above all else, you learn that--and I’ve said this before--one thing that love never wins against is bad timing. And while I absolutely think Bill and tiger pull through in the end and end up together, I do think they break apart somewhere in between. For a long while. Years.

And y’know...I believe in the magic of the holiday season. I really do. I believed in Santa until I was 13, did you know that? I was the only kid in 7th grade who, when the teacher asked if anyone still believed in Santa, I raised my hand with exuberance. And it’s not that my parents never told me. They did--or at least, they tried.  They sat me down a few times, but I was pretty belligerent. On one of the more heated occasions, they said in no uncertain terms that they were the ones putting the gifts under the tree, and my response? My response was “LULZ, you wish. Nice try.”

I just wasn’t having any of it.

God this is long and a side-tangent(s). Sorry.

Alright so look, this season is magical okay? Somewhere along the way, their paths split. Maybe Bill told tiger he was in love with her and even though she felt the same, it was too much to process and it fragmented their relationship--and slowly but surely, limited contact turned into no contact. Maybe Bill didn’t say anything, maybe they drifted apart or tiger had to move for work, and slowly but surely everything they held dear with each other just...dissolved. Bill went off and had a kid, but it didn’t work out with the mother. Maybe tiger got married, maybe she got divorced, hell maybe she stayed single the whole time.

And a love like that....man. It can dissolve in the moment, but years later, it’s still the one you think about. And I think for each of them, they never stopped thinking about the other. Never stopped wondering what might have been, if maybe the timing was better. If they were both the people that they are now, but back then when it wasn’t too late.

And I like that it’s tiger that jumps first. I really do. Because Bill has always been the courageous one, the more open one--but tiger is also the one to give it her all, when she wants something. And maybe it’s been years, and maybe those years have not been kind to her. And when you go through something like that, you never quite forget the last time you felt safe, the last time you felt loved, the last time you felt valued.

And the answer is always....with Bill.

Maybe it’s been long enough that she doesn’t think it will be quite as awkward anymore. It’s been nearly a decade, you know? He has a kid now. Maybe she thinks he might just get a kick out of seeing her on his doorstep, the same way she’d get a real rush out of seeing him. She doesn’t even know where he lives anymore, has no idea where he is in the world, but there is someone she kept very limited contact with over the years.

Gustaf.

It was intermittent at best. A Christmas card every year, some message on her social media to wish her happy birthday. But she knew that if she asked, he’d tell her. Because Gustaf always knew. 

So that’s what she does, she reaches out. And she’s brutally honest--she tells big bro that she misses Bill, that she’s been thinking about him a lot. And maybe she’s beating around the bush a tad, setting it up so that she can eventually ask for Bill’s address--but Gustaf ain’t got time for their petty shit.

Because Gustaf always knows.

And as soon as tiger says that she missed Bill, Gustaf texted her his address. Told her that little bro is leaving for a project in two weeks. Asks her if she needs help “finding” a plane ticket. She smiles, screenshots her ticket as soon as she bought it.

And man, it’s just beautiful you know? Tiger probably beats herself up in her hotel room for days, thinking this was a big mistake. And all it takes is for Gustaf to send her one photo--one photo of when he was having lunch with little bro, and Bill is staring at the camera and smiling his shy smile, and tiger remembers. She remembers all of it, and it hits her like a freight train.

She’s on his doorstep the next morning.

And I DON’T EVEN KNOW how he’d react. I do want to turn this into a longer piece one day, because god it tugs at my heart. He’d be so shocked--she looks so different. She still looks like her but she’s a little older, a little more weary, a little more sad. And he still looks like him and he still smells the same but now he’s a little grey around the temples, a few more smile lines. But from that first second--ten years of absence crash into them, along with the millions of good memories they had together. And it’s a force that neither one of them can stop, because it’s still love but now it’s love in the right time and that, friends, is unstoppable.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Prompt Time: The Projectionist free-roaming Malice Angel's domain. Level 14 barely has any stimulating things, so wouldn't it be nice if he got to visit Heavenly Toys and got to feel all the nice soft plushies?

Summary: "The worst nightmare is the nightmare that continues even when you wake up." --Mehmet Murat ildan

Warning for character death, blood and mild!

[[MORE]]

---

No matter how much the hulking beast that was the Projectionist walked (or how far its warped mind perceived that it went), the one thing that it could be truly certain of was the neverending pain that permeated its skin and old bones, that followed every step with a diligent sort of precision.

A truly terrible and wretched notion indeed, as walking was all it knew to do anymore…

With a gaze lost to the expanse of the soundless halls ahead, and its thoughts long since seized from a lack of…Something...

A stimulus? A purpose perhaps? It had to be one of those, but it couldn't really recall which was correct.

It didn't know if it had ever known the answer to its plight at all.

But walking? Walking came easily!

Not that it wasn't a harduos task, mind you, just not so easy for the semi-mechanical abomination to forget.

One limb after the other, the creak of old joints and the sting of stiff muscles.

The dull ache at the base of its hips that sharpened as it climbed all the way to the base of its strained neck.

The painful throb of something squishy-but-not-quite encased in metal, and driven by the soundless clicking and blinking of things it could fix but not put a name to.

Walking was both easy and hard, but necessary.

If it could walk, it would be safe. If it could walk, it could keep an eye on its many projectors. If it could walk, it could defend itself and its many, many, responsibilities…

So walk it did, no matter how much the burden of it all hurt its patchwork body.

To anyone with a somewhat intact sanity, traversing the halls was a tedious and mind numbing act. Not that there was much that the Projectionist thought about anyway. It's mind was… Buzzing, but not with any musings of a past life. It was numb in a way its body could never replicate.

Fragmented after going so long missing a vital piece of itself. A soul stagnated from the splintering of its essence, as well as the nonsensically repetitive motions of a lethargic routine.

Long ago this creature was once told that madness was the act of repeating an action hoping to achieve different results. If that was so, then this wretched being was the maddest of them all.

Lost to a looping cycle of its own, doing things that it should no longer care for.

Because why tend to the projectors? Why hunt for intruders? Why search for a part that was floors above, well beyond its reach?

Yes, the Projectionist must be mad. So mad that it no longer could do much more than act out the same motions over and over again.

Couldn't do more than walk the halls and redo its tasks… A looping reel.

Following tired feet with a blazing light and aching muscles that never rested.

How tragically ironic.

An infinite paradox within another.

Until one day it got a breath of fresh air.

The lift was a tool of the horned angel. A contraption that it had once used, as the man it no longer recalled having been. To the Projectionist however, it was merely a source of annoyance.

A means for intruders to trespass in its corner of the studio. An heinous apparatus of mayhem and frustration.

It caused it to feel things that swelled in its empty chest cavity, until they became nothing more than a senseless rage.

The kind that made its hackles raise with territorial trepidation, which quickly became the distinct urge to fight over flight.

The Projectionist could not recall being a man, but it could instinctively recall being an animal.

A one of a kind apex predator that stalked the halls with reckless abandon. And anything that stepped foot in its pooling maze was fair game.

The things, miserable creatures that they were, tended to come from that hellish metal box.

It made the ink in its pool vibrate with such force that it flooded its senses in a most confusing way.

Overwhelming and unpleasant all on its own, but with the added dilemma of some half-baked critter crawling right in to seek out its most coveted treasure: Its many hearts.

The Projectionist loathed all who thought they could steal its heart twice.

Added theirs to the expanding collection dotted all around its many inky roosts.

Thus the lift was deemed an enemy spawning ground, one that the hulking semi-mechanical beast did not trust in the slightest, but one that it kept an eye on nonetheless… If just to have some peace of mind. As shattered as it may be.

Imagine then, how jarring it was, for a creature that did little else than roam, maim, and maintain, to find such a vile blight baring it's gaping maw at it in broad studio light.

For the first time in years, its routine was completely broken, with the Projectionist standing there just staring at the open lift with a stalling empty mind.

It did not know what to do. What to expect.

In a situation like this, what was there really to do? The distrust it felt of the lift coupled with its sudden and unexpected behavior was certainly quite troubling for a creature of the Projectionist's caliber.

So terribly dulled from its stagnant pattern that it needed time to even realize such an event was abnormal to begin with.

Once it clicked that, yes, the lift should not be in its domain and showcasing its hungry maw so pridefully, it did the only thing it knew to do to anything that offended it.

It shrieked aggressively and rushed it.

Now, once upon a time, a man by the name Norman Polk would have stared at this scene and bellowed with disbelieving laughter.

To see such a frightfully powerful beast struggle with something so mundane as an empty elevator… It would have tickled him positively funny.

Perhaps reminding him of this big old bully of a gator that used to sun itself near the drinking hole his old pops used to plant some of the best sugarcane in all of Louisiana (or so he boasted). Big and strong, enough so that it could snap a man's arm clean in half with just one bite, yet dumber than half a box of marbles.

That lump of gigantic muscle had gotten it's jaws stuck in so many crawdad traps that it was a miracle it had grown so big and strong at all. Lucky bastard that brute… the same could be said for the Projectionist.

If good old Norman could have witnessed this hulking horror struggle in the lift like it was fighting some battle of titanic proportions, he would have wondered how it hadn't gotten itself killed yet.

Sadly Norman could never question such things, as he himself was the abominable creature he would have likely found so humorous.

The mind was a fragile thing indeed.

One so incomplete as his, made the Projectionist truly seem like a dumb animal at best…

As the object-headed bruiser calmed down after its initial fruitless assault (in which it had toppled over and only further distressed itself), it began to attempt to right itself. Looking so pathetic like a turtle stuck on its back, until flailing limbs caught the bars of its source of frustration, and pulled with all it's might.

The thudding of heavy feet against the lift flooring sent vibrations that jolted its wires uncomfortably, making it screech at nothing as it turned to look for whatever was setting it off now.

Upon finding nothing it simply stood there, winded from the exertion of having to pull itself back onto its clumsy feet.

Not an easy task when one's head weighted so much.

Now that the few senses the Projectionist still had were not under any stress, the rage began to dissipate. The soothing silence pulled at its frayed sanity, both comforting and familiar in a world that had become so alien to its past self.

Boredom was sinking in quickly, beckoning it to move on back into its usual flow.

It lifted one leg, ready to begin the endless trek of the maze all over again, only to freeze when the lift door closed with it still inside.

The seconds trickled as it slowly processed the newest development to this earth-shattering event.

It was stuck. Trapped. Caged.

Another unholy screech left its ruined speaker as it began to thrash violently, trying to get out of this tight little coffin that tormented it so cruelly.

Calling out for freedom it thought it had.

A loud hum made the cage vibrate, and its shrieks only increased in intensity as it tried to protect its sensitive body from the droning it couldn't even hear.

Then the mobile prison began to ascend.

The Projectionist was no stranger to the levels above and below of its own. Sometimes it wandered up and down the stairs to check up on the myriad of hearts it had stored in multiple other places it had rested in, after chasing particularly persistent prey that didn't get the hint. Often it tracked ink that facilitated its navigation across these alien floors, as the vibrations of this substance helped it track down it's assailants (the footprints they left behind also helped).

It had frequent encounters with the doggish wolves it had seen strapped to tables. Most gutted before it could claim their precious insides itself, although some he found fresh and ready to put a meaty fist through.

There were also times where it had encounters with the thief that wore the grinning devil mask, often finding it near peculiar objects the fiend seemed to covet.

Tall necky things with sharp strings that hurt its fingers, round flat things that made a strange hum when it hit them with a closed fist, and big square things that had loose teeth that also made alluring vibrations.

The thief liked these strange objects, so the Projectionist made sure to track it through locating them whenever it could remember… If it could remember.

Thinking was much too hard when it had so much time just to roam and live inside its own empty head.

How strange was that?

As the tiny cage continued its ascension the burly beast fell to its knees and hugged them tightly to its chest.

It whined uneasily as it watched familiarity fade with each level that it passed, trying to ignore the hum that occasionally assaulted its sensitive cables and chords.

It whimpered louder when it felt like it should know what these distinct pauses against its inky flesh should mean.

Then, finally, the lift came to a pause and the doors opened up wide, showcasing its captive passenger for the world to see. Not that the Projectionist gave the world much time anyway…

As soon as it sensed an opportunity to be free, it lunged itself forward. The uneven weight of its patchwork form, causing it to trip up and tumble down onto the wooden floors.

It rolled a few feet, hurting its knees and cutting up it's right arm against a few steps of what appeared to be… A very wide space.

It had no clue what this place was, and the beady eyes staring down at it made the Projectionist right itself immediately and shriek in monstrous defiance of whatever harm the creature possessing them may wish it… only to stop and stare as nothing moved.

The strange thing that was staring at him was just a doll. A very large doll in the shape of the not-gutted-wolves it had previously encountered.

It cocked its head to the side ever so slightly, so as to not tip over, and grunted in acknowledgement that this was no threat to its existence.

Sure enough, gazing around, all the eyes that it could see were more of the drawings like the ones that its projectors played. A few of the flat devils that were strewn around, and a big devil doll to keep the wolf some company.

Letting out another grunt and a huff as it shook its head, the Projectionist turned to glance at the churning fountain of ink separating the two dolls, and promptly growled at it. Warning any of the vermin that enjoyed such things to keep well aways from it, if they did not wish a painful death to befall them.

The gross ink slugs were squishy, and hard to get out from beneath its nails. They stuck to its feet and made it feel icky and gross.

When nothing reared its ugly head out from within the fountain, the Projectionist marched on through this new strange place… Momentarily wondering if it would find more hearts for its collection.

The stimulation was doing wonders it seemed, if it could ponder such things.

Environmental awareness wasn't really a thing that it often considered while aimlessly wandering the halls. Its feet just took it wherever they pleased, gaze focused on nothing in particular, the patchwork bruiser just ticking by like a broken clock.

This newly discovered location was different, and brought with it new rules. The Projectionist was suddenly hyper aware and hyper focused on everything surrounding it.

The spacious expanse of this floor was interesting all around, truly a place where it could wander and get lost and just experience new things it couldn't in its maze.

Speaking of clocks, it whirred curiously as it noted all of the paraphernalia that was just everywhere. From limb swinging devil-clocks, to devil and wolf dolls of various sizes. At some point it found a bowl containing a squishy blob that jumped and changed shapes when it poked it out of curiosity.

The sudden movement had made the large brute shriek and crush the bowl with a powerful strike from its hand, but the blob had prevailed despite being surrounded by shards of ceramic that had cut into the large ink beast's hand.

Once established that it wasn't attacking him (and that the stinging pain was its own doing) the Projectionist let the bouncy mass be, and continued to just wander and take in all the three dimensional creatures that it was accustomed to see flat on the walls.

The room full of clocks and dolls was especially alluring.

There was a very big wolf plush like the one before in the spacy room with the fountain. The Projectionist fixated on it and approached, reaching out to pat the inanimate pooch's ears, and then reach up to pat its own round prongs in curious comparison. The toy was not taller than it, but certainly felt squishy where it was more solid.

It reached out to touch again, fingers sinking into pillowy fabric while it's palm ran over the new texture.

A strange little word crept up into its splintered mind: Comfy.

So soft it was to the touch… Would it feel good to lay on top of it?

Surely doing something of the sort would be against every survival instinct it still had keeping it going, right?

Walking was important!

Walking was surviving!

But resting… How its aching body craved to finally rest!

And look at just how inviting the plush's soft body was… it couldn't hurt to stop for a few minutes, right?

Against all odds, the Projectionist braced itself to a position where it would be less likely to hit its clunky head, then lunged forward. Practically purring as it felt itself sink into the comforting embrace of the false wolf.

Slumber, it would finally meet with it at last!

Without second thought, the Projectionist's light shut off as consciousness slipped away into the welcoming darkness.

-

Norman startled awake in bed, fumbling blindly as he tried to make sense of where he was at the moment, while kicking up his legs which were trapped under a mass of weighted blankets.

It was so dark! Why couldn't he see? He could always see in the dark halls, the light of the projector lens illuminating even the shadiest corners of the studio… He…

No. No he couldn't see in the dark?

And this place… He knew this place!

This was his and his wife's room back at their apartment.

A rush of confused thoughts flooded his frazzled brain, as Norman glanced around. His hand subconsciously reaching out to click on the bedside lamp, and it soothed him slightly when the darkness melted away under the soft yellow light that cast over the familiar scene.

He was home. But… how?

His bad eye darted about, refusing to focus as usual, while his good eye carefully surveilled his surroundings.

It landed on his bedside table, above the silly novel he'd recently picked up from the bookstore. There was a note there, waiting to be read by his curious eyes.

With a shaky hand, one much smaller than the brutish claw of the Projectionist, he took hold of the unassuming piece of paper.

"Went to the store to get a few things before dinner. Told the kids to behave so you could rest. Please don't overwork yourself ever again, you had a 102° fever dear. Love Maggie <3"

He read the words once, twice and then trice, heart hammering away in his chest as it all slowly sunk in.

Had it… Had it all been a terrible nightmare? Had he, in his feverish state, dreamt up all the horrors that he thought had really occurred at Joey Drew Studios?

Had he really conjured up all of the madness and pain in those hostile halls? Pictured his own gruesome transition into a mindless abomination that couldn't even remember it was a person? A monster that was too afraid to let others attack it first?

A dry and slightly choked up laugh forced its way out of his constricted chest as relief washed over him.

He was home…

He was home and he could think, and it didn't hurt to move his neck or limbs, and he was himself.

What a terrible nightmare his fever had gifted him, one that felt so real that he expected to find a monster when he slowly kicked the blankets off and rose up from the bed.

His bedroom mirror told a different story to what he'd thought he'd find reflected back. There he was, strong features, big round nose and lips, tired eyes (one moving about, never to meet the other's focus point since birth) and dark curly hair that was starting to gray.

He felt the stubble on his face and hummed softly to himself. He needed a shave, lest he end up looking like the photos of his Poppop Polk…

But first he desperately needed a glass of water. He usually had one resting beside his book, but Maggie had likely taken it back to the kitchen once he'd drained it throughout the night.

Not an issue. A leisurely walk around their home was a welcomed thing after he'd been so sure he'd be stuck staring at inky sepia toned (and slightly rotted), wooden panels for the rest of his miserable and dreadfully quiet life.

So that's what he did.

He put on some slippers and shrugged on his robe, and strolled out of the room at a very calm and deliberately slow pace.

It was honestly a little ridiculous how long it took him to reach the kitchen. He'd really had a grand old time of just listening to the background noises of the city, and admiring the house decor.

That really ugly vase his mama sent them as a wedding gift, where they kept a half dried up fern (he was terrible with plants and so was Maggie). The equally ugly rug his pops had found in a flea market and sent to them in the mail (ugly enough that his wife had begged him to burn it, so how could he not set it down so he could watch her purposefully scratch it up with her high heels, due to her pure and unadulterated hatred of the garish horror of checkers and polkadots?), the collection of child's drawings he and Maggie had taken to taping to the wall in proud display, as well as Aaron's many pictures (the kid really took the whole photography thing seriously since he'd bought him his own camera for his birthday).

Pictures… Oh how he'd admired the family photos so lovingly… Every portrait, every baby photo, every holiday he'd managed to document with his old battered camera that he hoped to fix one day.

That terrible nightmare had shook him up so bad that Norman genuinely thought he was never going to see those smiling faces ever again.

He passed by his children's rooms but thought better than to disturb them. They had classes tomorrow, and the clock told him that at this hour they'd be doing their homework, like he and their mother had stipulated early on.

They could do whatever with their time, but 18pm was schoolwork time.

Instead Norman carried on into the kitchen and breathed in the smells. A hint of freshly baked bread coming from the breadbasket they kept near the oven, as well as veggie soup that was cooling in the pot that was currently resting on the stove.

Fuck, he'd missed vegetable soup, and he hated eating his greens! How could a series of vivid images feel like such a lifetime when they were merely hours?

The mind sure was a mysterious thing, one much harder to understand than the projectors he maintained at the studio.

Shrugging to himself while taking a glass from one of the cupboards, the tired projectionist moved over to the sink and opened the tap without a second thought… It took a second for him to realize it wasn't water coming out.

The glass shattered upon being dropped by a retreating Norman, who stumbled back and away from the distressing sight as if he'd been burnt.

From the tap was coming out thick oily ink that smelled just as toxic as the deathly scent of the warped studio in his dreams.

No, this… this couldn't be.

It had been a dream! Hadn't it?

He was home! He was safe!

Except the ink pouring out of the sink contradicted this. So thick it was, like sticky tar, clotting in the drain and filling up the sink. It took far little time to begin overflowing and overtaking all it touched.

The color draining from everything the black substance came into contact with. Stretching out over the floor, crawling towards him, with liquid reaching fingers. Wanting to claim him.

Fearfully, Norman fled from the kitchen and down the hall. Not wanting to be pulled back by that demonic stuff.

The chemical smell was driving him nuts, burning his eyes and nose so terribly they were beginning to run.

He fled until his legs ached. But his tired stinging eyes found something quite concerning.

Norman hadn't moved an inch since getting to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

It was as if he'd been slipping in oil the entire time. No traction to propel him forward, just a useless struggle against an unseen force.

And then a new smell hit him.

One that made his heart turn to ice in his chest. A coppery smell that hit the back of his throat, and made his mouth taste like loose pennies.

His hands felt warm and sticky and hurt to move.

Sheer terror of the familiarity of this whole scene made him feel absolutely nauseous. He knew he shouldn't look, knew what expected him once he did so, but he couldn't help himself.

Curiosity (morbid as it may be) was his mistress after all.

Norman looked to his left, where the doors to his four children's rooms greeted him, wide open. Inviting.

God...There was so much blood...

The mortified projectionist fell to his knees as he stared down in pure horror at what remained of his and his wife's beautiful children. His babies… all dead, torn apart by some heartless butcher.

The terrified look immortalized in their young and lifeless features making him sob openly. He shakily reached out to hold them close to himself, screaming in fright when his eldest son's hand shot out to grasp his blood covered hands.

Empty eyes that were once warm with love and childlike wonder, bore holes into Norman's own mismatched gaze.

"Why did you kill us daddy? Why did you take our hearts?"

The projectionist shook his head, tears and snot running down his face as he tried to deny it. Deny the atrocity the ghost of his son accused him of committing against his own kin. But no matter how much he tried, Norman couldn't speak over the lump in his throat.

Everything hurt, and everything was warm and sticky, his little ones' hearts still beat in his monstrous hands that had slain them without thought.

And then the click of the house key made his blood run cold all over again.

"Honey? Are you up?"

No… no no no no! Maggie! It wasn't safe! He wasn't safe! She'd die! He'd kill her too!

He tried calling out, to beg for her to run, but all that came out was the primal and blood-curdling screech of the Projectionist, as it turned and trampled over the corpses of its previous victims, rushing to claim another heart for it's collection.

Norman's very soul screamed upon seeing his wife's confused and then terrified face under the beast's burning gaze.

-

The Projectionist screamed. It screamed in terror and anguish as it kicked away from the comfy wolf it had decided to rest upon on a whim.

It screamed as it tried to force itself away from a person that was not physically there, thus safe from its violence.

It screamed, as Norman Polk was still very presently in charge of his mental faculties, after having had his "brain" so stimulated and overworked for the first time in years.

He screamed until the speaker lodged in his torso gave out, spluttering weakly as it temporarily short-circuited. The internal mess of organic and non-organic materials needing time to mend themselves once more into a semi-functional state.

Once finding himself incapable of producing sound, the Projectionist sat there, shaking and completely disoriented. Trying to make sense of reality and dreams that were cruelly senseless.

And then the weight of it all crashed down… He could remember.

He was a person, not a something, a someone.

A father… He was a father who could forget these things all over again, and hurt his loved ones. A father who couldn't protect his beloved and his children as long as he was this… Heinous monstrosity.

A monster who'd sooner dismember anything it came across than think twice about their identity. A menace to society.

With that knowledge Norman did the only thing he could think to do while he still had awareness.

He lashed out, letting the anguish and hatred of his situation demolish all that met with his brutish body.

Shelves broke, dolls were torn to shreds, the wolf plush was gutted, and the Bendy clocks shattered. All the while he screamed silently as he let the floodgates wide open to pour out all the torment.

Then, when there was nothing left to destroy, he cried.

Sobbing without a mouth or eyes to clear, hiding a lens into hands that could do cruel and devastating things.

Trembling inconsolably on his knees, in the darkness of a cold and dreary studio full of monsters just as odious as he.

Mourning what he'd become, until the memories faded back into obscurity. Letting himself fade back into nothing but an afterthought.

Above and well beyond out of sight, Susie Campbell wept as Alice whispered comfortingly to her in their shared mind.

The poor dear had only wanted her old friend to have a chance to be comfortable and rest. That, it seemed, had been a horrible mistake on her part.

There just wasn't anything in this cold and brutal world of theirs that could alleviate such misery as the one that burdened the Projectionist.

[mymelodyheart]

Highland Destiny Chapter 9 ~The Fury & The Beast~

Claire was motionless. She was looking straight ahead, frozen and unblinking. Her awareness was gradually peeling away like she was being split in two. She knew she was no longer in her body and was observing the activities through a goldfish bowl. It was all very dream-like, everything was starting to shimmer like their atoms couldn't hold together, and the colours seemed too bright and the people too close. This sense of detachment frequently happened to Claire when she's about to perform surgery. It was a kind coping mechanism to help her deal with stress and anxiety and aid her surgical work with precision and efficiency. 

"Claire! Claire! Are ye alright? Look at me!" 

She turned. It was Geillis. Claire looked at her face, and she thought it looked like it was made of wax and it was animated by some alien spirit. She smiled at her friend, but it was an empty smile. "I think I need a drink," Claire murmured. She didn't recognise her own voice - it sounded very garbled and distorted, like someone speaking through a very long metal pipe.

"Aye, of course, ye dae...c'mon," Geillis said as she led her away towards the bar. She was concerned about Claire. She knew that look from their medical student days whenever they performed a mock dissection. Her face would become expressionless, and her actions very clinical. And although Claire was fully functional, she was very robotic. Geillis wanted to shake her and slap her on the face to bring her back, but she couldn't. Not in front of all these people. Instead, she ordered a double whisky and made her drink it straight.  Damn ye, Fraser! Damn ye!

It worked. It wasn't long before Claire was sputtering and coughing. And when she came around, the pain was etched on her face.

"Oh God Geillis, what the fuck!" Reality suddenly hit Claire like a massive wallop to her stomach, and the continuous piercing sensation in her heart was returning again.

Joe was there, his firm grip on her arm was supporting her. "Sweetheart, shall we go outside for some fresh air?" he said softly, as Gail looked on.

"No! No! Just let me be, I need a moment alone. Please." Claire's voice cracked. Joe and Geillis knew she was trying to hold it together, but they could only watch helplessly as their friend walked away and headed for the bathroom.

..........

Jamie saw it, plain as day. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't bear to see the pain in Claire's eyes. It was the first thing Jamie noticed before all the insanity began. His head was reeling, and his heart was fragmenting piece by piece as he bore witness to Claire's anguish. In all his life, Jamie had never seen hurt with that much intensity, and it pained him to see Claire like this. He wanted to go to her, but he felt trapped. Confined. Ambushed. Everything was happening too fast for him to get a grip of reality. Annalise's hand felt heavy like manacles on his arm, weighing him down. 

"Smile sweetheart, you wanted this remember. Now look happy," Annalise said through her teeth as she smiled and posed at every snap of the camera.

That's when he snapped. Seething, he could no longer go on with the pretence. "There is no engagement!" Jamie bellowed, making everyone nearby jump. Not caring anymore, he roughly grabbed Annalise by the elbow, steering her through the crowd, brushing past stunned onlookers.

"Jamie! Let go...you're hurting me," she hissed as she tried to yank off her arms from his firm grip.

Ignoring her, Jamie led her out of the ballroom and into an empty conference room. He was fervently praying that Claire would still be around once he dealt with this awful mess.  Oh, Christ Claire, I'm so sorry!  Away from prying eyes, he turned Annalise around to face him, maybe too harshly. He didn't give a damn. "What the fuck was that all about?" Jamie asked in a dangerously, calm voice. He wanted to yell at her but refrained from doing so.

"What do you mean Jamie... I thought you wanted this..." she retorted.

"No, I didna want this. I never did. Neither did ye." He snarled, his temper was quickly mounting.

She glowered at him. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Noticing her confusion, he took a deep breath, feeling frustrated and sick in the stomach. "All these is a fucking farce. Don't ye get it?" He ran his hand through his hair in agitation. "Think back, Annalise, think back for Christ sake! Think back to the time when we started seeing each other. We were dating...we were young....we didn't even talk about any future. Ye loved yer parties, and I was intoxicated with my achievement. Neither of us understood the concept of marriage, let alone even thought about it. When my uncle fell into hardship, I wanted to help. Then yer father came along and dangled the opportunity for me to retrieve my uncle's vineyard...well, that's if I married ye. I dinna ken what he's been telling ye but back then I was willing to do anything to save my uncle's failing business...." Jamie's words came pouring out, unrestrained.

They were both still for a while. Jamie watched Annalise absorbed his revelation.

Then she closed her eyes and exhaled deeply as if a burden was lifted. She lingered a moment to compose herself. "It's all about those shares, then?"

Jamie nodded. 

Pondering, she carried on. "So papa bribed you." It was stated more as a fact rather than a question. She shook her head in disbelief and paced back and forth until she found her next words. "Thinking back...you know... us...I did like you Jamie, and you liked me, and we had fun, but we were never in-love, were we?"

"No. We weren't," Jamie admitted. "But I liked ye enough to go through with the marriage. I thought I was doing something honourable by agreeing to yer father's wishes. But I was wrong. I know that now. Ye would have hated me eventually if I married ye and brought ye here to Scotland. Ye've never liked it here. And I don't want to be anywhere else in the world, but here in the highlands." Jamie paused, trying to think about the best way to soften the blow. "If it's any consolation to ye, I would have tried my utmost best to be a good husband, but that's no guarantee for a happy marriage."

" Fils de pute!"  she cursed under her breath.  " My papa is one manipulative, piece of shit! And it's true...I hate it here. The rain, the greyness, the cold. It rains all the time and living here would have made me miserable." She paused, taking a deep breath. "You see Jamie, I have always followed papa's orders. I had no choice. I've never worked a day in my life, and he holds the purse's string. Sometimes he would threaten me if I didn't comply. His usual threat was to cut off my allowance. So if he says jump, the only acceptable response would be, how high? Do you remember Charles Gauloise? I was in love with him, but he was married. We were having an affair, and I wanted him to leave his wife. So when you asked me to marry you, I thought it was a perfect opportunity to make him jealous and please papa as well. Papa wanted us married because he thought with your name connected to our family name, it would boost his own business. Then Charles found out about our engagement, and when he promised to leave his wife, I broke off our engagement at once. I thought if Charles married me, I would be free from my father's clutches. Unfortunately, Charles' promises were nothing but empty promises. And I fell more than once for his lies; hence, I broke off our engagement twice. I remember now clearly, how relieved you looked when I broke off our engagement. You didn't even look disappointed."

Ignoring the last statement, Jamie demanded, "And how about tonight? What was that all about? For fuck sake, it was like a fucking circus out there. And you fucking knew well I hated all the media attention."

Annalise sighed, feeling resigned. "Everything that happened tonight was papa's design after you told him you didn't want anything to do with Château Cheval Blanc. He was afraid that if your name weren't attached to the business, it would no longer thrive. God, I don't even know why he is hanging on to that stupid vineyard. He hates it, and he doesn't even know a thing about wine-making. So you did do me a favour by telling those people there's no engagement."

Jamie was stunned by the admission, and he softened up a bit. "Christ Annalise, why didn't ye tell me? I could have helped ye. All this would have never happened if ye told me." 

"Helped me how Jamie? We were both played. I am hopeless without my father's money. Don't get me wrong, he loves me dearly, but he loves himself more. At least now, I don't have to continue this fucking charade."

"Ye're not hopeless Annalise! Ye're a talented painter. Any gallery in Paris will exhibit yer work, and ye have a well-known name to boot." Jamie didn't know whether to feel sorry for her or feel exasperated at her spoiled behaviour. Either way, he was eager to get this conversation over with and go find Claire.

She remained silent, pondering what he just said.

When she didn't say anything, Jamie continued. "Ye see, I hung on to our relationship because I thought one day ye will agree to marry me and finally I would be able to restore Château Cheval Blanc as a Fraser legacy. But like ye, I couldn't keep this up...so I decided to draw the line and give up the vineyard because..."

"Because you're in love," Annalise added sighing. "It's that woman in red, right?"

Jamie nodded, failing miserably to conceal his emotion as the picture of Claire's anguished face replayed on his mind.

"I saw earlier the way you looked at her. You have never looked at me that way...not once," she said sadly, thinking of Charles. 

Jamie didn't want to waste any more time. He had to go and find Claire. "Annalise, I'm sorry...I need to see her now. Will ye be alright if I leave ye?" Jamie asked, his voice hoarse.

She smiled weakly. "Of course. You go get your girl. And I'm so sorry for fucking this up for you."

"No lass, it was me who fucked up. I should have told her the truth from the beginning. Dinna worry." He smiled back in reassurance.

"So friends again?"

"Aye, of course."

"Hug?"

"NO! No hug. No offence but I'm in a lot of trouble already so we will leave it at that if ye dinna mind."

Annalise laughed. "Go then!"

Just as Jamie was about to leave, the door opened. "Jaime, we have a problem. Yer uncle is blind drunk and causing problems," Rupert announced.  What the fuck now!

..........

Claire applied cold water to her neck and temple after sitting in the toilet cubicle for the longest time. Despite the heat on her face, she was shivering. Claire didn't want to think of Jamie. She didn't want to cry. All she wanted to do was go home, curl up in a ball and sleep.  It's alright Beauchamp, you can do this! Just breathe! 

The sudden opening of the door made her jump, and the sound of the music from the ballroom drifted in, reminding Claire where she was. As she turned around, she found herself staring at a very inebriated Dougal McKenzie, Jamie's uncle.

"Weel, weel, what do we have here? The pretty wee lady in red..." he slurred as he swayed on his feet. He had his hands on both sides of the door frame to support himself, and his handsome face was puffy from too much alcohol.

"Dougal, this is the ladies room..." Claire explained, hoping he will turn around and leave. His presence was giving her ominous feeling.

Dougal gave her a lopsided smile as he took a step forward. "Och I see that...an' I can see one very, very pretty lady."

Claire tried to go around him, but he was reaching out for her. Slightly tipsy herself, she floundered a bit and almost lost her balance.

"Come here and give me a wee kiss. I promise not to tell Jamie..." he garbled as he took another step forward.

There was hardly any room to manoeuvre as Claire tried to sidestep him. Before she could make her next move, she was cornered as he pitched forward and grabbed hold of her waist. He pulled her to him as he groped at her breast, but the struggle was futile - he was a large man, and his grip was strong despite his state. She tried to squirm out of his embrace. "Let go of me you damn fool or I'll scream!" 

She tried her hardest to push from his chest, but he didn't budge. Then panic set in when he tried to lift her dress, and before she could scream, a large hand took him by the shoulder and the next thing she knew, Dougal was slumped on the floor.

Claire stared in disbelief. It was all like a blur. One minute he was pawing her and the next minute, he's been decked.

"Oh my God, oh my God, he's hurt!" she whispered. Claire didn't even notice Jamie standing there. Everything happened so fast that she didn't see him throwing a punch. All her focus was on the injured man, sprawled lifeless-like at her feet. Oblivious to Jamie's presence, she knelt down by the immobile body and checked his pulse. The doctor in her had taken over, and everything else evaporated.

Then he touched her. "Sassenach are ye alright?" Jamie asked softly as he took off his plaid to placed it over her shoulders. He noticed she had been trembling the whole time. To his relief, she wrapped it tight around her.

"Oh Jamie, it's you...please help me turn him over to his side. He's had too much alcohol, he might choke on his own vomit," she said in a voice that was flat and unfeeling. "And please call an ambulance just to make sure he's alright." 

Jamie helped her turn Dougal but was confused with her response. Claire seemed to be in some sort of trance.

Then she stood up, pulling the plaid tighter around her. "Right Jamie, I have to get going...and remember, call an ambulance please." She patted him on the arm before turning away,

Gently he touched her, again "Sassenach, please look at me, we need to talk...please..." Jamie was beginning to be alarmed.  Oh, God, Claire, please.

The moment he touched her for the second time, Claire suddenly snapped out from her stupor and whipped around to face him, her eyes bright with anger, and her cheeks flushed red. "Don't touch me, " she hissed through clenched teeth. Jamie nearly staggered backwards at the sudden change of demeanour.

"Sassenach please, it's not what ye think..." he pleaded. Jamie was groping in the dark for the right words.

"Not what I think? How do you know what I think! Tell me this James Fraser..." she stepped forward, her face contorted in pain and was mere inches from his, "What am I to you? Huh? TELL ME!"

"Claire, I beg ye, come with me. We have a room here in the hotel..." he implored. He wanted to take her in his arms and soothe her, but he knew there was very little chance of that happening soon.

"A room? Is that it... you think I'll come up with you and everything will be alright? How many women have you taken in that room? And answer my question...WHAT AM I TO YOU? Answer me, damn you." Claire was panting like some wild banshee, and she couldn't stop. "Well, you know what, you fucking bloody Scot, I think you think that I'm just another girl you can stick your cock in and warm your bed while we play little cottage in the woods. That's all I am to you. I'm just another cunt to fuck. Isn't it? Admit it, James Fraser, ADMIT IT YOU BASTARD!" This time Claire was yelling.

Jamie grabbed her arm and pulled her closer until they were nose to nose. His anger was beginning to rise, not towards Claire but because of the whole situation. He only wanted a perfect evening for her, and it was all going very wrong. "Sassenach, ye have a filthy mouth on ye...will ye pipe down please."

"I DON'T FUCKING CARE YOU FUCKING BASTARD!" she yelled.

There was a moment of silence as Jamie and Claire swayed from each other, both stunned by the outburst. They were both hurting and had no idea how to end the madness. Claire wanted so much to be in his arms, but there were so many unanswered questions. And Jamie thought it would be as easy as saying I'm sorry.

He took a cautious step towards her, and for the first time in his life, Jamie bared his true feelings. Gone was the mask. The veil lifted, and his face was one of despair. "Sassenach please, ye're tearing my guts out."

Claire saw his pain, and she wanted to reach out, but before she could, Annalise showed up at the door, her eyes widening at the sight of Dougal's slumped body. "Is everything alright? I heard shouting." At the sight of her, Claire remembered why they were in this predicament. She felt her blood boil all over again.

Seizing control, Claire straightened her shoulder and stared directly at Annalise, "I was just telling your fiance that he should remind his uncle to keep his cock to himself." Claire looked back at Jamie. "I guess he had a boner to pick with me."

Then she walked off, leaving them to stare after her.

"Sassenach! Wait!"

She kept walking, Jamie's plaid still around her and she could smell his aftershave on the fabric. She didn't cry even though her heart was breaking. She kept on walking past a sea of faces aware Jamie was following. She didn't look back. She ignored the nods and glances. She kept walking. Then she bumped into Geillis.

"Claire, we'll take ye home, alright?" She nodded still stupefied from recent events. "Joe and Gail are outside getting the car, and I will get our coats. Will ye wait in the lobby for me?" Claire could only nod again. 

Then she kept on walking again, this time towards the lobby, but Jamie was getting nearer. She quickened her pace and was relieved when she saw Tom Christie. Claire went to him.

"Claire! Are ye alright? Ye don't look too good." He touched her elbow lightly, steering her aside.

"No, I don't feel right. Can you please accompany me outside...Joe is waiting for me there."

"Of course..." Tom put his arms around Claire and escorted her out of the hotel. Jamie could only stand and watch as they walked away.

..........

Jamie left the ball early and went to the cottage. It was very dark. He let himself in, but there was no sign of Claire. He went to the kitchen and saw the pile of morning dishes still unwashed. On the counter was a mug of half-drunk Earl Grey tea. It had Claire's lipstick mark on it. Jaime cleared, washed and dried the dishes. Then he went to the lounge and picked up the cushions from the floor and placed them on the couch and then made his way to the bathroom for a quick shower. In the bedroom, he lied on Claire's side of the bed and hoped that when he wakes up the following morning, everything that happened that night was just a nightmare.

[project-ohagi]

Hayato Yamagata x Reader - Soulmate AU {Haikyuu!!}

[Soulmate AU: Wherein you have the first words your soulmate ever speak to you, written on your wrist].

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm.

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

Although the day was long, the evening seemed longer - significantly so.

Volleyball practice had ended a while earlier, yet here he was, remaining in the building to run some errands. The dormitories weren't far, so it wasn't as if actually minded. Glancing down at his wrist, a solemn sigh passed his lips. Gentle fingers traced the inscription: the first words his soulmate would ever orate to him, the words fated to spark an inevitable romance, which would blossom and blossom. Despite currently being unfamiliar with his predestined partner, his heart soared at the very thought of them. He knew, instinctively, that no matter their appearance, to him, they would present the most beautiful divinity.

Their aura would be unmatched in compassion towards himself and others - this was Hayato's sole expectation. Besides that, he couldn't care less. His heart thundered with the determination to shower them the utmost love and affection. He would treat them as a god, a goddess, a mixture of the two, or some genderless celestial. Whatever their manifestation, he would love them, both passionately and unconditionally.

However, the phrase engraved into his wrist was quite unsettling.

'No, please don't touch that!'

Without context, it sent insuppressible shivers all the way down his spine. Obviously, worry consumed him - it always did. He couldn't comprehend the truth of the message. Yet...an ache tugged so violently at his heartstrings. Those words bled pain, desperation. If they, his future, needed help in any way, then with his fiercest conviction, he wished to bestow it upon them. He wanted to find them, to cradle their frame tightly, close to his chest, so that his raging heartbeat could echo in their ears, acting as the proof of his love. He desired nothing more than this, and to witness the majesty of their smile. It made him giddy, like a young child arresting its parents' attention.

...Until his mind played back the phrase, droning on in miserable notes, as an amalgamation of all the world's depressing songs.

His yearning for the information of what agonised you so greatly was causing slight mishaps in his daily life. You had yet to physically enter the scrapbook of his life, but he could almost feel your energy...fragments of your pain. It was suffocating, sometimes. But still, he didn't completely understand. Meeting you, at this point, was absolutely imperative; he figured that it could potentially be the difference between life and death. Another abysmal thought began to plague his already-throbbing mind - what could you be referring to? What would cause such wretched words to tumble from your lips, and would they be in retaliation to a forceful act on his end? He really hoped that wasn't so. If he traumatised you to the extent at which your very vocals trembled, then, soulmate or no, surely your heart wouldn't ever allow itself to love him.

That imagining was a cursed reel, and he vowed never to replay it. Besides, there couldn't have been any point to worrying so tirelessly, when you were still yet-to-be-discovered. Hayato could hazard a guess that, at the least, you weren't in his class, and, perhaps some mystical connection might have compelled you towards each other, if you ever passed in the halls. Therefore, he decided that either you simply didn't occupy a space in the third year, or you didn't attend Shiratorizawa, period.

Although his brain favoured the latter, his heart pounded for the former, since it would obviously make finding you so much easier. Hayato had been raised to place faith in his gut instinct, and right now, his gut seemed to produce two words: foreign and danger. He was unsure whether this meant that you were of a different lineage, or that you attended another school, and consequently would be alien to him.

But, danger...

...There was no doubt - you were in a precarious situation, or on the losing side of a violent, bloody battle. He prayed for your eternal safety, day in and day out. You would forever arrest his unconditional support, no matter the circumstance.

Shaking off these depressing pictures was difficult, but necessary, because torturing himself over them during your omission from his life, would only affect his health and grades on a greater scale. Hayato trudged around the building, finding the papers and other things he needed, and prepared to head back to his dormitory. So much of his mental energy had been wiped out already, and he was exhausted. Lying down on his lovely, soft bed sounded blissful.

Instead, mere moments after falling, he registered that what he was kneeling atop wasn't a bed, but in fact...a girl?

Embarrassment permeated his very core. He never achieved much with women, mainly due to his sharp glares (yes, the unintentional ones - perhaps he had the masculine equivalent of resting bitch face), but this was just...oh my lord, why? He refrained from punching himself, only since terror had gripped your features, and he didn't wish to disturb you any further. He scrambled to his feet, apologising profusely, and reaching out a hand, to help you up. Those almost-feral, chocolate eyes ghosted over you, and in an instant, he was transfixed. You adorned the regular, Shiratorizawa uniform, but it appeared to be slightly larger than you needed. Your sleeves were very long, he noted, and he couldn't see your wrists at all. Luscious, (h/c) locks swept across your face, partially shielding your (e/c) orbs from view.

"Eh...are you alright? Can you stand?" His genuine concern captivated you, but you were panicked, tears welling up amongst the glittering constellations.

When you failed to respond, he started rubbing his neck, in an effort to soothe his nerves. This was a situation unlike any other (he was often a lot more careful of his surroundings), but his aid seemed to offend you, for some reason, so what could he actually do? The waterfall, which dripped from your eyes, was something he desired to wipe away. He detested this - watching you suffer in relative silence. Why weren't you letting him help? Couldn't you speak? Was something about his actions, his words, so wrong? After a minute or two of deliberation, he decided to perch himself on the floor, in front of you.

"Do you need somebody to talk to? Should I go and find a teacher?"

The words remained lodged in your throat, slowly suffocating you.

You squirmed uncomfortably, every movement revealing slightly more skin, although you didn't appear to notice. Hayato's eyes travelled to your wrists, now exposed, and his blood ran cold. His compassionate nature kicked into overdrive, and he immediately locked on to your arm. Meek sounds of discomfort rolled off your tongue, as the knife-inflicted wounds seared with pain. He was speechless, left gawking at your arms, specifically the one he had grabbed. Despite his concern, he proceeded to squeeze your wrist (albeit, absentmindedly - he was far too focused on the actual cuts). His fingers moved closer to them, as his mind scrambled desperately for any trace of logic.

Fear widened your eyes, causing you to whisper-yell, "No, please don't touch that!"

Hayato's mind ceased its constant rotations.

His eyes graced your own, partly in astonishment, partly in worry. He remembered all his previous musings with great sobriety - he was right to be concerned for your safety. Although, it hadn't ever truly crossed his thoughts, that you could have been your own arch-nemesis. That was just...it was awful, the fact that you felt such hopelessness, to rely upon a knife to release the agony. The deadly war in which you were engaged...it was against yourself, and that knowledge hurt immensely. He wished to place gentle kisses along all those beautiful, yet disheartening battle scars.

They were beautiful, he affirmed, because they were a part of you. They had been carved on to your flesh, and in spite of their secrecy, you owned them. With enough time and care, they could be removed, but they were a testament to your survival. You had lived, through everything which tried to kill you, and that made you strong - stronger than him, by far.

With determination, he maintained the eye-contact.

"You can talk to me, about anything. I'm not going to judge you. Everyone feels pain - people just cope differently."

"You - You're not disgusted? Scared?" Your voice quivered, emotions spilling to the surface.

"No, of course not. Those scars are yours, and you're beautiful. I'm not scared of them - I love them, like I love you."

This boy, he was honestly too sweet. Someone of your position, your weak constitution, didn't deserve he who behaved so admirably. He possessed a strength with which you could never compete. He was everything you had ever wished for in life. But...you couldn't keep him, and he couldn't keep you.

Not in this lifetime.

Before the illusion vanished, before it was too late and regret began to fester, you smiled, as brightly as possible. You wanted to leave him with something positive, if only for a mere second. Hayato mirrored your expression, ears burning crimson with the inclusion of your little "I love you too.". A question danced on the tip of his tongue, but he was never allowed to pose it.

"Hey, Hayato! What're you doing over here?" Said male turned, meeting the perplexed gaze of a certain, infamous red-head.

"Tendou?" He muttered, equally as confused. "I'm helping someone I bumped into."

A strange look came upon the boy's face.

"Well, did she run away before I got here? I didn't see anyone!"

The chocolate-orbed one paused, asking, "No...she's right her-"

Although, when he tried to glimpse your divinity once more, he found nothing but an empty spot. There was no indication that you had ever been in the general area, but he hadn't noticed you leave. Tendou surely would have seen you...?

Was madness consuming him?

[rebornghostgirl]

Ok for drabble, please!

((Thanks for the ask… I want to do something different for this drabble, so I'm going to start on something new. This is very experimental, so my writing may be off.))

Phaedrus of a being: Shapeshifter or Reincarnate

    It wasn't often that it got the chance to be up here in space, nor did it get to pick where it would go next. Usually, it would just be able to phase through the nearest open rift and assume its new identity there as it went along the cosmos, but this time something new was happening.

The giant being laid down on a giant nebula and stretched it's arms. It took a moment to enjoy itself in its personal space, a chance to relax wasn't very available at first. With one leg across another, it began to lazily swipe through different planets with it's finger, as if it was shopping for a new home. It'd set aside ones that seem probable, and moved on with ones that didn't seem like fun. 

The being had a chubby feminine build and had gray skin made of stardust, ice, and metals; it's hair glowing from some kind of nuclear fission had strands of every color in existence. Stars made constellations all over its body and beautiful ice swirls covered it's legs and arms. Light spectrums shimmered in its eyes.

The being did not know what to make of itself other than that it can travel through these worlds as one of the many living creatures on it. It has found countless planets with countless beings to choose from, but for some reason, it liked to choose from earth. 

Earth was beautiful as it was variable, with many different directions it can evolve into. 

The being had seen anthropomorphic animals, humans with blue skin, and sometimes it saw humans and creatures of the fictional nature able to exist in its own multiverse, and so many more. 

The being has the ability to settle on a world and eventually if enough time and attachment to the world decreases, it can move on leaving the body of what it became to continue living there. It has done so to many worlds and made many bodies. 

It had taken a liking to multiverses where any and all fictional characters exist and live together in harmony. The being always found it funny where characters are fully aware of their own existence or lack thereof. It made the being feel better about its own feelings, because it can travel and fragment itself through so many worlds, it felt like it had a sense of existence, then again no sense of existence or being 'alive' at all. 

Before it decided to make a new body it looked at the countless worlds it has already inhabited. It could see their fragments living within each world, some worlds having multiple fragments. 

The ghost twins, Athena and Ares, is one. Santerprant and her family is another. Velocity Skyrusher, the cat, and her cog partner Rowan. These few are the being's favorite, however, with countless more bodies available. 

These bodies, all made originally, by this being able to live in their respective universes, sometimes reusing or reimagining the same characters in different universes. 

Sometimes the being gets hurt, emotionally or physically, most of the time by those it thought was trustworthy. But it has learned to look past the badness and the pain to see the world as it is, beautiful in all its faults. It has no concept of understanding human nature and it's something that it attempts to do so as it inhabits each and every fragment. 

It has attempted to create its own world, one where it deems as perfect, with beauty and goodness everywhere. Unfortunately, the being has failed miserably many times, before realizing that you must have chaos and negativity to finish your world. When it realized that things must be at a balance it managed to create its first world. It made it about… 9 years ago. It was a world of fairies and U.N.I.Q.U.E  teddy bears. It saw it and thought it was good, then rested.

As the years rolled on, the worlds have thankfully become more and more detailed and imaginative. But always remember, dear reader, that you can do it too, but it takes practice. The being has finally recognized that creativity takes as much practice as anything else in its life. It's lost count of how many worlds it has created by now, but it speculated to be in the hundreds. 

Back to the matter at hand, it was time for the being to make a new fragment. When it first recognized its existence and sense of being alive, it felt almost powerless, unable to control where it flew, but with practice it was now confident of its abilities. It looked down on the worlds and universes for inspiration. 

Boring, boring, boring… all the worlds began to look the same, maybe it was better off making a new world with its own wonders to find. But wait… who is… that?

Gazing off into a specific world where all Fictional characters exist. It, now identifying as a she, saw a man she thought was handsome. He has shoulder length gray hair, his eyes blue as the ocean with a sliver of green as if she was staring into an aerial photo of a lush tropical island. He was tall, refined, a bit eccentric, and most of all very kind. He was a bit older, but it just made his features more rugged and defined. It was like looking at a fine bottle of aged wine. 

His voice was deep and had a charismatic rasp to it that made her adore every word he spoke. 

Now she had to know his name, she began to shrink and fly close to the world, her hair flowing behind her spread out like two beautiful wings, circling the planet and its satellites to hear all the data she could about this world. The closer she got the more her heart soared, and the more her hair disintegrated. 

She knew this feeling, it was romantic attraction, a curious feeling, often making her make rash and stupid decisions in an effort to love her new target. 

Like this stupid and rash decision, she was flying too close to the planet's atmosphere and began to lose her 'wings' as her hair disintegrated into icy dust. With the loss of her ethereal hair, she began to take a new form. This form would be human in nature, and will be her to go to form of an african american pangendered girl. Plus sized, natural black coily/kinky hair, brown eyes, a hankering for knowledge. 

For you had your home in the stars… 

You had wings that soared among the heavens…

But you saw the earthly world in its beauty…

So you flew down to see it…

Not realizing the corruption and evil in it…

Such earthly filth melted your wings…

Your memory faded and scrambled, forgetting the home you once possessed...

10,000 years your soul shall wander…

If you'd seen the most, a philosopher you shall be…

You Will return someday…

Through philosophy, a good life, and love…

Will you go back to your home in the stars?

The goddess falling down not caring about herself or anyone. She must make this man happy, must enjoy the wonderful man this world has to offer. It's destiny, fate that she and he would find each other. She wants to give him so much that she can offer. Love is unconditional, you can give anyone love, just like her father from another world. 

She began thinking of her ghostly father and his love for his partner, his name was Beauregard she thinks, she couldn't remember the name of the partner, or was it partners? 

Her memory of her godhood and previous fragments were fading. She does have memories of being a scientist in this world. Was it? Was she forcing herself into this world, making a place for herself to be here? 

Time felt like it was bending around her, as if it was accepting her into this world. As flesh and blood enveloped her body she felt it's earthly corruption fill her thoughts and mind. But it wasn't like any other thoughts of worldly desire. It was love… the thought of being with this man she saw. Being his partner, sharing love between each other. Flesh allows her to hug him. Flesh allows her to be with him and not just admire him.

Or maybe Plato meant it in a different way? You must find the stars and heavens on earth with love. To navigate the mysteries of life and find your heavenly home on earth with love. Be it with a partner or with friends. 

Or better yet to fall in love with a friend. As she finished her thoughts, the godhood and all memory of it leaving her body, she fell with a loud thud next to the man. 

Somehow unharmed, she still felt a type of pain and groaned a bit. The pain of being human begins now, she thought. The man gasped and reached down to help her up. 

"Are you ok, ma'am?" He choked. 

"Yes! Especially since you checked on me?" She said getting up. 

"That was a nasty fall, ma'am. Are you sure you're ok?" 

She wobbled back on her feet. "Y-yes…"

"Umm… What's your name?" He asked. 

"My name is…" she scratched her head. "I don't remember…" 

He gulped. "Oh no, You must've hit your head so hard you have amnesia now…" 

"No it's not that… I don't have much of a place in this world." She said. 

"Ma'am… Allow me to call an ambulance…" he said gently grabbing her hand. 

She smiled. "No no… I just need to go home." 

"B-but, If you forgot your name, then how can you know where your home is?" He sputtered. 

"I don't know. What if I never had a home, in the first place? I know where I work… maybe that'll job more of my new identity." She shrugged. She felt that she did this before many times. It was like second nature to her now. 

"Uh… all right, then. Maybe… you worded your sentences very strangely. I'll go, but if you can't remember, you'll have to let me call an ambulance." He said with a frown. 

"Oh you noticed that… I'm impressed. But please… tell your name?" She asked. 

"My name is Avery Richman… I came to live here in Japan from the goldstock Republic…" he said. 

"Avery… Avery… such a lovely name… I am… I am… Athena… yeah that's my name. I'm a scientist here in Japan to study monsters and spirits. Ghost Biology is new nowadays… H-here's my keycard to my job." She pulled out a keycard from her pockets. 

Avery blinked. "Well that was fast… still I feel I should take you to the hospital anyway." 

"Only if You let me take you out for dinner… Must thank my hero for helping me." She smirked. 

Avery frowned a bit but shrugged and returned the smirk. "You're strange, but polite. I'll humor you…"

As they walked away Athena felt like she nailed it. The romantic feelings of friendship bubbling in her heart. Avery was special, not everyone gets this feeling. Not even her closest friends got this. She looked up in the twilight sky and felt as if she was close to the stars once more again. 

A voice rang out in her head. "Welcome to the living dead girl universe… Your name is Athena and this is your Significant other, now. I don't make the rules." 

She blinked, but kept walking. "Living dead girl… but I'm alive." She thought. 

The voice rang out again. "Not for long…"

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Appointments

Link to song: Appointments by Julien Baker

Synopsis: Feyre makes good on her promise to Rhys, and Rhys makes good on his promise to Feyre.

TW: Brief and non-graphic mention of self-harm, suicide and domestic abuse.

Ao3 link

Chapter 16: Appointments

“How are you feeling today, Feyre?”

How was I feeling? I didn’t know. My body felt like TV static with the volume on low. Crackling, bustling, full of nervous energy, but dim. Quiet. How was I supposed to explain that to him without sounding like a true basket case?

He sat in the chaise across from me. It was grey, muted, soft. Everything in his office was. There were great, wide panoramic windows, and outside rain pattered softly against the windows. Another week of rain in Prythian, as though it was just for me.

The couch beneath me was soft, comfortable. I sank into it when I’d sat down minutes ago and settled in after sitting in the waiting room. When I’d first walked into the clinic, there were others in the chairs. A older man, probably in his forties, was thumbing a magazine, but not looking at it. Just staring at the walls around him, flicking through the magazine, as though his fingers were soaking in the articles through his skin. A woman about my age listening to music on her phone, eyes closed, head leaned back on the wall. I’d only stared at my feet as the sound of the secretary typing away on her computer filled the empty space, paperwork clutched in my fingers. I’d filled them out on Saturday, and Rhys had them scanned and emailed that day, but they needed more paper copies handed from me in person.

“Miss Archeron?” The secretary had called out. I’d pushed up from my seat and shuffled over to the counter, presenting her with the five sheets I’d meticulously filled out. They were thorough, extremely thorough—so much so that when I’d filled them out at Rhys’s kitchen counter, I was clenching my teeth, ticking off the boxes that applied.

Suicidality:

Ideation: No-Active-Passive

Plan: No-Yes (describe): Jump

Attempts: No-Yes-More than one

Date of last attempt: March 27th

Lethality of attempt(s): Low-Moderate-High

Thankfully, Rhys had left me alone that night leaning over the kitchen island, pen tapping against the cold marble. Every question was like another stab in the gut.

Self-Harm Behaviour:

Current: No-Yes (describe): Cutting

Past: No-Yes (describe): Cutting, two years ago

When it got to family history and prior or current relationships, I nearly tore up the papers right then and there and walked out of the townhouse. Instead, I scribbled down my answers as concisely and quickly as possible to not feel the sting of the words.

In my hands, handing over the papers, it felt like I was yet again giving pieces of myself over, letting them cut open my brain and take a peak of the scrambled, decayed remains inside.

The secretary, a kind-smiled woman in her early thirties, pointed to a blue door where the gold plaque read Dr. Angèl Suriel, PhD. I’d knocked softly on the door, heard a muffled, “Come in!” From the other side. The first thing that hit me when I opened the door was the faint smell of fried chicken.

“Sorry,” he’d said, hunched over his desk further in the back of the room, next to the windows on the back wall. There’d been a rustling of a food takeout bag before he’d shoved the top drawer of his desk closed. “Just got some lunch quickly.”

He opened a window, and lit a candle on his desk next to his jar of identical pencils, then turned to face me. Angèl Suriel was an older man, tall and thin with darker skin. His accent was slightly lilted, definitely Spanish judging by his first name. He’d smiled warmly when he faced me and extended his hand, which he’d brushed on his tan trousers moments before.

“Angèl Suriel,” he'd presented himself, and I’d shaken his hand weakly. “But call me Suriel. No doctor formalities, please.” He’d smiled. “You must be Feyre.”

I nodded, eyes diverting from his. They were brilliant blue, so pale, contrasting against his tanner skin.

Staring at him now, sitting five feet across from me on his chaise with a file in his lap, I wondered how the hell Rhys had found this guy. Why he’d needed to find him, in the first place.

How was I feeling? How was I feeling?

My tongue felt swollen, limp and utterly useless in my mouth. I resorted to staring past him, over his shoulder, to the buildings in the background. They were like standing giants across the city, watching over, holding thousands of people with energy and moment and life, but so solemn and serious in appearance.

“Feyre?” He repeated.

I blinked. “How about you look in that file of yours and tell me how I’m feeling, Suriel.”

“Oh no, that’s not how this works,” he grinned. “It seems as though you’ve watched too much TV, miss Archeron. I’m not going to sit here and waste my time if you’re going to be resistant or unwilling to share. I’m only going to say this once, so listen to me.”

My heart pounded wildly in my chest as those crystal eyes met mine, and he leaned forward slightly in his seat.

“There are thousands of people in this city who suffer with the very same feelings and behaviours that you demonstrate. There are hundreds of people on my waiting list, right now, waiting for a call that they can finally see me and get the help they need. I work twelve hours a day seeing people, filling in charts, coordinating with hospitals and answering ER calls at three in the morning. I’m doing this as a favour for Rhys, and I’m doing this because I want to help you. It’s only going to work if you do your part as well. So if you’re here to waste my time, feel free to leave so I can get back to my fried chicken.”

I sat there shocked. My mouth was open in surprise, and all I could do was blurt, “I don’t know how I feel.”

Satisfied that I’d given him an answer, he resumed his position, one leg crossed across the other to balance the papers in his lap. “Okay,” he said, “how about we try this. On a scale of one to ten, one being your complete worst, and ten being your complete best, where do you think you fall?”

It took a few seconds to mull over before I murmured, “Three, I think.”

He nodded and wrote something done. “And Friday night? What number did you feel then?”

That one didn’t take as long. “Zero.”

“Zero,” he repeated. “You just broke my scale.”

Despite myself, I snorted.

“Tell me about what happened.”

Another question that settled within me like a stone sinking into water. I felt like I was holding it in the palm of my hands, turning it over slowly, examining its features, dips and curves, not knowing where to begin, or what to say.

“I don’t know what happened.” That was true. The details were so hazy. The timeline was broken in my head, only giving me fragments and pieces of those moments on the ledge.

In his lap, Suriel flipped over a paper and murmured, “It says here you were going to jump. Where were you?”

At the word jump, I flinched. Clutching my kneecaps, I blew out a shaky breath, still staring just past Suriel’s shoulder, never quite in his eyes. “At my friend Cassian’s apartment. Fifty storeys up.” I picked at the skin on my thumb, not knowing what to do with my hands.

“You went to a friend’s house? To carry out your plan?”

“I was staying at his place.”

“For how long?”

“I was there for about a week and a half.”

“Where did you live now?”

“With Rhys in his townhouse.”

“And before that?”

I wasn’t ready to go there yet. “My apartment.”

But Suriel watched me carefully, like he knew my answer was missing something.

I murmured, “With my ex-fiancee.”

His pen scribbled against the paper once more, and this time when he looked back up at me, he said, “You were at this friend’s apartment. Alone?”

I nodded. “He was still at work.”

“So,” he said, then paused for a bit, wondering how to phrase his next question, “do you remember the events, or maybe the emotions or thoughts that lead up to the execution of your plan?”

It was like I was back up on that building with Rhys’s voice echoing in my ears. I could practically feel the rain falling on my shoulders, my hair, my hands.

When Suriel pushed a Kleenex box on the small table between us, I realized it was because I was crying. The tear drops collected in my open palms like some sick offering to the gods of pain.

“Why am I doing this?” I whispered sinisterly, bitterness in my voice, my eyes as I narrowed them at Suriel, wanting to storm out of this fucking office and never look back. Rhys was wrong. He was a destructive, conniving asshole. “What the fuck is the point of this?

Suriel, not missing a beat, leaned forward as I did, and spoke in that low commanding voice of his he’d wielded only minutes ago. “The point of therapy, Feyre, is for you to get as close as possible to the ideal life you imagine and want for yourself. To solve the problems you face, to help hone your skills and speak your mind. Many of my clients walk into this office just like you, sometimes in worse shape, clinging to the notion that this is the enemy. That I am the enemy. But the only enemy right now in this room is you, you and your mind.”

I couldn’t stop myself from crying harder.

“I am not here to judge you. I am not here to pick apart your brains, but I need to know what the problem is, where to start, and where we can go from there. People walk into this office miserable and they leave with hope.”

Even the rain paused outside when I said, “I was kneeling in the entrance of the apartment. Crying.”

My mind went back to me curled into myself on the hardwood floor, when I’d shut out the world completely in my own little bubble of agony.

“I got up, ran to the bathroom, and tried to find pills, blades, anything, but the shelves were empty. Cassian must’ve been worried because he’d basically childproofed the entire damned place. But one thing he couldn’t take away from me was the fact he’d bought an apartment on the fiftieth floor.”

“And before that? Before you went out on the balcony? Why were you crying?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Words I hadn’t spoken to anyone, not a soul. Words I didn’t think I could even speak.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

I clenched my eyes closed, only able to see his twisted snarl of fury when his hands had closed around my throat. When my chest had slammed into his desk. When his fists slammed into my ribs.

“Feyre, take a deep breath.”

Slowly, trembling, I forced a breath into my lungs. I choked it out in a sob.

“Good. Another one.”

This time it came a little easier. On the exhale of my third breath, I said, “My ex-fiancee was there.”

“Did you speak to him?”

I shook my head. “I heard him through the door. He’d found me with a tracker on my phone.”

“Why aren’t you together anymore?”

I thought of the elevator, of me crawling on my hands and knees, nails cracking as I tried to resist him dragging me across the carpet of the executive floor.

“Because he locked me up,” I wheezed. “He wasn’t my partner. He was my captor.”

There was an eerie silence, only broken by the soft sounds of my quiet sobs. Suriel’s eyes found mine, and when I looked up to him, I said, “He was my fiancee. And I loved him. I love him.”

“But,” Suriel sighed, “he abused you.”

“No,” I contradicted weakly, “not necessarily.”

“Was he ever physically violent with you? Did he ever intentionally hurt you, has he ever tried to manipulate you or repress you?”

Silence. And Suriel had his answer. As I reached for a tissue, Suriel wrote some more notes in his papers. He looked over his shoulder to the city scape, then turned those eyes to mine and wondered, “Have you talked to your friends since everything happened?”

I shook my head. “Only Rhys. He may have said something to them, but I’m not sure.”

“Okay. It says here you don’t have a job right now. Are you looking?”

I shrugged with one shoulder. “A little. Rhys offered me something short-term.”

Suriel said, “That’s good. I want you working on something right now, Feyre. Even if it’s from home, if it’s a skill or a hobby or a job, you need something right now to keep you distracted. I don’t know enough about your situation right now to give you more specific goals or coping mechanisms, but I’ve found the best thing for clients in your position is just to keep their mind focused on something else. Being alone with only your thoughts when they’re so toxic can lead you down the wrong roads.”

I nodded, hands pursed in my lap.

“Try to see what Rhys can do with that job, try to talk with some friends. Something light. You don’t need to tell them about what you’re going through if you’re not comfortable because you don’t owe anyone an explanation. So you know your homework?”

“Get a job. Talk to friends.”

He snorted. “Distract yourself, Feyre. With good things. Light things. Even if it’s a movie with Rhys or cooking dinner. And try to stay away from alcohol and substances.”

“Distraction.” I repeated.

“Distraction.” He confirmed, a light grin on his face. “And I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.”

I wiped my nose once more than stood, tissue clenched in my fingers. “Same time next week?” I wondered, heading towards the door.

Suriel smiled then said, “Sounds good to me. Thank you very much for today, Feyre. You’re doing extremely well so far.”

“Well, hopefully therapy is the one thing I won’t fuck up.”

He smiled, more of a smug, cheeky smile. I opened the door and it closed softly behind me, but not before hearing his drawer being pulled open, and the sound of that takeout bag rustling around.

***

The car door shut beside me, and Rhys turned on the ignition.

“How was it?”

The streets passed by, full of people, full of energy. “Were you there in the parking lot the whole time?”

He shrugged as he made a left turn, going the opposite way of home. I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t you have better things to do? A company to manage?”

“My office is very flexible. Phone calls can be made from anywhere, including the comforts of my car.”

“You shouldn’t be sacrificing your work to take care of me.”

Rhys eyed me sideways. “Taking care of you is not a sacrifice. It’s as essential as any hour of tediousness in that stupid building.”

I sighed, my arms crossing across my chest. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere. How was the session? Do you like him? If not, we’ll find somebody else.”

The rain beat furiously against the windshield. Rhys increased the speed of his wipers. I said, “It was fine.”

“Fine.” It was more of an assertion than a question.

“He’s strange, but he’s good.” I glanced at him sidelong, and that calm concentration lining his features. “How did you find him?”

He shrugged. “Suriel was a very difficult man to track down. There’re many psychologists in Prythian, but not many that take on…these kinds of cases.”

“Which kinds?”

He looked at me then, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Suicidal ones.”

My next question was already on my lips, but a call came through, and Rhys touched the bluetooth piece in his left ear. “Yes Morrigan?”

I could hear her shrill voice distantly yelling at him to never call her that again. Rhys and her spoke of something for a few minutes, names and things I didn’t understand and didn’t care enough to try and decode. Finally, he said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” The call ended, and he pulled the piece out of his ear, discarding it in the cupholder. I looked out the window, curious as to where we were.

“Where are we going?”

Rhys said, “To the office. I have to pick up some things.”

My heart beat nervously. I knew that the circle would be in the office, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see them yet. But I remembered Suriel’s homework for me and sighed, knowing that it was best if I did have some sort of human contact. “Can I come?”

His smile was wicked and salacious. “But of course, darling. Let me take you into devil’s lair.”

***

Night Industries was nothing like Spring Corporations.

Everything, from the lobby to the reception to the workers was much more heavy duty. Sleek. Dripping with grace and elegance in a dark, ominous way. Black marble greeted us upon our entry where six security guards stood at their posts. Each nodded to Rhysand, who in turn greeted them all by name with a stern nod of his head. Rhys didn’t need to say anything as he marched past the reception desk towards the elevators. I went to reach for the button, but he shook his head.

“Executive floor is a little more protected than that.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“We do things a little different here than Spring.”

At that, he lead me down another corridor to the left and down to flights of stairs. I was about to ask where the hell he was taking me when we entered another lounge, with a different secretary, who instantly greeted us with a smile on her face. This place was darker, a dingy unsuspecting hallway that I wouldn’t have considered if ever I were to break in. I guess Rhys expected such a thing and acted accordingly.

“Good morning Nuala,” Rhys smiled as he laid his finger on the scanner presented to him by the dark haired woman. She didn’t say a word to him, only smiled at both of us as the tablet turned green and the door to what looked like a janitorial elevator opened. It reeked of metal and rust as we entered the wide space. On the interior, it was padded with black velvet and golden lining. Rhys pressed the button for the ninetieth floor, and we were going up.

“Your clients don’t find this a little sketchy when they visit?”

Rhys snorted. “My clients never cross the threshold of my real office.”

Another raise of my brows. He only said, “You can never be too careful, Feyre darling.”

We were silent the rest of the way up. Once the elevator doors opened once more, the space that greeted us was nothing like the beat-up receptionist’s office downstairs.

Everything was dark, but in a different way. Grey walls. Dark stained floors with a silver carpet leading down the main artery of the hallway. On each side were doors, definitely offices or file rooms hiding behind them. It was like an impenetrable fortress on all four sides. At the end of the corridor lay a set of black double doors with silver glinting handles. Lights shone at the bottom of each wall, lighting up the floors, leading your way to them. I only stood in shock at the stark differences between Spring and Night, the luxury and elegance that seemed oozing power and control here rather than tacky expensiveness in that ivory tower.

Before the doors, to the right hand side stood an empty office chair behind a black desk. An apple computer was there, unused, unoccupied, waiting for somebody to sit down.

“Who works there?”

“No one,” Rhys replied, as he laid his palm on his door handle. He waited a moment before a whir and a click sounded, then winked at me. “Only opens with my fingerprints on the door handle.”

How that worked, I had no clue. But once the doors opened, I swallowed hard at the scene that greeted me.

If… if his office was supposed to look grand, it was nothing compared to Rhys’s.

The walls were twenty feet high, and along the entire back wall stood windows reaching all the way from floor to ceiling. The light, despite the raining day, was bright and inviting, speckled with drops of precipitation outside. On the left side of the room lay an area for comfort, white leather couches and seats, enough for all the damn employees in this place to sit. A low grey marble table sat between the seats in the middle of the circle, currently obscured with documents and files piled up haphazardly. Stretched out across it though, was a map—a map of Prythian, marked up by different colour pens, from the Sidra to the major companies of Prythian and their headquarters. The colours made no distinct pattern I could decipher, but the entire thing seemed meticulously examined.

On the ceiling, light lined the space in strips, the source unseen beneath the black beams forming squares, each equally spaced apart. On the side wall were different alcoves, within one I could see acting as a coffee bar with a mini fridge beneath it. The others were wider, also lined with light—but barren.

“I’m waiting for the right art piece to put there.” He explained. “Nothing has quite tickled my fancy yet.”

I could paint for you, I thought, but then was disgusted by the notion of picking up a paint brush.

And to the left of the space was finally his desk. Nearly the length of the wall—the back of which was filled with books—and also dark to match his limited palette. Three screen monitors sat atop of it, and other files were strewn around, as though he’d left his office in a hurry. He strode over to it once he saw my shock had subsided it, and sat in his black leather chair with a sigh.

“Take a seat, Feyre. Won’t be too long.”

I sat in the grey leather chair across from him, still soaking in the room. It was gorgeous. Bigger than any apartment my sisters, father and I used to live in.

He fiddled around on his cellphone for a bit while I was still gazing across the city skyline, and minutes later came a knock at the door. Rhys checked the monitor, then pressed a button on his keyboard. The door opened, and in sauntered Mor.

“Seriously, I could’ve just emailed them to you. I don’t know why you’ve got to waste so much gas to drag your ass across the city for a stupid paper—” only she stopped when she saw me. Mor, beautiful as ever, wore a white pantsuit and her hair up in a high sleek ponytail to show off her gold hoop earrings. Her face broke into a smile, her red lipstick beaming, when she saw me.

“Feyre! He finally showed you around. What do you think? Don’t give him any credit for this place, I designed this thing from the ground up.”

“You’re a dirty liar, Morrigan. This place was built before you were born.”

“Don’t call me that again, Rhys, lest you want me to remove your favourite part. And you know full well that I was in charge of all the renovations, so look in the mirror next time you call someone a liar.”

Rhys rolled his eyes as Mor sauntered over and handed him the paper. His eyes scanned it for a few moments before they filled with dread. “Seriously?” He asked his cousin mournfully.

She only swallowed, eyes skirting over the words as well. “I’m sorry, Rhys.”

He sighed. “It’s fine. We’ll just add it to the rest of the chaos we have to deal with.”

As he opened one of his desk drawers and pulled out a file, Mor came to sit beside me. Her hand found mine and gave it a squeeze, her brown eyes warm and bright. “You’re looking great, Feyre.”

I could tell by the kindness in her voice that she was being genuine, and not Ianthe’s sappy fake shrill that I was used to. “Thanks, Mor.” My voice was scratchy and low.

She turned her head to Rhys, who was collecting other papers from his desk to cram into the manila folder. “Have you talked to her about the position yet? It’d be nice to have someone new around the—”

One look from him and she stopped mid-conversation, then turned to me. “I picked up another set of clothes for you, by the way. After your comments from last time I went for more…comfort. Still very stylish, though, so not to worry.”

“Thanks. I didn’t really think the leather jacket look suited me.”

Mor laughed at my dryness, and Rhys only rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mor.” A clear dismissal, but I only thought of what Suriel had given me for homework as Mor lifted from her seat and made her way to the door.

“Wait,” I said, looking into Mor’s soft eyes, who were filled with hope and excitement just at the sound of my voice. My heart swelled with the non-verbal support she held for me. “Why don’t you all come over tonight? For dinner?”

“Feyre, darling, please, that’s just asking for it.”

“Wait, no! That’s perfect! I’ll make cookies, and we can bring popcorn and snacks and oh, oh!” Mor jumped up and down excitedly, looking to Rhys with her eyes full of hope. “We can have a game night!”

“Dear Gods, Mor,” Rhys folded his hand into a steeple and closed his eyes, his features lined with misery. “Are you trying to scare her away?”

“Oh, you’re just old and cranky. Make yourself another coffee, for fuck’s sake. Have a little fun, Rhys. We’ll be there at seven!”

The door closed, and I could only work on trying to bite back my smile as I turned to face Rhys.

“You seriously don’t know what you’ve started, Feyre.”

“I’m just doing what Suriel suggested, Rhys,” I said sweetly. “Social interaction is good for the disturbed mind.”

He only chuckled and shook his head, amused. Then he stood, hands in the dark trousers he’d donned today. No suit—he’d worked from home most of the morning before my appointment. The black long-sleeve sweater he wore stretched over his muscles that rippled beneath as he faced the skyline below us.

“I did come here for that paper, but I guess while I’m at it I should make good on my promise to you.”

Pushing up from my chair, I followed behind him quietly, arms crossed over my chest. “Promise?”

“Yes. I said I’d have a job for you. And I do.” He was quiet for a few moments, the stars in his eyes glowing as he gazed at the cars below. “I need all the people I can get right now.”

“Why?” I breathed. The response, whatever it was, made my heart beat furiously in my chest.

“Because war is coming, Feyre.”