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mirimiramiri · 3 months

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A story about a king and his koi

Happy belated Tanabata everyone!

Here is a picture I did about half a year ago. I always thought it stayed behind its potential, so it got a recent make-over.

Hitomi invited Van to spend this years celebrations with him.

Now a snapshot from my work-in-progress story „Star-crossed lovers“ for which I’ll include the link at the bottom.

******************* The colors of tanabata danced around them, mingling with cheerful sounds and delicious smells to a true ode to life. It was overwhelming, magical, wonderful, and if he had not had his faithful companion by his side, the visitor from a distant star could easily have lost himself in the foreign spectacle.

Then, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity in this strange strange world, Van saw something that reminded him of home. People had kept a respectful distance around one of the attractions. And with good reason, for it was dangerous here. Lined up side by side were seven structures made of sturdy straw, each the size of a wagon wheel. A circular cardboard disc was attached to each one. Concentric circles were drawn around a black dot in the center. At that moment, an arrow hit one of the targets with a hiss. The spectators applauded politely, even though the archer was standing quite close. Nevertheless, the performance was not to be scoffed at, for it was a young boy who was now visibly proud to receive a yellow stuffed mouse as a prize. The cuddly toy was almost as huge as the boy himself and was grinning a happy, slightly psychotic smile. The little winner ran back to a woman and a man who proudly patted their offspring on the head. "Do they hunt with bows and arrows here too?" Van wondered curiously and walked over to the stall. An elderly gentleman with a round face like a pancake and dressed in a shimmering robe was picking the arrow out of the straw target.

"Ah. That was a long time ago," Hitomi replied. "Hardly anyone goes hunting anymore, let alone with a bow and arrow." "With what then?" "Uh, with modern weapons," Hitomi pressed. That wasn't her specialty and certainly not a topic she liked to talk about. She could google it quickly, but she didn't feel like it at the moment. "Nevertheless, the tradition of archery is kept alive here. More as an art and for entertainment than out of necessity." Van nodded. "To preserve the ancient knowledge." "That's right!" Hitomi smiled in relief. The man in the extravagant garment scurried around, showing off the longbow in his hands, challenging people to test it. "I've never tried it, though…" Van finally turned back to her. "Did you know that archery is one of my rather sparsely sown talents?" He smiled mischievously, just to the left, as if to express a challenge. "Would you like to try your luck?" she guessed in surprise. Van raised his eyebrows. "Not my luck, my skill." She vaguely remembered him firing a single arrow at the dragon's eye with a crossbow embedded in his armor. Somehow, she had always assumed he would use something like that on the hunt for food. More precisely, she had deliberately never questioned how exactly he killed animals to gut and eat.

She had found it immensely creepy, back on their trip through the wilderness towards Freid, every time he and Merle had slain rabbits and snakes without batting an eyelid to later roast them over the campfire. Even though it was necessary and important for their survival, she preferred to look the other way. "Okay." She reached into her tiny bag and pulled out one of those colorful printed pieces of paper that served as currency here. "Just give this to the dazzling, loud man. I think he'll understand." He accepted the 1,000 yen without argument, reverently and with both hands, as if it were much much more. He even bowed slightly to acknowledge this huge sacrifice. They had already had enough discussions about whether it was appropriate for her to invite him to everything today and to fulfill his every wish, no matter how small. With the result that his resistance was finally broken and he surrendered to her hospitality. "Then show me what you can do. Conquer one of the stuffed Pikachu for me," she urged him. "I'll prove myself worthy of your trust and won't let you down," he promised, marching off confidently. The crowd magically made way for him, expressing something that was more than just politeness. As if frightened by his extraterrestrial presence, a few half-grown men stepped aside, though he didn’t even notice them.

"Ah. Would you like to try, young man?" the booth operator understood correctly when Van offered him the money with a polite bow. "How many shots? One? Or seven times?" "Sumimasen," he replied for lack of alternatives. The man looked surprised. He had mistaken the teenager with the shiny black hair for a countryman. But this stumbling pronunciation gave him away in an instance. How peculiar, he had Japanese features at first glance, anything but at second glance, and when you looked closer, it became increasingly unclear where he might have come from. Apparently, his family tree was rooted all over the world. Anyway, the youngster had enough money for a shot, wanted his fun, and was going to get it. "So, let's see what you've got," he cackled good-naturedly, handing the boy his bow and arrow. "You may choose any of the targets, but none of the spectators, please! Ganbatte!" "Arigato." Van mumbled the second of the words whose meaning and pronunciation Yukari had painstakingly taught him. Then he inspected the weapon in his hand. The arrowhead was rather blunt. No wonder, since it was only used for ceremonial purposes and not for killing. The bow was about the same size as Fanelia's. It was a bit worn, but fit well in his left hand and weighed little more than a fistful of feathers.

By now, a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the scene. At least two dozen pairs of eyes followed the boy in the dark red yukata as he examined the possible targets and finally strolled decisively to the right. He took aim at the farthest straw body, then stepped back a few feet. "Pretty brave," someone commented next to Hitomi, who was watching the spectacle as intently as everyone else. By now the arrow had a long distance to overcome before it would reach its goal. But Van seemed to be absolutely sure of himself. He stood with his legs apart, put the arrow in place, drew the bow in one quick movement, nestled the feathers against his cheek… and closed his eyes. Hitomi opened hers even wider. What was he doing?

"Oh!" shouted those nearby. "He's shooting blind!" "He really wants to know!" someone sneered, and a group laughed. As usual, Van didn't understand a word. And even if he had, at this point nothing could break his concentration so easily. Over the past year, he had almost perfected the art of blocking everything out. Even himself. Often enough there was no other way to cope with reality. Hitomi watched in complete fascination as his muscles worked under the thin, red fabric. He smiled only minimally, but she saw it anyway. The neckline of the yukata had opened a little, revealing the hint of a sun-kissed torso. Just below his prominent collarbone, a pink jewel shone peacefully. Hitomi had seen him demonstrate his skills as a warrior more times than she would have liked. On the battlefield, in the Colosseum of Palas, against Dilandau, in seemingly hopeless situations. As far as she could tell, he wielded his sword skillfully. But never with enthusiasm, only out of necessity. Now, for the first time, she saw him doing something he was not only good at, but clearly enjoyed. Hitomi felt the butterflies in her stomach dance wildly again.

He was graceful. He had never been as beautiful as he was now.

But the sight did not last long. He released the arrow, which immediately soared through the air, and the crowd held its breath for a moment. There was a hiss and a soft, very satisfying sound as the tip hit the target. A collective "Ooooh!" traveled from spectator to spectator. The archer opened his eyes. The arrow was dead center. Van smiled serenely. He turned his head and saw what he had hoped for: Hitomi, looking at him with huge eyes, overflowing with admiration. His smile widened even more. He had reached his goal, in more than one way. "Someone fry me a stork! Right on target! Incredible!" "A true master!" "A trick!" someone squealed. "But he did it anyway!" The bystanders applauded enthusiastically for the young man, who seemed to consist of nothing but pure confidence at that particular moment. Hitomi had never seen him so radiant. What other secret talents would he reveal to her? The thought made her blood boil, her hormones spike, and she had to hide a broad grin behind her hand. Meanwhile, the center of everyone's attention was confronted with completely different problems.

"And here's the prize! Well deserved." The cheerful vendor handed the young man a clear bag instead of a fluffy Pokémon. His victorious smile immediately faded. The bag was relatively heavy, which was not surprising. It was filled to the brim with water. Which was absolutely necessary. Inside, a strange creature was making its monotonous rounds, looking out at the world in constant amazement. It was white, speckled with orange spots, and proudly wore a thin moustache that reminded a bit of the licked lackeys of Astoria. The similarly hollow look in his eyes also matched that comparison. His new owner stared back, much more puzzled. His companion had to stifle a laugh. He came back to her. Now people were staring after him in fascination, but he payed them no attention. "That was great!" Hitomi greeted him with bright eyes. Unfortunately, he barely noticed because he was distracted by the thing in his hand. "What kind of creature is that?" asked Van. "Well, a fish. A baby koi, to be exact. Don't you know?" He looked at her and she had to grin again at his confused expression. "I know fish. Grilled over the fire or drowned in greasy sauce in Astoria…" "It's certainly not for eating. They are kept for pleasure, to enjoy the sight of. As a pet, a house animal.“*

"House? Animal?" Individually, the words made sense, but together? Somehow, Hitomi liked the idea of the king keeping an ornamental fish from now on. Would there be room for the aquarium in his tiny, spartan quarters? How would Merle react? "Do you want it?" Van held out the poor, orphaned animal. Maybe he had a gift for her after all. But she put her hands up defensively. "That’s sweet, but my father doesn't allow pets." As Van became more and more desperate, she suggested: "We'll set him free. There's a pond over there." "Agreed," he said, relieved, and hurried after her. Away from the hustle and bustle, a dark surface of water lay still in the starlight. Only now and then could white shadows be seen passing beneath it like ghosts. Together they tipped the contents of the bag over the pond. The bright orange of a sleek fin flashed in farewell… then the animal was free and among its own kind. The girl in the blue yukata and the boy in red knelt on the bank and simply watched for a while, enjoying the wonderful moment of mutual silence in a way only very close friends can. "Sayonara, Klausu," Hitomi whispered, "I hope the other fish are nice to you." "Klausu?"

"That's what I named him…" He looked at her intently. Here in the shadows of some old maple trees they were all alone and unobserved. "Thank you, Hitomi," he said solemnly. "For showing me your world." "Gladly." "I apologize for not being able to bring you the Pikachu trophy I promised." "Oh no, don‘t worry about that! Seeing you shoot that arrow is much more important than any Pokémon could ever be," was her reply. She waved her hand defensively, and the small bag attached to the wrist flew wildly through the air. Was he mistaken, or did she become just as nervous as he felt? In any case, her sudden flow of words was another indication. "You know, there are always archery competitions here at the temple in the fall. And there's a lot more to win than just fish. Kamakura is famous for this spectacle, and the art is called Yabusame. However, the competitions are held on horseback, which makes it quite difficult." "I'm very good at riding, too." "Really? Maybe you'd like to come back and we can watch the tournament together?" "I would welcome the opportunity to come back." A pink glow rose in her cheeks and her smile grew even brighter. All the colors of the night gathered in her beautiful eyes. The sight tempted him to take her delicate hand and finally move closer to her. Was this the time and place for one long overdue first kiss? While he was still sorting his thoughts to plan the next steps, her mood suddenly changed.

If she had been nervous before, she seemed almost anxious now. "There's something I've been wanting to tell you for a long time," she blurted out. "I'm sorry, Van. I'm so sorry."

* Foot Note: sadly the joke gets lost in translation. The German word for pet is Haustier, so house plus animal, therefore the thing with the two words combined make no sense to Van.

Anyway, I love the short scene in Freid where we see Van practicing archery. It’s so calm and peaceful. A lot of episodes later we see little Van returning with Vargas (Balgus) with bow and arrow, probably from a hunting trip. See how happy he looks? He seemed to really have enjoyed that so I guess it’s his favourite hobby.

#escaflowne #vision of escaflowne #van fanel #tenkuu no escaflowne #escaflowne fanart #hitomi kanzaki #the vision of escaflowne #escaflowne fanfiction #tanabata #archery

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storiesbyrhi · 11 months

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Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence/some infrequent gore, swearing, animal death, no beta, death in childbirth (mentioned, not described), abusive parents, suicide, spiders/bugs, grief/mourning; warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: We speak to those beyond. 3668 words.

1986

Time was not linear. Nor was it circular. It was an overlapping collage of everything that had ever happened. A compressed murder board. A grimoire swallowed whole. Eddie remembered it all.

A century of Eptesicus fuscus, a shell of consciousness. Hawkins. A sickness. A witch’s healing hand. Before that, the flatlands. A coven. You. Oh, you, his little witch.

“Those are not your apples.” Cleansing crystals by moonlight. Amabel, little witch. Lonely vampire. Collecting flowers and berries. Green milkweed. Unconditional good. A forest gate. “Bloodline magic, far and wide.” A bet, a kiss, and a name. “I envy your world of absolutes. And I love you so.” Marguerite du Bruyeres’ letters to Guillaume du Bruyeres. Unmistakably vampire carnage. Blood of my blood.

Eddie let you slip onto the pillow, then escaped out of the trailer and into the early morning. The sun would rise soon but he needed to move. Run. Scream.

The sisters – Sally and Gillian. Penelope, the spellcaster. “By your hand he is taken and I die on this night, or you let us go and free yourself of this burden.” Transformation. Walking through the grass. Black-eyed Susan, tansy, elecampane, yellow carnation, cyclamen. Blood of my blood.

He remembered who he was before you. And before Roanoke. His accent and gait may have changed, but he was the same sad, doomed soul he’d been then. Still a monster.

Eddie sobbed. He went to the forest gate on the outskirts of town and laid in the grass, looking up at the starry sky, letting the shame and horror and regret drown him.

What was he to do? How would he tell you? Should he tell you? Would you be able to see it on his face?

He waited until the very last minutes of night to return to Forest Hills. Eddie moved slowly through the town; slowly, at least, for him. He could picture it all now, how it used to be. The dirt roads. The vacuum of quiet that proceeded the era of constant electrical white noise.

You slept well into the morning, but roused yourself before midday. Eddie was watching Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope. He seemed immersed, so you went about making breakfast. Assam tea with cocoa husks. Oatmeal with sultanas and brown sugar.

There was an awkwardness to Eddie when you sat next to him, curling up close enough to touch. Your mind cycled through possibilities with rapid fire speed. The notion it kept circling back to was – did he regret kissing you?

“Chewie reminds me of the creatures that live in the woods. Have you seen them? Over in the north-west?” you asked, trying to break the ice.

Eddie nodded. “They are shy,”

“Yeah. The humans don’t know about them. Well. They do, but most of them think it’s a hoax. They’re considered cryptids… Which is like, an animal or creature that may or may not exist…” You were rambling. “When they see one, they call it Bigfoot… But Chewie definitely looks like one.”

Eddie didn’t answer. You hadn’t appeared to notice the significance of him remembering something, even something innocuous like the existence of things in the woods.

You finished eating, washed your dishes, and returned to the couch. Star Wars ended and you had no real choice but to address the atmosphere.

“Are you okay?” you asked Eddie.

He looked at you, something in his expression you couldn’t quite place. He nodded. “Yes… Perhaps on edge regarding what your Witches will tell,”

“Yeah… Well then, let’s not put it off any longer.”

Directing Eddie to sit across the room, you knelt at your altar and lit two candles. A pale blue candle for truth. A darker indigo candle for intuition and breaking through illusion. With paper in front of you and a pen in hand, you closed your eyes.

The Witches Who Came Before were always with you, so you needn’t call for them. Instead, you spoke to them with clear intention.

“It is not my place to question you. But it is your place to guide me. To offer truth. Long ago, you foretold of us leaving the flatlands. Then, you warned me of returning. What would have happened if I had heeded that warning?”

The temperature of the room dropped and the air grew thick. Eddie felt his skin tingle and prickle, a frisson of fear and excitement running through him.

“I know you see him for what he is. Without him, Vecna would not have been defeated. Can you say without doubt that he would have been without my intervention?”

It was a challenge to them. If you and Eddie hadn’t destroyed Vecna, could your coven have stopped him? Could all the witches in the world have stop him? Maybe, sure. However, somewhere deep down you knew the answer. Vecna did not belong to this plane of existence. He wasn’t even of the world he inhabited. And a witch can only fight within the boundaries of the natural world.

If you had not come to Hawkins, if you had not found the bat and restored Eddie to his vampire form, Vecna would have taken the town, then the world.

The Witches were silent. It told you that you were right.

“You said that not all callings are sanctified, but that the voice calling me was coming into focus for you. Do you know what brought me here?”

The flames flickered and your hand picked up the signal. The words scrawled along the paper faster than you could read.

“Life and Death have no voice… They do not come calling in the night,” The Witches said. “Their siblings are to follow suit, yet they are wayward in their youth,”

“Which of their siblings called to me?” you asked.

“Destiny was formed in shattered ruins.”

The letters were so unfamiliar, you weren’t sure which witch was speaking to you. It didn’t matter. You had an answer. Destiny had broken free of the rules and reached out to you, urging you to come to Hawkins.

“If I was fated to return to Hawkins, then I was fated to find him?”

Y. E. S. was written over and over, the word tracing itself again and again.

“Why me?”

“Like calls to like. Fate to fate. Love to love,” they said. “History will not repeat itself,”

“A history I do not remember.”

For a moment, quiet. “Lore must be rewritten. You must remember.”

You looked over at Eddie, who could not see any of the words on the page. He was watching you intently, something so human behind his eyes.

“How?” you asked The Witches. “How can I remember?”

“By definition. Blood for blood. Magic for magic.”

You didn’t understand but it felt like enough information that you could figure it out. There was one more thing you needed to know. “The coven… Did I betray them or have they betrayed me?”

“Knowledge is… a creator’s prerogative.”

The pen dropped and the flames were snuffed by an unseen power. You breathed out and read the pages again. Eddie came to sit opposite you. He took the paper.

“Destiny is… a sentient thing?” Eddie asked.

“It’s not meant to be. Forces like fate and life and death shouldn’t… proactively… change the course of what happens on Earth. Not for good reason,”

“I assume we will not hear this reason from Destiny,”

“No… But… It’s an answer. I was called here to find you so we could kill Vecna.”

It was a hypothesis you had both considered. It should have felt satisfying to have it confirmed, yet it was a shallow kind of resolution.

“And, it had to be you,” Eddie said. He knew why it had to be you. No other witch would have saved a vampire. It pained him to see you confused and lost.

“When I get my memories back, I’ll know why it had to be me,”

“By definition. Blood for blood. Magic for magic,” Eddie read off the page. You nodded. “By definition, you are a witch, you are magic. Therefore, it is through magic that you will find your memories,” he reasoned.

It clicked into place in your mind. “And by definition, you are a vampire… blood… so… Through blood you’ll get yours back?” you guessed.

When you looked up at Eddie, you expected to see your own excited expression mirrored. Instead, there was restraint. He broke eye contact almost immediately and began to nod, standing up and walking away.

“Yes. Although I don’t-” he began.

“Stop,” you whispered.

You got up and followed him across the room, he took a step to move away from you but you grabbed him by the wrist. Eddie was helpless as you squinted your eyes and studied his face. When you figured it out, a small gasp slipped from your lips and you let go of him.

As you went to speak, your voice cracked and you had to start again. “How long?”

Eddie said your name with too much softness.

“No. No. Don’t… Don’t do that. How long have you remembered? Do you remember everything? When… When did you remember?” You felt like you were going to throw up.

It hurt.

Not the nausea or the sudden headache, but the deceit. You had thought you and Eddie were a united front. A team. But he had lied to you.

“Only last night, but-”

“Last night?! Was that before or after we…” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Now that your face was contorted with fear and sadness, Eddie’s mirror yours.

“Please, let me tell you. I’ll tell you everything,” he begged. His hand reached out; he wanted to brush the tears from your cheeks.

You flinched and Eddie moved back in response.

Had you been stupid to trust a vampire? Was everything you felt about Eddie misguided? Were all your bad decisions going to lead to a reckoning, where excommunication was the best outcome you could hope for?

Eddie wanted desperately to spill it all out. To tell you everything that had happened in 1836. To warn you against trusting your coven. To help you find your memories, and maybe Kelsey’s too. But the more he pushed, the more you pulled away. He’d never had faith in anything, but he demanded it of himself in that moment. Have faith in fate. Have faith in his little witch.

Your mind was having trouble holding any one thought. Normally, you’d be cycling through them all, but it felt like your brain was empty. Long hallways leading to unfurnished rooms. Cavernous spaces. Haunted. You were frozen on the spot, watching Eddie watch you. Then, everything came into sharp focus at the sound of a knock on the trailer’s front door.

The tension was popped and you choked back a half-sob. Eddie hid himself in the bedroom, closing the door behind him, as you answered. He climbed onto the bed and curled up, regret washing over him as he closed his eyes and listened.

Sunlight poured in as the door swung open, Robin and Nancy’s shadows casting long across the trailer’s carpet. You frowned, at first, confused by their appearance. The grief was so intense that it was almost an entity standing beside them. You understood then.

“Hey,” Nancy greeted weakly.

“Hi,” you replied.

It felt strange following a normal social script with them. Yet, you all persisted.

“This is Dustin,” she introduced, taking a step to reveal a child standing behind her.

You knew who he was and nodded politely in his direction. He was already crying. Sighing, you looked away from them, out at Forest Hills. Life was returning to it, but you had been too busy with your own shit to notice.

“It might be too early for this,” you told them.

“It’s past midday,” Robin countered.

“No, I mean, too early in the grieving process. It’s only been a couple days,” you explained.

“Are you saying that… He won’t… Answer us… yet? Or that we aren’t ready to talk to him?” Nancy asked. “Because, no offense, but you don’t know us well enough to tell us if we’re ready,”

“We’re ready,” Robin added.

You sucked your bottom lip in, forgetting the split. You winced at the pain, tasted the blood. The blood. Was that how Eddie got his memory back? Had he kissed blood from your mouth and found history in it?

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Dustin squeaked. The boy’s face was pure misery. His nose was red from rubbing it with tissues. His eyes were bloodshot. He was clenching his jaw.

Stepping aside, you nodded. “Okay. Come in.”

Eddie stayed where he was, knowing it was not his place to intrude on such a private event.

You cleared the altar in the middle of the lounge room and directed the teens to sit around it. They watched as you gathered items from around the place and mumbled to yourself while scribbling into a notebook.

“Where there is death, there have always been attempts to commune with the dead. It is not a practice that belongs strictly to witches. Since the beginning of time, humans have sought out methods to speak to those they’ve lost. Where connection has been made, it is usually more to do with the dead than the methods of the living, but nonetheless, it has happened.”

Nancy was listening intently, ever the student. Robin and Dustin both looked at each other, sharing inpatient expressions.

“It’s important to understand history. If you want to participate in the craft, you owe it at least that,” you told them. “Our way of bridging us and them is dependent on the dead. How they appear is dictated by them entirely,”

“What does that mean?” Nancy asked.

“It means, I can send them a message and open the doorway, but if and how they walk through it has nothing to do with me. They could send a single message back. Just an echo I hear. Their form may appear, ready to hold conversation. Alternatively, they may close the door and lock it. You need to be prepared for any of these outcomes,”

“He’ll want to talk to us,” Dustin said. “I know he will.”

You hoped he was right.

If the altar was at the center of an invisible pentagram, you placed an object at each point. A small plate of chunks of cedarwood, burning slowly. Black onyx. Sprigs of vervain. A bowl of moon water. Finally, a white candle burning at where the top of the pentagram would be.

You sat at the altar and used a pin to open a tiny wound in your finger. Closing your eyes and letting the blood roll down your hand, you spoke. “I offer my blood, the blood of a born witch, in payment of passage into the ether.” You opened your eyes and looked at the teens. “You can call to him,” you instructed.

They looked between themselves, silently figuring out who would go first. Naturally, Nancy took a deep breath in. Her eyes glazed over with tears. Her voice was small. “Steve? Are you there?”

She looked to you for guidance; you nodded for her to continue.

“Steve… It’s Nancy… Robin and Dustin are here too… We…” She had to stop to steel her nerves. “We miss you. And. Um. We… we wanted…” It was suddenly impossible for her to say the words ‘to say goodbye.’ Nancy started to cry.

“Hey- hey, dingus,” Robin took over. “Are you there? You’re probably busy… hitting on ghost chicks already… But, um, if you could just… just tune in for a minute…”

Everyone’s attention snapped to the bowl of water as it shook and spilled. You felt him first. Warmth. Steve Harrington felt warm.

“He’s here,” you told them. “He’s listening.”

They all focused, trying to sense what you did. Slowly, his outline was becoming visible to you. He was behind his friends, leaning against the trailer’s wall, by the door. Steve’s arms were crossed against his chest and one leg was folded, foot flat against the wall. He appeared casual, already at peace with his death.

“Your friends wanted to say goodbye to you,” you said to him.

“Are you like…” Steve waved his hands in the air. “Like a witch?”

You nodded.

“All this is… Are you a- a good witch?”

“Was that a genuine question or are you quoting The Wizard of Oz?” you asked him.

Robin covered her face with her hands as Dustin rolled his eyes.

“I thought dying, might, you know, level him up?” Dustin whispered through his tears.

“I can hear you,” Steve said.

“Does he know we tried… we…” Nancy cut through the comedy with her grief, getting stuck on her words again.

Steve nodded. He moved through the trailer, his form semi-transparent and snapping with residual energy. He sat next to you, looking over at his friends.

“He knows you tried to save him. He knows you didn’t want to leave him there,” you told them.

“Tell Dustin that he doesn’t need to feel guilty. I’m glad he wasn’t there,” Steve said.

“It’s good you weren’t there, Dustin. Steve is thankful you were safe and that you didn’t have to see him in the end,”

“And tell him that he’s the coolest kid I ever knew. That I figured that out on the train tracks. He’s cool and he’s so smart. Twice as smart as me. More, probably. He’s gonna grow up and be the kind of man I wish I was.”

You watched Steve as he spoke. The way he looked at Dustin with admiration in his eyes. Like this kid who probably worshipped him was actually the hero of the group.

You relayed Steve’s message word-for-word. Dustin whimpered and let Nancy wrap an arm around him.

“Thanks, man,” Dustin managed to get out. “I love you.”

Steve looked to Robin next. “I don’t know how to explain it to her,” he told you.

“It’s okay. I think she’ll understand,”

“Yeah… That’s it though. She gets me. And I get her. Like… I feel normal around her. I can just be… me. She’s my best friend… I have a shit load of regrets but not knowing Robin sooner is right at the top of that list. Tell her… that she’s so much braver than she thinks she is. And that she’s smart in a way nobody else is… And that she totally deserves to be loved. And not by some girl who keeps it a secret. Nothing like that. She deserves the whole love story movie thing… romantic comedy with the happy ending. Can you tell her that?”

You could and you did.

Robin nodded to herself in a self-soothing action, then pulled her knees up to her chest and started to rock. Steve frowned at her.

“Tell her that she should still go on the trip we were thinking about,”

“He says you should still go on the trip,” you said to her.

Robin barked out a broken laugh. “Sunshine, beers, and babes,” she said.

“Oh! And tell her if someone pauses Fast Times at Ridgemont High at 53 minutes and 5 seconds, she knows what it means.”

Robin laughed again and nodded. “Noted.”

Steve nodded along with her. “Maybe she should take Nancy on the trip. They’d actually make really good friends if they got to know each other,”

“I think they’re doing that,” you told him.

“That’s good…” He looked at Nancy. “I had the chance to tell her everything, near the end. Got some of it… Tell her… Shit. I don’t know how to say it without sounding like I’m blowing smoke up her ass,”

“You’re up Nancy. He needs a second. Says he doesn’t know how to tell you what he needs to without sounding like he’s blowing smoke up your ass.”

Everyone laughed. Except Steve. He held his hands up in question. “What the hell, man? You said you were a good witch!”

You liked Steve.

“Okay… She needs to really believe what I told her. About how she really helped me stop being such an asshole. And that it’s okay how it ended between us. I was stuck in the present but Nancy sees the future. Big plans, you know? She should know that’s a good thing.”

As soon as you started to give Nancy the message, she burst into tears again.

“Tell her that I love that she always trusts her gut. And that she’ll always look so hot with a shotgun… And tell her that I’ll say hi to Barb for her.”

The room fell into silence after the last of Nancy’s goodbye was said. Nobody was ready to move on just yet. After a few minutes of reflection, Steve’s form began to flicker. He knew what it meant. When you sat up straight, the others all looked at you.

“I gotta go,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. “Here. Hold my hand.”

Steve frowned, unsure of what would happen. Still, he thought it best to do what a good witch said. He took your hand and felt a zap of electricity or something magic.

“Any last words?” you asked him.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. The others all gasped. Steve looked to them then back to you. “They can hear me?”

Robin started to sob again. Dustin nodded.

“Oh, shit, okay. Shit… Hi… Shit…”

“It’s okay,” you told him, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah… Uh… Just… It’s okay, you know? It… it had to be this way. There’s already plenty of Steves in the world, you know? But there’s only one Dustin Henderson. One Robin Buckley. One Nancy Wheeler. The world needs you guys. So, it’s okay. I’m okay. I love you.”

The others cried and said goodbye. They held each other and let themselves feel it all.

Steve’s hand slowly faded out of yours, until there was nothing left but his warmth and the memory of him etched into his friends' minds like love letters swiped through wet concrete.

End Note: This chapter was written very much in collab with @dr-aculaaa, my resident Steve expert. Thank you so much! I hope you like how the scene turned out.

Chapter seventeen is a little bit of an interlude, it's an ode to both Steve and to the magic that runs through this story. But also... now she knows Eddie knows... yikes.

Grimoire updated!

Fic Taglist: @paranoidmunson @idkidknemore @paprikaquinn @stardustworlds @loz-brooke @wyverntatty @vintagehellfire @dark-academia-slut @scarletwitchwhore @becks1002 @mrsdollardog @heyndrix @luceneraium @rosaline-black @devilinthepalemoonlite @goldencherriess @iamwhisperingstars @wiltedwonderland @blueywrites @breezybeesposts @jadehowlettthewolf @spikesvamp79 @foreveranexpatsposts @tortoiseshellspells @wingedpeachjudgegiant @stardustmunson @live-love-be-unique @fangirling-4-ever @reanimated-alice @b-irock @gh0stlybunnie @myown-worstenemy-2003 @woozzz @cyberxlust @hiscrimsonangel @buckysbarne @m00nlight101 @word-wytch @spicysix @briasnow-blog @goth-cowgirl-03

All Eddie Taglist: @solomons-finest-rum @ruinedbythehobbit @sweetpeapod @thorfemmes @corrodedhawkins @grungegrrrl @lilzabob @averagemisfit03 @ches-86 @ilovecupcakesandtea @onehotgreasymechanic @hazydespair @mel-the-fangirl @eddies-hid3out @siren-lungs @aheadfullofsteverogers @hiscrimsonangel

#Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson Reader Insert #Eddie Munson/You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson x Reader #Vampire!Eddie Munson

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m00nymonster · 2 months

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Discord convo shenanigans. I think Ratthi is overly enthusiastic about cats and always scares them away, MB ignores fauna in general unless it's eating humans so cats LOVE it and it doesn't get why. Deep breath guys, this is a two page comic so it's gonna be a long image id, oof.

[ID: first page of a six panel comic. First panel is a splash image of a birthday party, with a banner saying HAPPY BIRTHDAY over a big window, a table with cake and punch, and a circular rug on the floor. The left wall has a framed picture on the wall, the right a closed door. The image is in black and white markers. In the background Murderbot sits in the corner in a comfy plush chair, listening to music with its eyes closed. In the foreground Amena and Mensah are having a conversation; next to them are Gurathin, Ratthi and Pin-Lee. They are observed by drones. In the left corner Small Human is poking a drone. A cat is approaching MB's chair. The next three images focus on MB in its chair. In the first the cat sits next to MB, it observes with a drone but doesn't otherwise pay attention to the cat. In the second the cat is jumping onto MB's lap; it looks startled. In the third the cat curls up into a ball, and MB stares at it, befuddled. Fourth panel: MB stares at the cat with an eyebrow raised as Small Human approaches and says, Oh, Miss Kitty LIKES you! Well you can't move now, you'll wake her up! In the last panel someone yells CAKE TIME! offscreen and Small Human runs off, yelling Ooooh! Wait for me! /ID]

[ID: Second page of a two page comic. There are four panels. The first has Mensah standing at the door, waving and saying Goodbye! See you soon! The second is a closeup of Mensah looking scared as someone offscreen says in a spikey speech bubble, Dr. Mensah, help. The third is a splash image, same as the first panel in the first page, but now the cake is eaten and the punch bow is empty. There is a spilled cup on the table. Murderbot sits in the corner, arms crossed, staring at the cat. It says verbally, I am trapped and cannot move. Mensah laughs behind her hand. Fourth panel: there is a large rectangle with LATER written on it in the left corner. Under it is Ratthi's chibi head, with a feed text box that says, GASP! In the center of the panel Murderbot stands in the center of the room, looking uncomfortable as Miss Kitty bats at its drone Small Human stands next to it, looking amused. On the right a feed text box says, with a crying Ratthi head beside it: Miss Kitty likes SecUnit more than me??? Below it is Gurathin's head, with a feed text box that says HAHAHAHA! Below that is another feed text box, this time with Ratthi's head with an angry expression yelling Not funny Gurathin! Finally at the bottom is Pin-Lee, smirking as her feed text box says, That's not funny, that's HILARIOUS. /ID]

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scorchieart · 5 months

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Double Deflection

Genre: Slice of Life, Comedy

Characters: Maron, White Horse, Licht Klein, Chevalier Michel

Wordcount: ~6400

Prompts: Blue: Loyalty, Yellow: Friendship

Summary: A late-night chat between horses and humans. Each has the potential to offer something, but gestures and facial expressions and mind reading aren't enough to tell when someone is asking for help.

A/N: My entry for the Wish Upon an Aide CC hosted by @lorei-writes and @wordycheeseblob. This story may borderline crack with its execution, but I hope it's an enjoyable read regardless.

If you were to ask Maron what he most wanted in the entire world he might respond with an enthused neigh, throwing back his mane, and a clop clop from his front-right hoof. If Maron could speak, he could say it was to eat carrots fresh from harvest, or to race through the fields outside the palace with the other horses, or to snooze indoors on a rainy afternoon while his rider Licht sang him a lullaby. Or something along those lines. In truth, it is difficult to say. The intricacies of horse communication cannot be covered comprehensively through text alone—tail swishing and muzzle twitching can easily get lost in translation, you see—but an attempt will be made to relay the events of this particular evening from both the equine and human perspectives to most accurately depict the story from all participating views.

Now, as we were saying, Maron, much like yourself and I, often finds it difficult to express his desires when asked on the spot. Any manner of things could affect the answer, from the place to the weather to even the time of day. Indeed, a much simpler question to ask (man and horse) is what he dislikes the most. And in the palace stables on that muggy summer’s eve, Maron was confident he was experiencing the absolute most dislikable thing imaginable.

“By the way, the kitchens were out of carrots.”

Licht ducked his head in time before Maron whipped his tail.

“There’s no use taking it out on me,” Licht said, straightening up and resuming brushing Maron’s flank. “Believe me, you do me a favor eating them. But I swear this time they were gone before I could get to them.”

Maron snorted once and rubbed at his muzzle in what one would believe to be a contradictory manner.

“I doubt it. You should’ve seen the way Yves’s eyes lit up when he read about that new carrot cake recipe from Jade. He ordered double the monthly stock of carrots. And Leon approved it without even batting an eye.” At this, Licht covered his mouth and let out a small groan that on the surface appeared as though he was repressing a gag. Maron wiggled his nose in circular motions in response, which I am told is the horse-equivalent of scoffing and rolling one’s eyes.

“Don’t give me that. I said I’m fine,” said Licht, but both he and Maron knew he wasn’t.

It is at this point I must confess that while I myself am not proficient at human-horse translations, my ineptitude is not a universal ailment. If you were so far unaware, there exist in our world a gifted few interspecial interpreters across the ages. Perhaps you have seen a dog warmly protecting a flock of chicks while the hen takes a bath? Or maybe you witnessed a squirrel rushing to call a goose to save a kitten from drowning in a lake? Sometimes this communication is as implicitly universal as a mother cares for her young, while in more curious cases gesture and sound bind common souls together. On exceedingly rare occasions, such a bond can manifest from one source to multiple different species with zero previous contact, as is the case with the Eighth Prince of Rhodolite. But just as special can be the connection built upon years of collaboration and struggle and trust, and Licht and Maron checked all these boxes multiple times over. Why, when Licht wraps the reins twice around his hands, Maron understands to hurry home because Yves is baking something special. And when Maron bonks his jaw against Licht’s head, Licht knows he’s being chastised. And whenever Licht says “I’m fine,” Maron learned it always to be a lie.

“Really, I am,” insisted Licht. “Let’s go for a ride in the morning. You’ll see.”

Not in the mood for an argument (they always ended up with them going in circles), Maron turned to look out the window and the two resumed their brushing routine without communication. The dewy night air hung thick and silent around them, and several times more Licht had to cover his mouth and cough as he worked. Maron’s ears twitched at the sound, but he never commented further.

Just allergies, Licht told himself. Horse doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

And the night would have continued on unyieldingly so, as it always did when they disagreed in private, were it not for an unexpected development. The hairs on their limbs shot straight up as a cold, prickly sensation overtook the summer warmth, and Licht and Maron spun their heads towards each other in unison. Someone was entering the stables.

Stubbornness forgotten, Maron slowly lifted his head and peered over the high walls. His stall was located in the back corner of the stable, but even through the darkness he could make out the tall cloaked figure leading a horse by hand through the entryway.

Licht tapped his knuckles against Maron’s neck. What do you see?

Maron raised a hoof up and down twice. One human and one horse. Both look male.

Got it. Stay low. Licht quietly reached for the sword he lay on the ground beside Maron’s grooming tools. A prince wouldn’t be so foolish as to wander the palace unarmed, and Licht knew better than most how easy it was to sneak past the grounds undetected through the stables.

Be careful. Maron gently rubbed his muzzle against Licht’s back and ducked low behind the wall. What was meant to be encouragement consequently had the opposite effect on Licht. Maron, like all who lived at the palace, knew of his rider’s unparalleled mastery of the sword. It is said that his skills were only rivaled by two, but Prince Leon was presently knocked out on his couch after a full day tidying up the faction office, and to even consider Prince Chevalier to sneak around at night like some common hoodlum was simply unthinkable. So Maron’s warning made Licht grip his sword more forcefully as he took a defensive stance by the door.

What need would a talented fighter have to visit the stables at this hour? Licht pondered the question as the foot-and-hoofsteps steadily approached their stall. Was it a spy fleeing into the night to relay royal secrets back to his master? A horse appraiser here to kidnap (horsenap) a prized palace stallion to sell off for exuberant riches? An enemy of the royal family who knew the swordsman Sixth Prince was an equine enthusiast and would therefore hesitate to fight back with a defenseless horse on the battlefield?

The truth, as I am sure you have already deduced, was none of the above. Unfortunately, the only living thing in the vicinity that could steer Licht’s thoughts away from the bizarre was currently pondering whether he could fight with a flat brush between his teeth if things became too dicey. And with the intruders now only a couple of stalls away, Licht did not have the agency to think rationally and burst out from his stall ready to swing.

What followed was a short, anticlimactic confrontation that I am sure Licht would prefer never to see the light of day. Unfortunately for him, Maron found the whole affair rather amusing, so I shall provide an abridged account.

No sooner than Licht exited the stall did an overwhelming cough threaten to overtake him. Midway through winding his arm for an attack, he had few options to steady himself from the conflicting forces of his limbs propelling him forward and his lungs pushing him back, and in the heat of the moment he elected to toss his sword upward into the air and simultaneously tackle the mystery man. He had hoped the shock of it all would stun his opponent long enough for him to recover and strike again, but this plan came to an early stop when his midsection was caught by a pair of taut arms and he found himself flipped, lifted, and staring upward into the displeased face of Prince Chevalier.

If you have ever been caught by your elders for sneaking out of your room past your bedtime, you would understand only a fraction of the dread coursing through Licht’s nerves in that moment. Aside from the obvious fact that he ambushed (with the intent to at the very least incapacitate) the Second Prince of Rhodolite, Licht was physically in a state he would best describe as Yves’s Fashion Nightmare™. His eyes were redder and less alert than usual, his frown curved down farther than it had in years, and his typical restless bedhead stuck out at wild angles, not in the least bit aided by the fact that he was currently suspended upside down. But oh, the worst offense of it all was his wardrobe! When the coughing fits had extinguished any hope of getting sleep, Licht slipped into the muckiest boots in his closet, tossed on a tattered old coat from his teenage years, picked up his sword, and headed straight for the stables. He could only pray Chevalier was too distracted by his annoyance to notice the wrinkly, hay-infested, cough-stained mess of his nightclothes.

Chevalier’s stern gaze followed Licht’s to his outfit. Whoops… I forgot to mention Chevalier could read minds as well as narrations.

“Please put me down,” said Licht, his voice barely masking: and spare me some dignity. Behind them Maron let out a sound almost like a chuckle, and Licht shot him a warning look he was sure lost all credibility of appearing threatening.

“What purpose have you here at this hour?” asked Chevalier, still holding on. It took a great deal of fortitude for Licht to not give in to his embarrassment and wiggle his way out of Chevalier’s clutches like a worm, but in the end he swallowed his discomfort and strained his neck to look back up.

“I could ask you the same,” Licht replied, and instantly regretted it. The blood flow to his brain must already be making him hysterical. Is that how blood worked? How long was he upside down for, anyway?

Chevalier’s expression twisted into a deeper frown that easily topped any of Licht’s personal records. “Employ deflection at your own risk, mime,” he warned. But just as Licht was calculating the combined punishment for assaulting and backtalking Chevalier, a sudden gallop echoed across the hall, the pressure on his stomach lifted, and Licht fell head-first onto the mucky stable floor.

Once the pain and shame faded enough, Licht opened his eyes and sat up expecting to find Chevalier towering over him. When all he saw was Maron merrily rolling on the floor whinnying, apparently now fully recovered from the intruder fiasco, Licht wondered if it was all just a sick-induced hallucination. The figures cloaked in night, the galloping, this headache; surely it was all in his mind and he merely tripped and fell from exhaustion. Bothered and bitter, he buttoned his coat and rubbed his bruising head, wondering if anything like this had happened recently, when Chevalier appeared once more in the entryway patiently guiding White Horse back inside.

“You frightened him,” he said when they reached the back stall.

“Me?” said Licht, forgetting his headache and rising to face the pair. In all the years he’d known him, White Horse proved a stallion who did not know fear. Chevalier selected him to be his trusted steed from among all the foals—even passing up baby Maron and his adorable wobbly knees—because he was the first to fully stand on his own and the quickest to wean off from his mother. As the years passed, he only grew more magnificent and intimidating among his peers, heading fleets into battle like the gleaming helmet of the army. White Horse admitting he was afraid seemed the equivalent of Chevalier admitting defeat.

“Indeed. He was shocked to see you bursting out of the stall like a lunatic,” said Chevalier.

Licht felt his eye twitch, and not from the returning pain. “He’s a war horse. He’s seen far worse than that,” he said.

“True,” said Chevalier, “but you have never appeared before him looking so disheveled.”

A knot swelled in Licht’s throat. Was Maron right? Surely he hadn’t neglected his condition so carelessly that he let his appearance grow abominable enough to scare White Horse of all creatures. Yves, perhaps, but that was exactly why Licht had been avoiding his brother like the plague.

“You do have some manner of plague,” said Chevalier.

“It’s only allergies,” Licht countered, muffling a cough into his arm.

“Strange how the clown never developed the same.”

It was only then that Licht noticed Chevalier carried a bag across his shoulders when he pulled something out and tossed it. Licht caught it and looked it over; it was a newly washed towel, like the type soldiers used during training, but the stench it gave off was far more repugnant than even a shirtless, sweaty Prince Jin in the height of July. An earthy smell that lay buried deep in the back of his mind, but Chevalier was not intent on giving him the time to dig it out.

“Clean your face, it is offensive,” he said, then moved past Licht to look in the stall. Maron instantly sobered and stood. “And you, get out.”

“What for?” Licht asked. He held his breath and quickly wiped the sweat and grime from his face.

“This is White Horse’s preferred stall.”

“We were here first.”

“And I asked you first what you were doing here, and you have yet to answer me,” snapped Chevalier. “Our needs supersede yours unless you can prove otherwise.”

Licht and Maron each glared back at him, simmering in place. It wasn’t as though they didn’t have their reasons for choosing that particular stall; Maron enjoyed the bit of extra leg room the corner stall provided while Licht favored it for its distance from the entrance and ease to hide away in. But the other corner stall on the opposite side of the hall provided the same advantages, and Licht and Maron wondered why Chevalier and White Horse couldn’t simply occupy that one.

Normally, Licht would either frame his suggestion of the other corner this way or simply agree to move out to avoid confrontation, but he was ill-feeling courteous tonight after Chevalier banged his head like a boiled egg.

“What’s so special about this one that the others don’t have?” Licht asked. If by now you’re thinking Licht was playing his luck talking back yet again to Chevalier, you’d be right. But ever the megalomaniac (as Prince Clavis would insist), Chevalier acknowledged an informative rebuttal to his authority as a worthy challenge and allowed the conversation to continue for just a little longer.

Chevalier rolled his eyes at this insinuation. “The window,” he responded.

“They all have windows,” said Licht.

“This one provides the best view of town,” said Chevalier, then he huffed. “I grow tired of this chatter. Vacate yourselves before I do it myself.”

Licht was not satisfied, but he knew better than to argue with Chevalier once a discussion was deemed concluded. Though Maron would take some more convincing to leave. They were still midway through grooming and all the tools were laid out and ready after all, but to Licht’s surprise the horse walked out without any prompting, passed Chevalier, and lowered his head to sniff the towel in Licht’s hand.

“Don’t lick that, Maron. It’s dirty,” said Licht, pushing him away. But Maron pressed his nose to the towel and began chewing at its edge. “It’s not food. Stop!” Licht grabbed the other end and pulled and pulled, but Maron’s chomp was firm and refusing to yield.

“Haybrain,” Licht said, tugging harder. “You’d think you were munching on a bunch of—” And then the pain in his head nearly completely vanished as a wave of realization surged through him. Sometimes it takes a little longer for Maron’s messages to reach Licht.

Still maintaining his grip, Licht steadied his stance and asked, “Prince Chevalier, what else is in your bag?”

Chevalier, who had been leading White Horse into the newly emptied stall and therefore took little notice of the tug-of-war behind him, curled his hand around the straps on his shoulder at the sound of his name. “Has your condition also turned you excessively chatty?” he said. “Perhaps some rest will restore your quietude, mime.”

Licht and Maron exchanged a glance across the towel and nodded. “Employ deflection at your own risk. Now!” yelled Licht, and the two charged towards the stall.

If you have been at all paying attention to this unwieldy tale, you may recall the last time Licht attempted to ambush Chevalier earned him an unsavory bump on both his pride and his forehead, and you are probably wondering what on Earth would lead him to believe a second attempt would fare any better. You may also remember in that little skirmish Licht threw his sword up in the air and have probably been questioning this story for the past few pages about where it landed. Rest assured, these inconsistencies shall be answered in due course. But first we must discuss strategy.

In addition to being a gifted swordsman, Licht was also a budding tactician. And while his brothers agreed his open-fighting battleplans leaned excessively self-destructive, no one could deny Licht’s acumen for sneak attacks. Even Maron trusted Licht on this front, which is why he made sure to match Licht’s speed in their charge even though his trajectory would knock him into White Horse. As soon as Chevalier noticed their approach, he whipped around, grabbed the towel with both hands, and ripped the fabric in midair.

The force of the rip wobbled the two off guard, and while Maron quickly managed to steady himself to a reasonable halt before colliding with White Horse, Licht surged forward and knocked his side into a pillar separating two adjacent stalls. But before his fall, he made sure to wrap his remaining half of the towel around Chevalier’s wrist and drag the man down with him. The impact of the hit shook the entire building, causing a certain misplaced sword that was previously precariously balanced just above the princes to slip out of its place and fall. Chevalier, still stuck in the hand trap, roughly shoved his and Licht’s bodies out of the line of descent and replaced them with his bag. The bag cushioned the fall and prevented the sword from ricocheting into anyone, but not without sacrificing itself to the cause as the blade cleanly cut through the linen and deposited the contents within. Dozens of bright orange carrots, of different sizes and thicknesses by the bushel, spilled out from the tear and rolled across the stable floor.

This narrator now takes this chance to inform the audience (and Prince Chevalier) that Licht is also very skilled in deflection. And in humility.

“I’ll keep my mouth shut if you do,” Licht offered once the two managed to pry as many carrots as they could away from the hungry horses’ mouths. They piled the saved carrots into the bag and lifted it together to keep them out of the horses’ reach and from spilling again.

“The information I have on your condition is far more significant than a simple carrot heist,” said Chevalier, unperturbed by the turn of events.

It was the truth. Licht nabbed carrots from the kitchens loads of times before, and the response from the cooks never extended beyond an angry rant to the domestic faction office about coordinating supply every few months or so. Jin always claimed it was probably a herd of hungry rabbits sneaking into the kitchens at night, and that was enough to placate the masses. Missing carrots didn’t spell the end of the world, after all. Surely they would treat this incident in the same way. On the other hand, Chevalier still lorded Licht’s illness over his head like a carrot on a stick (which in Licht’s circumstance meant the exact opposite of that saying). Any moment now he could decide to leave the stables and tell Sariel about Licht’s total lack of self-care. Or worse, he could tell Yves.

No, Licht had to gain some leverage over Chevalier right there and now. If only he could figure out why he was there in the first place.

The bag seemed to increase in weight with each passing moment, and the orange poking out from the rip goaded Licht like a heckler in the audience. He shut his eyes and breathed through his mouth to stave them off. Just their presence muddied his mind—why did there have to be so many carrots?

The best he could do for now was to keep up the deflecting. Even if that meant he had to keep up the talking.

“If White Horse eats this many, he’ll have an upset stomach in the morning,” he said.

“They were not all meant for him, obviously,” Chevalier explained. “When dealing with animals, extra precautions must be taken to guarantee a successful transaction should any anomalies arise.”

Licht pondered over those words. Couldn’t Chevalier ever say what he meant directly? (“No,” said Chevalier.)

“You’re saying you needed hush money—er, food in case other horses saw you two? Were you expecting to wake up the entire herd?” asked Licht.

“Precautions taken for the worst-case scenario naturally account for any hypothetical.”

“Except for my being here, apparently.”

“No, I had accounted for this as well. Though I had expected you to have fled from the vicinity of all these carrots by now.”

The tear gaped slightly as Licht’s hold tensed. Did Chevalier view him as a child who still couldn’t look foods he disliked straight on? Was Chevalier basing his reactions on tests he performed on Nokto, he wondered? He recalled a time years ago when Nokto returned from a diplomatic trip to Benitoite complaining about how their boasting of their recent super successful carrot harvest forced him to cut the trip short. It was the first time in ages Licht felt so strong an urge to console his twin when he heard the news, but what if Chevalier had a different reaction? Something seemed off about it all.

He decided to test his theory. “You’d need a boat-load of carrots to do that. And strand me on a deserted island first,” he said.

“I shall keep that in mind for the next order and charter a vessel from the Jangler,” said Chevalier.

“Nokto already asked us to halt carrot orders to the palace once. Leon told him to submit a lengthy request form with evidence and justifications and we still voted against it, three-to-one. Unfortunately.”

“My word supersedes the clown’s, as well as it does yours.”

“I wasn’t implying otherwise. Only that palace supply orders are under our faction’s scope, not yours,” said Licht. This time the rip tore larger from Chevalier’s end.

Licht really was only speaking fluff at first, but now he felt he was on the verge of uncovering something scandalous.

“In fact, food orders are specifically handled by one of us four princes to prevent showing favoritism to any one noble or grower. And we keep the records of all orders locked in our office,” he continued. “Strange how you were able to run your worst-case scenario calculations when supply was different this month. Was it just a happy coincidence?”

“Enough stalling,” said Chevalier. “Speak your mind directly.”

“Prince Chevalier.” Licht paused and inhaled. “Have you been illicitly influencing the domestic faction’s operations behind the scenes?”

The stables went eerily quiet. Even the horses, who stopped following the conversation ever since the carrots came into view, could tell an intense weight had dropped, and this time Chevalier was on the receiving end. Maron silently cheered for Licht, while White Horse ground his teeth impatiently.

Slowly, purposefully, Chevalier’s mouth widened to a grin. One that simultaneously filled Licht with a sense of victory and unease. “You speak it as though it was a laborious effort, when in truth it does not take much to influence you buffoons. A cursory inspection of your office is proof enough of your dullwittedness, which made it exceedingly simple to send the clown over on his futile carrot prohibition request to peer pressure your lot into establishing a cleaning routine. Even simpler was it to determine which days were Black’s, considering he wakes with an obvious imprint of his couch’s pillow embroidery plastered across his cheek. But simplest of all was slipping the latest edition of Jade’s Renowned Recipes onto the showoff’s desk the morning after one of Black’s cleaning days.”

The only thing preventing Licht from completely tearing up the bag was the understanding that it would drown him in those awful carrots, and that would only make him more upset. “There’s no way Nokto would agree to that,” he said to release some of the anger. “Your plan ended up with double the order of carrots in the end.”

“I never deigned to have co-conspirators,” said Chevalier.

It didn’t make sense, and yet with Chevalier it could. But it took such precise managing and calculating of everyone’s opinions and behaviors to have carried out so perfectly.

“But… but you still miscalculated,” Licht said in a small voice. “With me.”

“An unfortunate side effect of your seclusiveness. Lack of data points skews the probability of success. But this defect is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things,” said Chevalier, dropping his face to a frown once more. “Very well, we shall agree to never speak of this encounter beyond this night.”

A victory? Against Chevalier? On a mental battlefield? By all accounts, Licht should have been thrilled, even if this arrangement meant no one would ever know of his triumph. But a hollowness still dominated inside, different from the betrayal he felt from Chevalier’s reveal. He looked to Maron for support, and even his horsey smile wasn’t enough to satisfy his troubled thoughts.

“You still admitted political subterfuge, even if this is an admittedly minor instance of it. How can we guarantee you haven’t done it in the past, or won’t do it again?” asked Licht.

“You have my word that I have not nor shall I ever plot such an endeavor again without the knowledge and approval of the eight,” said Chevalier.

That should have sufficed, but Licht shook his head. “I’ll need some collateral to prove your sincerity.”

Chevalier narrowed his eyes. “What do you require?”

“Half your remaining carrots,” he said. “And tell me why you did it.” Maron perked up and licked his lips greedily while White Horse snorted and rushed beside Chevalier.

“White Horse says one-fourth and no more,” said Chevalier.

“Half,” Licht demanded. “Yves never would have put the double order if he wasn’t so intent on baking the carrot cake for me.”

Chevalier and White Horse stared intently at each other. You may have guessed correctly that these two make up another human-horse bonded pair, but unlike Licht and Maron, they mainly communicated through staring contests to determine the other’s thoughts and feelings. To the onlooker it is a curious sight, and Licht and Maron watched the pair mentally debate like statues for several awkward minutes until at last they broke apart.

“Agreed. But tonight you must vacate this stall and share your grooming tools,” said Chevalier.

“Fine, you can use them after we finish our routine,” said Licht, and the princes set out dividing the carrots equally among themselves and leading their respective horses into opposite stalls. Maron happily gobbled up his share before Licht could finish setting his tools up again in the new stall, and White Horse solemnly poked his head out of the window as Chevalier passed him carrots at regular intervals. A complacent tranquility settled in as the sounds of horse munching, hair brushing, and the late night summer breeze whooshed through the stables, calming its occupants and warming their hearts. While these two princes were inclined to introversion, the silent acknowledgement of horse care they shared bonded them on that night closer than they ever knew in the past.

Once the grooming session was completed, Maron shook his head satisfied as Licht patted his neck. Licht packed his tools neatly in their kit and crossed over to the other stall, ready to hear Chevalier’s story, when he saw his brother holding two long strips of ribbon, one bright yellow and the other bright blue, up to White Horse’s pearly mane.

“They’d both look nice on him,” Licht said as he entered the stall. He extracted a fine brush from the kit and began working out the knots in White Horse’s mane.

Chevalier watched intently, holding the ribbons closer so Licht could see. “But which will look nicer?” he asked.

Another ripple of warmth began to swell in Licht's cheeks, but a breeze hadn’t blown in a while. Did Chevalier actually value Licht’s opinion?

“Well, maybe the blue will look better in the daytime and the yellow at night,” Licht replied. Chevalier hmmed and took the ribbons back, tying them into different intricately shaped bows on his fingers. No doubt Yves would find them charming, and a small smile involuntarily crept onto Licht’s face as he pictured the three of them dressing up White Horse in tiny bows.

What a ridiculous idea! As if Chevalier would ever agree to that! But still, even though Licht always spent time in the stables alone, the thought of inviting others once in a while wasn’t too indigestible. Is this what it was like to share hobbies? Could this be how Licht could cure his—as Chevalier called it—seclusiveness? They could have been friends all along?

The moment seemed right. He decided to shoot his shot. “Yves has lots more ribbon. And lace, too. Maybe we could all make bows for Maron and White Horse someday?”

“Perhaps,” said Chevalier, all ten of his fingers now bound by bows. “Tell me, do you think White Horse is attractive?”

Or maybe they were never meant to be friends after all.

“Er—” Licht stumbled. “He’s a healthy and well-kept stallion. I could ask for nothing more from him.”

“Not to you. A female.”

“Uhm… You could probably ask Nokto to grab a maid’s opinion?”

Chevalier clenched his fists, crushing the tiny bows. “A female horse,” he hissed.

“Oh!” Licht accidentally pulled too hard on a knot. White Horse turned to him and snorted sharply, dousing his face in chewed-up carrot. Yes, that tranquil moment had definitely passed.

Licht quickly unbuttoned his coat and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. The very next morning, that shirt would be burning in the back of his fireplace.

“Is White Horse trying to impress a mare?” he asked in an attempt to salvage the conversation.

“We only agreed I reveal my intention for the carrot theft,” said Chevalier.

“Political subterfuge,” Licht corrected.

“Shall I send you to dreamland instead?” said Chevalier.

“I’ll be sure to ask for the story in the morning then,” said Licht.

Chevalier leaned against the wall and began undoing the bows as he spoke. “Do not interrupt. It began on a trip west last fall. Clavis and I were inspecting numerous citadels along the border, and as luck would have it I received word that the newest volume of a series I was following was set to release the day before our scheduled return to the palace.”

Licht swapped his brush for a flat bristled one and started on White Horse’s neck as he listened. He recalled Chevalier’s trip very clearly. Clavis had made a point to leave behind a timed-trap in his absence. On the morning of the twins’ birthday, hundreds of colorful paper airplanes were released in the roundtable room, each bearing a handwritten message like: “Thinking of you from so far away!” and “Big brother will bring home a bigger gift, just you wait!” and “Say your prayers, Sariel!” Licht occasionally still felt the ghosts of those paper cuts stinging his skin.

Unfazed by Licht’s cringing expression, Chevalier continued. “Despite Clavis’s bemoaning protests, we managed to reach the final location of our tour and complete the inspection with time to spare, albeit at the sacrifice of several nights’ rest. Our fool of a brother was at his wit’s end, but aside from his sanity we arrived back in town with zero casualties. He agreed to retrieve the book before returning to the palace as an excuse to finally be out of my sight, so he broke off from our party as we rode up. And seeing as White Horse knows the way to the gates I saw no imminent danger requiring my remaining alert and allowed myself to rest my eyes.”

Licht tried to remember the exact day of their return and if anything remarkable occurred, but his mind kept coming up with blanks. (He wasn’t allowed to interrupt, but the narrator can. Chevalier said he fell asleep.)

Chevalier finished removing the yellow ribbon from his fingers and crumpled it in his fist. “While resting my eyes, I could still sense the passage of time, and after an appropriate amount of time until when I knew we should have reached the palace had passed I opened them again but found we were in an unfamiliar area I had never visited before. We were near the outskirts of town where the cattle graze. Seventeen houses in total, each unremarkable in size and structure, yet White Horse perched at the fence of the red brick house watching a jet black mare race across the yard. Never before had I seen him so fixated on one task, even when we are in battle. I called his name and pulled his reins but he completely ignored me. I was about alight from his back to admonish him when the woman of the household spotted us from her window, and she let out a piercing scream that would have woken the entire town had it been dark. It was enough to startle White Horse, at any rate. More than seeing you tonight.”

At this, Licht instantly remembered the day. Everyone at the palace heard the scream, and the subsequent chill emanating from Clavis’s smile when he suggested Licht join him to wait by the gates could only be bested by Chevalier’s cold stare. Never before nor since was Licht so grateful for it to be his turn to clean the domestic faction office than on that day. Maron remembered the day because it was the only time Chevalier returned wearing robes stained not in red, but brown. And Chevalier remembered the day because there did not yet exist enough scientific literature in Rhodolite on lobotomy.

Recounting is all well and good, but White Horse preferred matters tending to the future. And while he was used to his master and his soft-spoken brother’s tendencies towards silence, this silence stretching on in their conversation soon bored the stallion. When at last it became too much to bear, White Horse sucked in breath through his teeth, pressed his nose against Chevalier’s head, and released a mighty sneeze that nearly shook the princes off balance. From across the hall, Maron whinnied at White Horse in disapproval, and Licht quickly steadied himself then began patting the horse’s white neck. This served two purposes: calming White Horse’s fury, and giving Licht an excuse to turn away as Chevalier picked globules of horse mucus out of his hair.

It seemed acceptable for Licht to speak now. “So White Horse likes Verona?”

“Who?” Chevalier raked the last of the snot out with the blue ribbon and tossed it onto the remains of the ripped bag.

“The mare. That’s her name,” said Licht.

“Don’t be ridiculous, they have never once interacted for White Horse to develop any feelings of ‘liking’.”

“Fine. He fancies her.”

“Such a useless emotion. Enough of it to lose his head at the screams of her owner,” scoffed Chevalier.

“He’s alright though, isn’t he?” said Licht.

“Only because I had the sense to steady us in time,” said Chevalier. What he conveniently neglected to mention was how after steadying White Horse, the woman raced out of the house waving a broomstick in the air because she didn’t recognize the Second Prince and assumed he was there to horsenap Verona. Before Chevalier could diffuse the situation, White Horse jumped at her advance and fell backwards, landing both himself and his rider in a puddle of mud. Prince Clavis was the only person standing at the gates to witness their soiled return, and he keeps the memory fresh in his mind for days when he feels blue. But there was no reason for Licht to know about it, so Chevalier said, “I have upheld my end of the deal. Pass me a brush.”

“But you didn’t explain the carrots,” said Licht.

“Do not ask for a story if you are too bleary-eyed to follow along,” said Chevalier. He swiped the brush out of Licht’s hand and began grooming White Horse’s other side. White Horse neighed softly and went back to staring longingly out of the window.

Rays of false dawn shone from the horizon, layering the first brush stroke of saturation on town. Licht followed White Horse’s gaze out the window towards the pasty colors of the pasture in the distance, just as the signs of a red house came into view.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion truly catching up to him, but Licht didn’t notice Maron trotting up to him until he felt his warm muzzle pressed against the small of his back. Even without facing him, he knew what Maron wanted to say.

“Maron’s friends with Verona,” said Licht. “We visit the horses there every month for a stretch. We could introduce White Horse next time we go, if you want.”

Perhaps the exhaustion caught up to Chevalier as well, because the small part of him that planned to find Licht in the stables tonight tingled with vindication. “What do you require?” he asked.

“I don’t need anything,” said Licht.

“And I do not desire to remain in your debt. Name your price,” said Chevalier.

It is a curious state to find oneself able to demand anything from Prince Chevalier. I can think of several princes who would jump at the opportunity and ask from him all manner of favors. But Licht was a simple secluded sword master equine enthusiast who when asked what he wanted most in the world would probably reply with the most seemingly mundane thing. And yet, it would still make him smile.

“Help me get rid of this cough. That way I can help disrupt the carrot supply chain next time.”

I once wrote a fic in the past when I thought Maron was a mare. If anyone else mistakenly thought he was a lady horse because of that fic, I take full responsibility, that's my bad.

With this fic I tried out a new narrative style. It was out of my comfort zone, but a fun experiment. If anyone has any constructive feedback about it (positive or negative, I want to learn) feel free to leave a comment or an ask. Did it engage you more in the story, did it slow it down, did it make you laugh, did it bore you... whatever you feel like sharing :) Otherwise, thanks for reading.

#ikemen series #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikepri fanfic #wishuponanaidecc #licht klein #chevalier michel #ikepri licht #ikepri chevalier #ikepri maron #ikepri white horse #scorchie writes

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angryvampire · 24 days

Text

I just woke up and i had a nice dream. Two dreams actually.

The first was of LMK.

That was going on a big fair in Megapolis, there were a bunch of games and activities around. Mei, MK and i think Sandy and Red Son were playing some sort of virtual reality game that im not sure what it was, but had a lot of blue pixels around it. There was a play, and a bunch of youguai were watching, and a few were using animal masks that they got as prizes. The stage resembled a circus or greek theather because its was circular, and there were no props, just the actors. Then for some reason i was there too, but in a tent trying to win a game where i had to throw something and hit some sort of target. Macaque was there too, and he had won a pink bat plushie that resembled a peach and was very fluffy. I managed to win, and i had to choose between a bunch of bat plushies that looked almost the same, they were mostly a dark blue in color, but with rainbowy details. Macaque pointed out one had little stars on its back, so i chose that one and we played with our plushies :D i don't remember seeing Wukong TwT but i thiiiiiink he was in the background watching the play. The lighting around everything was blue, purple, and a shade of blueish green sometimes, so the dream looked very pretty because of the colorful lights. I might draw something of it while my memory is fresh.

The second dream i think was based on Black Myth wukong, because the appearence of the dream resembled the artstyle of the game.

There was this boy that had an argument with his father, thinking he wasn't wanted, so he ran away, but got lost in the forest where lots of youguai were known to roam. He could hear some approaching when he finds an odd metal trinket on the ground. It was small, round and had holes in it where you could see a little bell inside. A wolf guai approached him, saying he was going to eat him and share with the others. The boy tries lying, saying he was a youguai cub and not a human kid, but the wolf kept approaching. After the boy said he was a tiger youguai, his apearence changes and he now looks like one (i think the Wolf must have had bad eyesight, because didn't he just see he looked like a human before? Eh, i think it was Because he was in the dark, anyways) the wolf stops, a bit confused but is convinced the boy was telling the truth since he looked like a tiger, and apologises for the mistake, and tells him to follow because the woods were dangerous and he's supposed to be in school. Turns out the trinket the boy took could make a human look like a guai, but If he stays in bright light they would be able to see the ilusion, he realizes this when the last rays of sunlight hits his arm, making the ilusion kinda transparent and you could see a human arm underneath. He follows the wolf to a place that was kinda like a youguai school or daycare, and the kids were having a snack on a big table, and there were some adults supervising too. He is careful to avoid the lanterns and stay were light was more dim, and eats and chats with them. This one dream legit looks more like a tale or something that could appear in the game, idk.

My dreams are always very detailed and story like, so i thought of sharing them here :)

#dreams #dream #i dreamed this #mk lmk #lmk macaque #lmk six eared macaque #lmk mk #lmk mei #lmk red son #black myth wukong #xiyouji #jttw #dream writing #story #lego monkie kid mk #lego monkie kid sun wukong #journey to the west

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oceans-goddess · 9 months

Text

Negan x reader pt. 1

Author's note: Guys, I'm sorry, this is so shit. All I've written lately are papers for class, so I just wrote this to get the creative juices flowing. I know its not much, but PART 2 IS COMING AND IT WILL BE FLUFFIER DON'T WORRY!!! Trust the process🙏🙏🙏🙏. I'm planning on having this be a multi-part story because I've been fucking obsessed w this man lately like fucckkkkkk just LOOK AT HIM ARGH anyways let me know if you wanna be in the taglist😘😘

Summary: Female!reader is on her own until she comes across Negan and his men on a supply run.

Warnings: mentions of death, panic attack

______________________________________________________________

Making it this far was pure luck. When the walkers came, I’d been lucky enough to have a father who’d been in the military and could teach me how to shoot. When we had to leave home and live life out on the road, constantly searching for cans of old food, I’d been lucky enough to always come across something to eat. When it got cold, we got lucky enough to find houses with fireplaces and enough firewood to last us the night.

I guess my luck ran out a month ago when a walker fell out of a closet and latched onto my dad’s throat while we were scoping out another house to stay in.

Since then, I’ve been on my own, running out of bullets, out of gas, out of hope. But I had to keep going. He’d been so sure that we would find others. Survivors. People who could help us. I had to find them– to know that his hope wasn’t for nothing. He’d kept a map with him, and we had been driving in a circular pattern, the center being our house in southern Virginia, looking for evidence of a settlement.

So here I was, staying in the master bedroom of a quaint house with a well-stocked pantry, planning out my next steps– with every closet checked, of course. I was plotting out the highway exit I would take tomorrow when I suddenly heard an engine.

A car engine.

People.

I hurried over to the window and peaked through the blinds. Surprisingly, the people in the trucks and vans stopped just a few houses down from the one I was in. Why didn’t they continue on?

Several men climbed out of a large truck– and all of them were equipped with massive guns. I knew that they were likely for walkers, but the sneers on their faces were unnerving. I watched to see what they would do.

Then, a man with a black leather jacket and a barbed bat hopped out of the cab of another truck and began ordering the men in different directions with a wild smile plastered across his face. Anxiety grew in the pit of my stomach.

After a few minutes, his men came back out of the houses nearest to the trucks with arms full of soup cans and furniture. When they were done, he ordered them to continue on in other houses, pointing directly at the one I was in.

My father might’ve been right– there were other people out there– but I never really considered that they might not want to help me. That they might not want me to join them. Not to mention I hadn’t seen a single woman come out of any car...

I needed to get out before they got here.

I dropped to the floor, grabbed my things as quickly as I could, and shoved them into my pack, but before I could stand, there was a bang from downstairs. I heard men speaking, laughing.

My heart racing, I pulled the closet door open as quietly as I could and slipped inside, listening for a moment before I realized where I stood.

I was standing inside a closet, waiting for someone to finish searching the house.

Images of my father bleeding out on the floor surged into my mind. I gagged as I remembered the foul smell that billowed out of that closet when it opened just moments before I lost him. I remembered his screams, and my hands shaking as I shoved a knife through its skull. And then through his when he died.

Tears streamed down my face, and I covered my mouth, choking back sobs. They couldn’t find me. They couldn’t. I could tell these men wouldn’t allow anything to take them by surprise like my father had. They would shoot first, ask questions later.

I heard footsteps as a few men clomped up the stairs. More tears fell. All I could think of were their guns, and my father’s blood; their knives, and him lying there on the floor.

* * *

“It’s a girl, sir.”

Negan raised a brow.

“A girl? In the house? Alive?”

“Yes, sir. She was hiding in a closet upstairs, crying.” The leader of the Saviors hummed in reply, and stood thinking for a moment.

“Should I… should I bring her out here?” his subordinate asked. He only waved a hand in response and walked toward the house.

Inside, men looked at him with wide eyes and confused expressions. One man-- Nicholas, he believed his name was-- walked up to him and explained that the girl wouldn’t move from the closet floor.

Upon reaching the master bedroom, more of his men bombarded him with dimwitted statements.

“Sir, she won’t move."

“She just keeps crying.”

“Alright, alright, guys. Honestly, it is just a girl. I’m sure you’ve seen one before, so fucking relax,” he said with exasperation in his voice. He stopped when he heard a sniffle from the closet, then walked over and peered inside.

Though Negan wasn’t known for his big heart, he was sure his broke a little when he saw the young woman that sat before him.

* * *

“All of you, out. Now.”

That was all the man in the leather jacket had to say for the room to become empty again, save for the two of us. I was still on the floor, my chest heaving, my hands shaking.

The man squatted in front of me, bat in hand. It was chipped and cracked in several spots, especially at the head. In the blemishes, I swore I saw faint splotches of red. I thought I would vomit.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if he was speaking to a cornered animal. In a way, I suppose, he was.

“Are you alright? Why are you crying? You hurt?”

I inhaled, meaning to respond, but all I could manage was another weak cry.

The man cocked his head to the side a bit, then looked down at the bat in his hand, realizing what was the matter. He tossed it behind him onto the bed, then turned back to me and raised his hands and continued.

“Sorry about that. Sometimes I forget I’ve even got her in my hands... I’m Negan. What’s your name, doll?”

With the bat out of sight, it was a bit easier to concentrate on his hands, his face. Though he looked quite rugged, with a shaggy beard and thick eyebrows, his brown eyes were soft, inviting.

“Y/n,” I whispered after a moment. My voice was hoarse, and I let out a cough. He sat down fully on the ground and crossed his legs.

“I’m sorry, can you say that one more time? I didn’t quite catch it.”

“Sorry… It’s-- it's Y/n,” I repeated, wringing my hands together as I spoke. He smiled.

“Y/n. What a beautiful name. It suits you, it really does. Look, I’m sorry we scared you, sweetheart. Is this your house? We didn’t know anyone was here when we came in.”

I shook my head.

“No, this isn’t my house. I was just passing through.” The man, Negan, nodded.

“Are you by yourself, honey?”

I hesitated. He put his hands up again.

“I promise, we don’t wanna hurt you. We were just lookin’ for supplies to take back with us.” My eyes widened as I recalled what I had been thinking when Negan’s trucks first arrived on the street. This could be my chance to escape the world my father hadn’t been able to. This is what he would have wanted for me, I knew it.

“I… yes, I’m alone. I have been for a while now.” A short whistle sounded from Negan’s lips.

“You’ve been surviving out here all on your own? That’s fucking badass, I hope you know that.”

I smiled shyly, looking down at my lap and sniffling.

“Hey, have you eaten in a while?” he asked. “We’ve got a few sandwiches, apples, some sodas, down in one of the trucks. I’m sure we could spare some for you if you’re hungry.”

“I don't wanna take your lunch–”

“Aw, don’t worry about it, doll. There’s plenty extra. But I appreciate you bein’ so considerate,” he explained, finishing with a smile. He must’ve known he was making progress with me. I wiped my eyes a bit.

“C’mon, let’s go grab you something to eat,” he said, standing up and holding his large hand out to me. Looking up at him from where I sat, I could imagine how meek I must’ve looked– how embarrassingly harmless. But looking up at him stirred something in me. His confident half-smile, his slicked back hair-- his entire persona was so charming, so comforting.

I grabbed his hand, and he pulled me up with ease before grabbing his bat and leading me downstairs.

* * *

“You feel like having another?” Negan asked as I finished my second peanut butter and jelly. We sat in the dusty cab of the truck he’d come in, and he tapped his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel while watching me eat. I shook my head.

“No, I’m okay, thanks,” I responded. The bed of the truck shifted up and down as men piled boxes of supplies into it. If they needed this much stuff, I thought, there had to be a ton of people where they came from that were planning to use it. With that in mind, I cleared my throat to ask the question I’d been gathering the guts to ask since I’d sat down.

“Negan,” I began, and he hummed. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything you want, honey,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. I blushed and looked away, then carried on.

“You said you were taking the supplies back with you…”

“Mmhmm,” he grunted, gently urging me to continue.

“Back to where, exactly?” I whispered. He twisted to face me more in his seat.

“We’ve got sort of a compound set up,” he explained. “It’s not too far from here. It’s got fences, walls. Lots of people, and plenty more food to go around.”

All this time, my father had been right, and then some. People weren’t just surviving out here in this world– they were thriving.

“Do you… have any extra space?”

Negan laughed heartily.

“For you, doll? Abso-friggin-lutely.”

I nodded.

“So I can… I can come back with you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I’d love to have you come back with us, y/n. Can’t leave a pretty thing like you with them ugly sons of bitches, now can I? You’d be much more protected there than you are here, I can tell you that.”

* * *

About an hour later, Negan sent a grumbling Dwight to find a new seat in another truck and was driving back to the compound with y/n in the passenger seat.

She was a cute little thing, he’d decided, and he’d been watching her shamelessly since he’d brought her outside. Her teary, guarded eyes, her cute little pout, everything about her was fucking adorable.

Although, he was also amazed at how long she’d held up out here. People like her, people who hid and cried instead of standing and fighting, those people were pretty much gone by now. How had she made it this far?

He struck up a polite conversation, asking questions here and there. There had to be some explanation for how she’d survived for all this time. After a few minutes, though, it was clear that the questions were making her nervous. His curiosity about her was eating away at him as he drove– he was used to getting answers faster than this. But he supposed he could wait this time.

The sweet girl beside him sat silently for the rest of the drive, and though the questions piled up in his mind, Negan was smiling.

#twd negan #twd negan smith #negan smith x reader #negan #the walking dead #negan fanfiction #negan smith fanfiction #negan x y/n #negan fluff #negan smith fluff #the walking dead negan #the walking dead negan smith #fanfic

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bythenarrative · 5 months

Note

You said your asks were open if they still are New Mexico headcanons please lol

This is in no way forcing you to do it if you can’t so please don’t feel forced or rushed!

YEEES!!! yea of course!! i adore NM i think about him sm... i dunno if i have many hcs, but i will share mine ^_^

New Mexico HCs!

He's only of the only states that can genuinely handle spice. The vast majority of the statehouse is absolutely awful at handling spice, but New Mexico can just..eat raw peppers with no reaction.

He absolutely hates when the theater loving states sing Santa Fe from Newsies. It makes him want to start swinging. When New York sings it? God he's plugging his ears, and grabbing a bat to smack him.

Smokey The Bear is actually from New Mexico! So I think this guy has Smoke The Bear merch for DAYS! He's a huge fan dude. Only you can prevent forest fires .

He's one of the youngest states! Seeing as New Mexico is one of the "newest" states, he's super young.

It surprises a lot of people, but New Mexico is actually extremely artistic! He's constantly found painting and sketching. He typically paints / draws landscapes and flowers. He absolutely adores how nature looks, and wants to preserve it in paper.

He switches between English and Spanish often. It's a bilingual struggle. Often when he's upset, he'll begin shouting in English, and then it turns into a jumbled mix of Spanish and English.

He believes in UFOs, and aliens! A UFO crashed in Roswell in 1947, and he's been extremely passionate about it ever since! He talks about it all the time.

He's got a large scar on his back, a circular explosion scar! This is from when the first atomic bomb was created, and then detonated as a test in New Mexico.

He has a love / hate relationship with Breaking Bad. He absolutely hates that it's currently what he's known for. Every time that he hears where Walter White lives he goes fucking insane. Oh that boy just goes crazy.

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werewolffeelings · 8 months

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accidentally started a crazy exgirlfriend rewatch and now I'm thinking about your wip.... might you, perchance, have anything to share 🥺🙏

cheeryos ily!!! 🥺🥺 god i need to do a rewatch too. also thank you for asking, I've been looking for an excuse to post the beginning of this fic lmao. and by the beginning, I mean nearly the whole first chapter uhhh........... enjoy? 💖

When Ronan Lynch was sixteen years old, his family rented a vacation house in Cape Cod. Surly teenager that he was, Ronan wanted nothing less than to be in the heat and the sun and to share a room with his older brother Declan. He spent the first couple of days melting under various umbrellas and eating his body weight in popsicles in an effort to stay cool.

The house next to them was considerably larger and more ostentatious, and it had been empty, at first. Then a family took up residence. Even from down the beach, Ronan could tell they were the kind of stuffy rich that Ronan had no interest in.

Until Gansey.

Gansey was beautiful and sweet, intelligent and really fucking weird. He believed in truth above all else and he thought magic was real. He took to Ronan so quickly that Ronan could hardly remember what had been the catalyst to their friendship. It felt instantaneous. Inevitable.

When they finally kissed, it was all fire and explosions—the fucking Fourth of July in Ronan’s stomach and his heart.

Gansey was Ronan’s first. His first kiss, his first time, his first love.

They spent nearly two weeks together. And then Gansey left. He was always going to leave, of course. Gansey had a life in DC and Ronan’s family lived on a farm in upstate New York, and they were only ever going to be temporary. A summer fling.

But Ronan thought he would have more time. They should have had two more days together. Instead, he woke one morning to find the Ganseys’ summer home vacated, luxury SUV gone from the circular driveway, Gansey nowhere to be found. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

***

In the townhouse he shared with his brothers, Ronan was doing his level best to sink into the uncomfortable and austere living room couch. The townhouse was entirely to Declan’s taste, which meant that it was not at all to Ronan’s taste, which meant that Ronan vehemently hated every square inch of it. Its bland, boring walls and its bland, boring furniture, and its bland, boring artwork.

With his eyes shut and blood-pumping EDM blaring through his headphones, he could almost drown out that expansive hatred. Almost.

Someone pulled the headphones off his ears and around his neck. He turned his head to make sure it wasn’t Matthew before he snapped at them. Sure enough, it was Declan. He was wearing a bland, boring suit, had his curls styled back in a bland, boring fashion and he was holding a stack of bland, boring mail.

Ronan opened his mouth to shout something involving a compound fuck-word based swear, but the shout came out wordless because Declan threw the topmost piece of mail directly into Ronan’s face. Its corner jabbed him in the nose with surprising force. The envelope was heavy with sheets and sheets of paper inside.

He batted the envelope away and said, “Jesus shitting fuck, assface, what’s your fucking problem?”

Declan’s eyebrow raised, pointedly. He said, “Open it. It’s from BU.”

Ronan’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shut his eyes. He crumpled the envelope in his fist.

Declan said, “Come on, Ronan, don’t you want to see if you got in?”

“No.”

He stood up from the couch and went upstairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed. He uncurled his fist.

The curtain was shut, so it was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that he couldn’t see the envelope addressed to him and stamped with Boston University’s seal.

He ripped it open. Dear Mr. Lynch, it began. Congratulations—

Ronan's vision swam. He dropped the envelope to the floor. He didn’t know how long he sat there, with stomach acid still eating his insides away, bit by bit.

He couldn’t breathe. He needed—air, or something. Anything.

He was in the foyer with feet jammed into untied boots and leather jacket over his shoulders before he’d even registered the desire as more than an abstract. Declan was saying something. Matthew was saying something else. He slammed the door as if the sound would slam him back into his own body, but it didn’t.

He walked, and walked, unseeing, until he came to the park a few blocks away from Declan’s townhouse. The air always felt clearer there, although Ronan knew it wasn’t. It was the same polluted city air that was all over Boston, but here it was filtered through trees just starting to sprout leaves and lush, green grass, and the closest approximation of wilderness available in a place like this. He dragged in lungful after lungful of it. It smelled of spring-fresh foliage in the rain, and only then did Ronan realize it was raining—dripping down his face and soaking through his clothes.

When he came to the little bridge that crossed over a stream, Ronan stopped, and he stood there, staring at ripples in the water, for a long time.

It was good that he’d gotten in, wasn’t it? That was why he’d applied, after all.

No, it wasn’t. Declan was why he’d applied. He’d finally worn Ronan down, after one too many years of listlessness, and school was at least something to do. Something to occupy the endless hours of the day.

But now it was real. He’d been accepted, and he would have to sit for lectures, trapped in classrooms, condemned to a life of homework and tests and pointless assignments, and for what? A degree that he didn’t want. A job that he didn’t want. A future that he didn’t want.

He couldn’t do this again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw someone walking toward him with an obnoxiously purple umbrella and an obnoxiously turquoise polo shirt. He looked back to the river, but something tickled at the back of his mind. He looked back at the stranger and he took in their face.

And it wasn’t a stranger, after all.

Everything in Ronan lit up with recognition, inundated with memories—wet sand between his toes and surf lapping at his thighs. Summer warm hands on his waist. Kisses that tasted like mango gelato.

Breathless, Ronan said, “Gansey?”

The stranger looked up. Ronan met a pair of hazel eyes, bright and curious behind gold, wire-framed glasses. He smiled a big, dimpled smile and said, “Ronan? My God, is that you?”

“Yeah. Fuck.”

Gansey jogged the last few steps to meet Ronan on the bridge, and he wrapped his arms around him—one looped around his ribs and the other stretched up to curl over his shoulders. Ronan had to lean down to return the hug. He pressed his face into Gansey’s shiny, windswept hair. Gansey smelled like fresh mint and he laughed delightedly into Ronan’s ear.

Ronan’s heart was going to explode.

Gansey pulled from the embrace but kept his hand on Ronan’s arm, umbrella lifted up high so Ronan could fit under it with him. He said, “Wow. It’s really you. It’s been so long.”

“Yeah.” Ronan knew he should say something else, but his mind was wiped clean—empty but for every memory he possessed of a single summer nearly ten years ago. And Gansey, glowing and radiant in front of him—the sun shining through dreary, gray clouds.

Gansey smacked Ronan’s arm gently and dropped his hand. “What have you been up to? I didn’t know you lived in Boston!”

“Yeah. Uh, not much,” Ronan said. He needed to divert the conversation away from him so Gansey didn’t find out what a loser he was. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m just in town for a moment moving the rest of the stuff from my apartment.”

Ronan’s spirits sank nearly as soon as they’d lifted. “You’re moving?”

“Yes! Back to Virginia. Henrietta to be exact. It’s a lovely town. I’ve been living there for a couple of months, I was just waiting for someone to close on my old house so I could make the full leap.”

“Oh. What’s in Virginia?”

“A position opened up at a law firm where a friend of mine works, and he put in a good word for me! I’m rather excited. It’s so nice to be around like-minded people. People who really want to make a difference. And you should see it, Ronan. It’s so beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve been surrounded by nature’s majesty like that.”

“Yeah, that sounds. Nice.”

“It does indeed! But I do wish we’d run into each other earlier, Ronan. We could have grabbed a drink, caught up properly.”

“We could get one now,” Ronan pleaded.

Gansey’s face fell, like maybe he didn’t want to reject him, but Ronan could see it coming anyway. He said, “I'm afraid I don’t have time, at the moment. My sister Helen is waiting for me to return. You remember Helen, don’t you? She’s helping me move. Well, directing the movers. We really need to get on the road soon. Work in the morning, you understand.”

Ronan did not understand, but he said, “Yeah. Sure.”

Gansey thumbed at his bottom lip. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make Ronan’s stomach flip over. He longed for the taste of mango gelato. Just one more time.

Gansey reached into the pocket of his chinos and fiddled with his phone for a moment before handing it to Ronan. “Listen, give me your number. If you’re ever in Virginia, please let me know. I’d love to see you again. I mean it. We’ll get that drink.”

Ronan nodded, certain he was betraying his eagerness, but he didn’t care. “Okay.” He put his number in and sent himself a text.

Gansey smiled. “We have so much to catch up on.”

And then Gansey’s phone started blaring a generic ringtone. They startled away from each other. “I’m sorry,” Gansey said. “I should get this.” He raised one finger in the air to signal that Ronan should wait, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello Helen.” Gansey shut his eyes. “Yes, I’m on my way back.” He paused while Helen pattered on and on. “I got caught up with an old friend. I’ll be there soon. Not more than a few minutes. All right. I said all right. Bye.”

Gansey hung up and heaved a great sigh. “Sorry about that. I really should go.”

Ronan's throat was tight so he cleared it and said, “It’s fine. Go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

A sad, private smile lit up his face. “I hope so. Well.” He reached out a hand like he was going for a handshake, but changed his mind at the last moment and pulled Ronan in for another hug.

He let himself sink into his warmth and the soft, solid planes of his body. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, but Gansey could.

Just like old times.

“Goodbye, Ronan,” he said, and then he was gone, and it was as if it had never happened at all.

The entire interaction couldn’t have lasted for longer than a couple of minutes. It shouldn’t have impacted Ronan’s life at all, but something had shifted inside of him. Like Gansey had cracked open a door and some dusty corner of his heart had been exposed to fresh air and morning light for the first time in years.

He drifted back to the apartment in a haze, floating on the high of Gansey’s touch, replaying his words over and over.

I’d love to see you again.

I mean it.

We have so much to catch up on.

And then—Henrietta.

Henrietta.

The first thing Ronan did when he got back to the townhouse was fend off another interrogation from Declan. When he got back to his room, there was no crumpled letter lying discarded on top of piles of dirty clothes. Declan must have taken it, which meant he’d been in his room, which meant Ronan would have to murder him later.

The second thing he did was boot up his laptop. It took him several minutes to figure out his Goddamn Facebook password, and when he managed to log in, he searched for Richard Campbell Gansey III. He sent a friend request, and waited for a solid minute and a half for a follow back.

When none came, he Googled Henrietta, Virginia. It was a quaint, bustling little town sprinkled with old buildings and Victorian houses, nestled in the lush valley between the Blue Ridge mountains. He could see why it appealed to someone like Gansey, who, despite his image, had always come alive surrounded by nature and beautiful old things.

A notification popped up. Ronan swore at it, until he realized that Gansey had accepted his friend request. A surge flooded Ronan’s whole body. He clicked on the tab so eagerly he closed it by accident and then had to reload it.

He looked at Gansey’s profile. He went through every photo and absorbed every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He knew where Gansey worked, knew who his friends were, knew how and where he spent his free time. The most important bit of information, though, was his relationship status—single.

I’d love to see you again.

I mean it.

Gansey had Instagram, too, but the problem was that Ronan didn’t. He couldn’t create a new, empty account for himself, and then follow Gansey immediately. That would look too desperate. So he created a fake one and hoped Gansey wasn’t the type of guy to reject followers he didn’t actually know.

Fortunately for Ronan, Gansey seemed to be something of an influencer for fucking nerds, and he had a few thousand followers. Ronan was just one of the masses, eager to see more of the man posed on a mountain cliff like an intrepid explorer, or a king looking over his sprawling kingdom. It was possible that some of them were genuinely into Welsh history, but Ronan was willing to bet not many.

Then Ronan found himself on Zillow, looking into Henrietta, Virginia’s real estate. Declan might have been proud, if it was for any reason other than this.

***

Incense permeated the air. Holy water was still wet on Ronan’s fingertips. The cushioned wood of the kneeler creaked under his weight. He opened his eyes.

The church was empty and cavernous. Dust motes floated in a haze of kaleidoscopic colored light. Stained glass stretched towards the ceiling and slipped across every surface.

Every pillar was a tree trunk. Vines crept up the walls. Flowers sprouted up between cracks in the marble floor. An archway stood where the altar should have been, made of twisting branches and leaves.

Ronan walked through it, into the forest beyond. It was wild and dense with oak trees—nothing at all like the park by Declan’s apartment. He wandered down the narrow footpath until the ground was taken over by twisting stems covered in thorns. Ronan followed their path with his eyes, up and up, to a throne made out of perfect red roses in full bloom. Sitting on the throne, golden crown on his head, was Gansey.

Even in wire-framed glasses and a turquoise polo shirt, he belonged there—the just ruler of this forest. Of the whole world.

Ronan climbed up the clusters of rose stems. Thorns cut into his palms, over and over, until blood was dripping down his wrists—a distantly familiar feeling.

Gansey looked at him only when he’d nearly reached the throne. He held out his hand, adorned by a golden claddagh ring with a glittering ruby at the center. Ronan took Gansey’s hand in his and touched his lips to the ring.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, amiably. “Get over here.”

In the space of a blink, Ronan was at his side, standing next to the throne, overlooking his kingdom. Henrietta, Virginia. It was the aerial view he’d seen on Google images.

An inexplicable sense of rightness washed over him—belonging. Purpose.

Gansey said, “What do you know about Welsh kings?”

***

Ronan woke up.

He got out of bed and packed all his clothes and his favorite things into three suitcases. He managed to sneak them all into his car without anyone noticing until the very last one.

With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he passed by his brothers at the kitchen table on his way to rummage through the fridge. Declan was sipping a latte and Matthew was shoveling a whole piece of burnt toast into his mouth.

Declan said, ”Ronan, what the hell are you doing?”

Ronan said, “Why don’t we have anything to eat?” He slammed the fridge door.

“Ronan.”

Ronan slid his own piece of toast into the toaster and turned it on. Dismissively, he said, “I’m moving to Virginia.”

Declan stood up. “You’re what?”

Matthew said, “What’s in Virginia?”

“Trees and shit, I think.”

Declan said, “What the fuck, Ronan? You’re not moving, you’re starting school in the fall.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Man that shit didn’t work on me when I was a teenager, what makes you think it will now? I already have the trust, there’s nothing for you to hold over my head anymore. I’m a fucking adult—“ Declan interrupted him with a sharp bark of a laugh. “And if I want to move to Virginia, you can’t stop me.”

Declan pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes in disappointment or frustration or hatred. “What is wrong with you? I thought you wanted to go back to school.”

Ronan snorted humorlessly. “Please.”

His toast popped, and he slathered it with butter.

“What are you going to do in Virginia? Do you even have a plan?”

With his mouth full of toast, he said, “Nope.”

Declan stood in the doorway of the townhouse with his arms crossed over his chest. Ronan tossed the duffel bag into the backseat of the BMW.

Hovering on the sidewalk, Matthew said, “You’re really leaving?”

His face was frozen in a childlike pout. Why Matthew cared so much was a little beyond Ronan. Matthew would realize in a few days—how much more peaceful and pleasant his life was without him there.

“Yeah,” Ronan said. “You can come visit when I’ve got a place.”

Matthew pulled him into a tight hug. It hit Ronan, then, how much he would miss him. How he was the only person on earth who could stand him. And how it was likely that Gansey wouldn’t be able to stand him, either, once he’d seen the person Ronan had become.

***

Ronan spent the first night in a hotel, and the following day touring rental properties. The first was a freshly remodeled bungalow with an open floor plan and shiny, new appliances. The second was a shabby, 30-year-old two-story several minutes from town, where every surface was the same shade of greige.

The third rental was a shithole fixer-upper row house four blocks from Henrietta’s sad excuse for a downtown. The wood hadn’t been painted with a fresh coat of blue in years and was starting to rot. The backyard was a fenced-in plot of dirt and crabgrass with one scrawny tree trapped in the far corner.

Ronan signed a month-to-month lease for way more than the place was worth.

When Ronan finished moving in (throwing his suitcases on the floor of the living room), he went for a walk around the neighborhood. The downtown area was all old buildings and quaint little shops.

When he looped back around to the row house, he noticed a bar partially obscured by the flowers and plants crawling all over the brick facing. The sign read Nino’s, and he recognized the name from posts tagged on Gansey’s Facebook and Instagram alike. Gansey hung out here—it was one of his usual haunts, and so Ronan shoved the door open and went inside.

It was 3pm on a Monday, and Ronan knew that Gansey was unlikely to be at a dive bar, but a wave of disappointment hit him, anyway, when he wasn’t.

Ronan took a seat at the bar. The bartender approached him. Her dark skin was very tattooed and very pierced and she looked entirely too city to be in this town.

This was confirmed when she said, in a British accent, “What’ll you be having, mate?”

“Beer, whatever’s on tap.” He’d missed lunch, so he added, “And you got anything to eat in this dump?”

The bartender laughed. “That very much depends on your definition of edible.” She slammed a laminated menu onto the bartop in front of him. He liked her, immediately.

Ronan glanced at the menu, and when the bartender came back with his beer, he could’ve sworn she was wearing a different outfit—something lacy and orange—but he chalked it up to not paying very much attention to women’s clothing. She said, “What’re you having, hotshot?” and it was just flirty enough that Ronan changed his mind. He didn’t like her at all.

He ordered a burger, medium rare, and took in the ambiance. The dark, old wood had grime sticking to it like a second skin, every surface comfortable and worn, barely lit by dim, old-fashioned stained-glass hanging lamps. The place really was a shithole, but like the row house, Ronan basked in it. He always felt more comfortable in shitholes.

When Ronan glanced back towards the bar, there were two identical bartenders. One was in leather, the other in orange lace. Ronan blinked, and another one emerged from the kitchen, tossed a plate in front of Ronan, slipped her apron over her head and left out the front door.

Bewildered, Ronan said, “Why are there so fucking many of you?”

The pair in front of him grinned the same blinding, toothy grin and said, in unison, “Identical sextuplets.”

Ronan popped a French fry in his mouth, and with it still full, said, “There are six of you? And you just decided to work at the same place, to what? Confuse the shit out of people?”

The one in orange said, “Pretty much, yeah.”

The one in leather said, “What’s the point of being an identical sextuplet if not to fuck with people?”

“You’ve got a point,” Ronan conceded.

Some deranged part of him was charmed by this place and this weird fucking chick and her gang of clones. Ronan’s trust covered the house, but he could use some extra cash. More than that, he needed a way to spend his time, he had experience, and most importantly, it would be a built-in excuse to see Gansey.

“Hey, I know you’ve got this whole family business or whatever-the-fuck going on here, but are you hiring?”

“Actually, yes,” the leather one said. “Only three of us work here, and Brooklyn wants to quit. You got experience?”

“Yep.”

The orange one said, “You some kind of serial murderer? A mafioso goon?”

“If I was in the mafia, what the fuck would I want to work here for?”

“No offense meant, mate, you’ve just got that kind of face. And you don’t seem like a local.”

“Neither do you.”

“Touché.”

“I’m not local, I just moved here and I could use a job, are you hiring or not?”

The leather one grinned and said, “All right, fuck it, you’re hired.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. You ready to start now?”

“What the fuck, I’m eating.” Ronan gestured to his plate.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to do a background check and all that shit. And the owner will want to meet you. Bring your shit tomorrow and we’ll get you sorted. I have somewhere to be on Friday and I need someone to cover my shift. What’s your name, guy who is definitely not a mafioso goon?”

“Ronan.”

She held out her hand and Ronan shook it. “Hennessy.”

***

Ronan started work on Wednesday. He knew what he was doing, so training was pretty minimal, and the owner didn’t seem particularly hung up on the paperwork side of shit.

He was cleaning up a spill when the front door opened. He glanced at it, only to find another rando instead of a familiar face.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

Ronan jumped, undignified, and bared his teeth at Hennessy. She was hovering over his shoulder with an insufferable smirk on her purple lips.

He said, “Who the hell would I be looking for? I just moved here, remember?”

“Then why are your eyes drawn to the door whenever it opens if you’re not looking for somebody?” Ronan glared in a way that made lesser people back down immediately. She said, “Exactly. Now who is it? Some other goon who you owe money to? Your dealer? Or an ex-lover, perhaps?

Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Shut the hell up.”

“Oh, really?” She grinned. “I didn’t take you for a lover, more of a fighter. You’ve got layers, I see.”

Apparently God was listening to Ronan’s prayers, for once, because they were both flagged to opposite sides of the bar before Hennessy could continue sticking her septum-pierced nose where it didn’t belong.

There was a man sitting at the bar, all but batting his pretty eyes at Ronan. He ignored him for as long as he could, and then sucked it up and stepped in front of him.

The guy was good-looking in an abrupt, startling way. He had an interesting face—gaunt, sunken-eyed, but elegant. Ronan’s heart flip-flopped. His hands tightened into fists until his nails bit into his palms.

The guy tilted his head and gave Ronan a clear once-over. He said, “You’re new.”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “Yep.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.”

“Just moved here.”

The guy leaned his elbows on the bartop. He had the sleeves of his slick, corporate button-down rolled to show tanned forearms, sinewy with muscle. “From where?”

“Boston.”

“Oh, I went to school in Cambridge.”

Fuck. It was even worse than he thought. The pretty-boy was a Harvard douche. Ronan growled, “Did you want something, or?”

Ronan only noticed the smile in the guy’s eyes when it vanished. His voice was cool when he said, “Gin and tonic.”

Ronan made him a gin and tonic. He handed it to him, and the guy’s long, knobby fingers wrapped around the glass. He said, “Thanks.”

The door opened again, and helplessly, Ronan looked. It was just a small group of twenty-something girls. Ronan sighed in disappointment for maybe the thirtieth time of the evening.

“Who are you looking for?”

Ronan stilled. How did he keep giving himself away? And more importantly, why was everyone in this bar incapable of minding their fucking business? He turned back to the guy and snapped, “What?”

“You keep looking at the door. You expecting someone?”

“Friend of mine."

“Well, I hope you find them.” The guy held up his glass in a little salute. “I think mine stood me up.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

The guy’s blue eyes narrowed, his pink mouth parted in offense. “You’re awfully rude for a customer service professional, you know.”

Ronan had to work to subdue a grin before it took over his face. “I know.”

As he was making a tequila sunrise for some sweater-wearing local, Hennessy inserted herself into his personal space and stage whispered in his ear, “Is that him?”

“Is who him?”

“Your loverboy. Over there.”

She pointed to the pretty Harvard douche. Ronan scoffed. “No.”

“You’re staring.”

Ronan’s face was very hot. It was so easy to overheat crammed in a bar with a couple dozen people. He said, “No, I’m not.”

He wasn’t. And he wasn’t listening, either, to the guy's phone conversation. Not until he said, “It’s all right, Gansey. See you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

Ronan’s heart kicked into double time. He barely waited for the guy to hang up before he interrupted, “Did you say Gansey? You know Gansey?”

The guy narrowed his eyes at Ronan. “He’s my best friend. You know Gansey?”

He put a lot of emphasis on the you, making the question skeptical and a little accusatory. As if someone like Ronan couldn’t possibly know someone like Gansey. And maybe he had a point, but he didn’t need to be such a dick about it.

Ronan said, “Yeah, I know Gansey.”

“That’s weird. I thought you said you just moved here.”

“I did.” He sighed, annoyed at having to explain himself. “We knew each other when we were kids. I ran into him last week.”

“Last week. In Boston?”

“Yep.”

“And now you’re here?”

Fuck. “Yep.”

Adam traced his fingertip in the condensation his glass was leaving on the bartop. “Why did you move here, again?

Ronan grit his teeth. “Felt like it.”

“What are you, some kind of stalker?”

Ronan hadn’t actually considered what other people would think about him moving halfway down the east coast for a guy, but he'd been an idiot not to. What else would it look like, to someone who didn’t know? He said, “No, I’m not a fucking stalker. Just seemed like a nice place, that’s all.”

“So you moved here? Here?”

“You live here.”

“Yeah, but I—“

“What? Your reasons were so much better than mine? What was it? Your shitty job moved you out here?”

“Something like that.”

Ronan sneered, “Cryptic.”

“Does Gansey know? That you’re here? He hasn’t mentioned you.”

“No, I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m—“ Ronan tore the rag from his shoulder and slapped it on the counter to start clearing some of the condensation away. So he could avoid the piercing eyes of this pretty stranger. “I’m working my way up to it, fuck off.”

“Oh,” the guy said, deflating.

“What.”

“You like him.” The guy huffed a humorless laugh. “Figures.”

“Look man, it’s none of your fucking business.”

“I think it is, actually. What was your name again?”

Ronan wanted to not tell him, to be contrary, to buy himself some time, but it would be easy enough to find out. And if this guy really was Gansey’s best friend, he imagined they would be seeing more of each other, anyway. He said, “Ronan Lynch.”

“Ronan Lynch,” he said, thoughtfully. “I know that name.”

“Do you?”

“You’re his ex, aren’t you?”

“I guess,” Ronan said, irritably.

Adam ran a hand through his burnished gold hair. “All right. At least I know you’re probably not here to murder him. It’s almost sweet,” he said, in a way that implied he didn’t much care for sweet things. He took a sip of his drink. “Still creepy though.”

Creepy? Ronan leaned closer than he’d dated up until now, hands on the bar and face close. “Don’t fucking tell him.” The guy didn’t retreat. He just stared, unimpressed, so Ronan added, “Please.”

The guy closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I won’t. For now. But he’s going to know as soon as he sees you. You’re not exactly being subtle. And I reserve the right to tell him if I think you’re being extra creepy.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, and you should probably know. He has a girlfriend.”

Ronan’s heart stopped. “What?”

The guy rolled his eyes. “He’s bi, not gay.”

“I know that but what the fuck? That’s not what Facebook says.”

The guy’s face creased with barely restrained judgment. “Well, Facebook officiality notwithstanding, he’s pretty serious about her, so don’t be an asshole.”

Ronan snapped, “Thanks for the heads up.”

Ronan was sulking, and he knew it. He was even more terse than usual, and if he weren’t so damn handsome, his tips would have been in the shitter. His phone was in his hand, the fucking Facebook app open on the link to Adam Parrish’s locked profile.

He’d been easy enough to find. Adam Parrish was tagged in most of Gansey’s photos. It was difficult to imagine how Ronan could have possibly not noticed him, even consumed as he was by Gansey. He threw his phone into the sink and hoped it drowned.

While he mixed some dickhead's martini, Hennessy sidled up to him, and before she could open her mouth to pry even more, he said, “He has a Goddamn girlfriend.”

“Who, that random guy?”

“Gansey.”

“Ah. The ex-lover, I presume?”

Ronan slammed the martini glass onto the bar and didn’t give a fuck that it splashed the person who ordered it.

Hennessy didn’t seem to give a fuck, either. She leaned her elbows back on the bar and said, “Ooh, the plot thickens. Is that what your little friend said to upset you so?”

“He’s Gansey’s best friend, apparently.”

“Small world.”

“Small fucking town.”

“Well, them’s the breaks, sailor. Don’t you dare quit before Friday, though. Remember, I’ve got plans.”

“Why would I quit?”

“Because your obsession with your ex is doomed to failure due to him being otherwise involved?”

“Fuck you.”

Hennessy raised both middle fingers and gave him two-handed salute.

Ronan stood at the kitchen island, shoveling furious bite after furious bite of cold, leftover Chinese takeout into his mouth.

Adam Parrish. That asshole. His words played in Ronan’s mind on a continuous loop. Who the hell did he think he was? He might know Gansey, but he didn’t know Ronan at-fucking-all. Creepy.

Gansey wouldn’t think he was creepy, would he?

Ronan snapped his chopstick in half and threw the splinters into the last dregs of his chow mein. His fingers ached, so he stretched them out and then he found himself reaching across the island for a lonely ballpoint pen, and then he was sketching on a brown paper napkin.

It had been awhile since he’d drawn anything. Months. No, years. More, since he’d drawn anything good. This wasn’t good. It was just a sketch—an elegant, bony hand with knobby knuckles and raised veins.

He drew it again, wrapped around a glass, before he realized what he was doing.

“Fuck,” he said, to the empty room. He crumpled up the napkin, threw it across the kitchen, and stomped upstairs to his empty off-white bedroom. He collapsed onto the mattress on the floor and he stared at the ceiling for hours, watching the sun streak pink light across it before finally succumbing to sleep.

***

He was behind the bar at Nino’s, wiping the same glass dry over and over, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at Gansey, handsome and tan, sitting across from an amorphosly beautiful woman. A caricature of a beautiful woman. Gansey was enraptured by her, hearts bursting from his eyes. This was the way he’d once looked at Ronan, so long ago.

He fed his date a bite from the plate of chocolate covered strawberries that sat between them and smiled as if she was the most perfect being on earth. They were bathed in pink light and bracketed by billowing red velvet curtains, like a stage play.

“Ronan,” Gansey said. Ronan was embarrassed at the way he lit up at the sound of Gansey’s voice wrapping around his name, his bid for Ronan’s attention. But even as he spoke, Gansey didn’t take his eyes off of his girlfriend. “Would you please bring us a bottle of your finest champagne? We’re celebrating, after all.”

The girlfriend giggled and flashed a gaudy, sparkling diamond ring. No, a claddagh set with a red ruby.

Ronan seethed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. But they didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t bringing them a bottle of their finest champagne, as if this dump had any champagne to speak of. They were too absorbed in each-other.

Hennessy said, “Them’s the breaks.”

Another voice said, “I told you.”

It was Adam Parrish, sitting further down the bar, alone, nursing a gin and tonic.

Ronan still couldn’t speak. He couldn't breathe past the pressure in his chest.

Adam said, “Just let it go, Ronan. It was never going to be you.”

#pynch fic #my writing #asks #cheeeryos #just this bit was WAY longer than i was imagining lol this fic is a monster 😅#someone force me to finish it please it needs to be exorcised #crazy ex bf

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rcrisdraws · 1 year

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Valid to eat fingers-

[Video ID: Video showing seven horror horse illustrations fit to fast paced electronic music The Magick by Witchz in the following order: The first horse is a spotted grey-white horse in a rearing position where some of the spots resemble the eye-spots of birch tree going all over the body. There is a belled collar at the very top of the neck. The background is of a rusty autumn birch forest. Second one is a purplish-dark horse with a tobiano pattern on the shoulder and flank with small stylized bat wings above the shoulder and a smoking carved pumpkin for a head: it has sharp stylized teeth and a stem climbing up from the middle looking somewhat like a small horn. It's leaping over a wooden fence and a pumpkin patch and is accompanied by a flock of crows that fly and play among the pumpkins. Third is a dark horse with a shiny, oily, gloppy, dripping texture sitting, in a similarly textured dark bog in the middle of a desolate field. Forth is a heavily feathered draft brown horse running with a wide open frothing mouth and boar-tusks; the eyes are gunky and the mane is very long and growing white. It is shot with multiple arrows but not bleeding. There is also a golden halo with 3 spears above its head. It runs on a battlefield at night under a glowing crescent moon. Fifth is a tall flea-bitten grey American Percheron horse with the neck where a blood shoulder would be transparent so that bright red bones are visible. Other spots of skin on the face and shoulder are also missing, showing the same red skeleton. The mane and tail are thin and patchy. It's trotting through a dark forest surrounded by red orbs. Sixth one is of a red roan pony with a translucent midsection that shows off the ribs and some of the internal organs, particularly the heart, which is stabbed with a steak knife and bleeding. The horse is also bleeding from the mouth and nose and has blood smeared and dripping from its mane and tail. The background is the highly detailed sculpted wall of a circular tower as the pony leaps down the stairs. There are blood splatters over the wall. Last one is of a pitch black horse with no mane, green eyes and magenta pupils with jaws wide open exposing long sharp canines. It’s framed in such a way that it looks like it’s about to swallow up an orange moon. The background shows a range of mountains made orange by the sunset. End ID]

#halloween #horse #horse art #horror #surreal horror #surreal #gothic #gothic americana #blood #scopophobia #trypophobia #sharp teeth #animal horror

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solastay · 1 year

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Color Wheel (Chapter 1)

(artist! Taehyung x artist! fem reader)

❥pairing: Taehyung x reader

❥genre: college!au, artist!au, fluff smut, crack

❥rating: M

❥summary: Kim Taehyung and you were best friends for over a decade. Between watercolours and tons of acrylic paint, will an art contest and a memorable trip finally reveal what is inside an artist's heart?

Colour wheel: A circular diagram of the spectrum used to show the relationships between the colors.

I dream of many things. Many of which I consider to be impossible or rather unlikely. A word that I’m fonder of because it hurts less. It’s gentler on the heart.

I dream of things that are unlikely to happen. Those dreams feel like a canvas. They trick my mind into a fictional reality, a different world where everyone is who I want them to be and follow the lines of my sloppy sketch. They bring happiness, not the genuine type, but the one you get from immersing yourself deep enough that it feels real. Only to be confronted by the first rays of sunshine that warm the body but not the heart.

In my dreams, everyone has a colour within themselves. Said colours reflect their personality. The ones who shine green are, general rule, fun to hang out with. Others shine yellow, those always have food to share. Others are red, owners of a competitive nature. However, only one person shines blue and grey.

“Admit it (y/n), you can’t live without me".

It truly felt like I couldn’t, but he didn’t need to know how much I wished that he felt the same for me. How I wanted to be the one he craved for.

“Well, who else would drip coffee on my couch and call me at ungodly hours to eat take-out? Yes, a necessity in my life.” It wasn’t irony, even if my tone betrayed me.

“You underestimate me, I am a vital piece in the puzzle that is your life, and therefore, I think it is also vital for me to see what you have been drawing on the sketchbook I gave you.”

Of course, he would eventually ask that.

“You can see the others, not this one.”

“Not even if I say that I love you very much?” he mumbled hugging my pillow and staring with big bright eyes. He has always known most of my weak points.

“You would make a great actor, Tae” I replied, not batting an eye, used to those same old techniques.

He frowned, following my every movement while I got off the chair to get a jar of water. “What makes you think I’m lying!? You hurt me every day…”

I knew Taehyung's words were honest because he declared his love on a daily basis. He says it to the meaningful people in his life. Those were never empty words, he meant them, he truly cared about the people around him. Although I know that what he feels for me is no more than the love you feel for a long-term friend. He has said so before.

He loves words of affection, both receiving and delivering them. It’s the way he is, and I know better than to get my hopes up.

He is often the one who texts first and the one who wears a smile as often as possible. It becomes annoying how much his smile can brighten up a gloomy day. I hate that, it doesn’t matter how much I try, I can’t ignore it, or him. He is always there.

“How dare you to doubt my affection” he dramatically laid down on the couch, taking the space for himself and glancing upside down at me.

“I don’t doubt your affection Tae. However, I do think that one day, you are going to declare yourself to the woman of your life and she will think you want a piece of her food.” I answered going back to the kitchen.

“I do love you, tremendously and hopelessly so, can’t imagine where I would be if it wasn’t for you” he mumbled the last part while sitting up “But I feel like I am missing a part of you”.

He had a reason to feel that way. As an artist, he understood that the way one expresses themselves through lines and colours was a huge part of their life. It was no exception m. Sharing your art is sharing part of you. Your drawings and paintings were the way you perceived not only yourself but the people around you.

“Well, I appreciate your interest, but I’m not planning on showing it to anyone, any time soon. But if you must know, if it satisfies your curiosity, it’s just filled with anatomy studies.”

Showing the sketchbook was out of the question because it was filled with sketches of him. Yes, I draw many people. Many people I don’t even know, just as a practice, meaningless doodles. But Taehyung soon became my favourite model. I realised that when, in the middle of a lecture, I found myself drawing a random outline, that wasn’t at all random, it was his profile. It was his nose and his smile, and it was everywhere. That very moment was one of the first signs that made me realise I was a cliché. A disgusting and predictable cliché. I fell in love with my best friend.

“Interesting… Where have you been getting your material, hm?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Pinterest, as per usual.” A pillow was thrown at his face.

“Alright, I won’t insist on the subject, you draw your muses, and I will depend on my imagination. I just find it funny that you let me read your diary back when we were twelve, but I still can’t see your sketches.” he took the jar of water from your hand and wasted no time in dipping his round brush.

“Bingo. The quirks of being an artist.” You give him a wink while making your way back to his side.

“It’s been years and you still manage to keep secrets from me.”

You approach him and mess up his recently dyed blue hair “Well, one day you might know them all. Maybe when we are both old and grumpy”.

He looks at you endearingly under his dishevelled bangs “I hope we are still painting together by then.”

“Do you really believe I would stop sending you classical art memes?”

No matter what changed, I hoped he would, at least, stay by my side. Because I can handle the changes of life, but having him with me makes it much more bearable, even if he doesn’t love me as I wish he did. My therapist says I should consider letting go. But “letting go” means leaving behind the movie marathons we religiously do on Saturday nights, the awkward-but-not-awkward-at-all dancing in the living room whenever a funky song comes on, the funny comebacks and the meaningful embraces. I know I am not ready for that, and I am not sure I ever will.

To my dismay and disappointment, Tae is not open to the idea of having someone like that in his life. Which seems to go against the overall image he portrays to the people around him. He is flirty, touchy, and a hopeless romantic, but all of that was not necessarily directed towards a significant other, at least not a lover. He lives for the beauty of poetry and watercolours and the sunny afternoons by the flower fields. He dresses like he is in a Luca Guadagnino movie, listens to jazz and loves Vincent Van Gogh. His colours are beautiful, I could never replicate them as much as I tried, because I fear. I fear for my sanity, but since I can’t afford to be far away, I pat myself on the head and say that it’s okay to mourn for the thing that will never be. I’m okay.

Or at least I should be.

That’s what comes to mind during the current situation. It’s the end of the year, and we have just received the news that we were both selected to participate in a painting competition. The prize is for the piece to be presented in the biggest art museum in Seoul.

Now, let me clear things up, first and foremost. We are not exactly full-time artists. We graduated art school a couple of years ago, but ever since then, Tae still works as a restaurant server, a part-time job he picked up as a student which ended up being enough to pay rent, and I am a receptionist in a nearby hostel, having started half a year ago. I have been making commissions and illustrations here and there but it’s hardly enough for the end of the month, while Tae has kept art as a hobby.

Tae was the first one to know about the competition and I ended up signing in, on the condition that he would too. After that we promised that for once, we would try to accomplish something more than just pretty doodles on the corner of the page because we believed that at least one of us could make it big. Tae always said that I would win, while I never doubted, he would be the one.

We have always painted together and even though I hated many of my drawings, he was always there to show me how they were not at all worth ripping to pieces. During the last four months, we met every two days to work on a piece to submit for the contest, and even though I am not one to brag, we did a pretty good job. The first selection of pieces was just about choosing the contenders for the bigger competition. If they liked the artwork, the artist was officially approved for the event and could start working on the official project.

And we were in. We both made it in. Which meant that it was time to work on the bigger picture.

________________________________________________________________

Her doorbell had rung three times that morning. In an attempt to wake herself up, she threw on the first pair of sweatpants she could find and washed her face with cold water, trying and failing to blink the sleep away. Whoever was behind the door, could not wait more than thirty seconds, and it made her grunt and drag her feet to the door, rather than hurrying up. She gave her apartment a quick look around, noticing her pile of unwashed laundry and desk covered in papers and shrugged. After all, there was only one person who would dare to bother her so early in the morning, and his flat was in a worse state, she could bet her life on it.

Opening the door slowly, she stared at Taehyung’s glowing smile and moon-shaped eyes. “Rise and Shine!” he greeted.

Fucking golden retriever

“Morning” she replied with less than half of his enthusiasm.

Extending his arms filled with groceries, he excitedly gave her one of the bags “I brought breakfast, care for a decent meal?”

“If you insist…” she smiled, letting him in, closing the door after he crossed the entrance and made himself at home.

This wasn’t anything unusual but it did not fail to make her heart flutter. It was obvious that he would bring blueberries and her favourite type of bread, and she would have the sesame snacks he always asked for when he was around. He knew where everything was, every pan, fork, and cup, so it didn’t take him long to get everything ready for the pancakes.

“You know, one of, if not the main reason that makes you come here to cook is that you’re too lazy to wash your dishes” she peeked over his shoulder.

Looking down at the frying pan, he slightly smiled “I can’t deny that, but your apartment is much cosier than mine.”

“Hmm fair, you’re also a better cook than I am, so I can’t really complain.”

He kept a smile on his face. It was warm and genuine, and he seemed to glow while flipping pancakes and preparing two plates with berries and cream. She hated it. She truly hated it, but he was a magnet that would pull her into his vicinity with no resistance.

After a comfortable silence, Taehyung started speaking again in a soft tone. “I’ve been thinking about something…”

"Oh no." she snickered.

“I think we should take a break from this."

“From what?

“From this, the city traffic, the noise, the people…” He put his fork down. “I think that if we are doing this, we should do it the right way and take some time for ourselves, maybe a week. Just us, nature and two blank canvases. I miss painting like that.” There seemed to be a slight pout on his lips while he ate another blueberry.

She understood what he missed. The school times when our lives were based on the colours we put on paper. The way we used to paint the sunset just because we had time to draw one more line. She missed it too. How the flowers seemed more yellow when he laid on the grass, and the way he took her hand to trace that same colour because she didn’t make it bright enough. After the paint had run out and the stars were visible, they would lay down, talking about anything and everything, because the world was their own. They would make it their own.

That was love in its purest form, and even though she missed it dearly, she feared it would be the last drop that would make her break. A week alone with him would be simultaneously a dream and a nightmare.

“Where did this idea come from?” She asked in hopes of gaining some time to think of an answer.

“I thought about it as soon as we submitted our entries… we could go to my late grandmother’s place.” He seemed nervous, which was unlike him. “No one would bother us there. It would be like a spiritual retreat.” He explained while looking at his food, drawing a smiley face on the pancake with cream.

She kept observing him and decided that, in order to avoid the question, she would ask even more questions. “I’m not sure Tae, a whole week? Is your boss even okay with that?”

“I haven’t skipped a day, and he’s got more clients because of me. I’m sure he would let me off the hook for a few days…” He smirked, raising his gaze. “I think this would be good for both of us.”

“What about Yeontan?” She genuinely worried about the little dog more often than not.

“Yoongi will take care of him.” He readily answered.

She arched an eyebrow. “Fine, but did you consider my job?”

“For a matter of fact, I did, and I know you haven’t taken holidays in forever so it’s time to take what is yours, my lady.” He ended with a triumphant wink.

“Well, fair, but I also have several commissions.”

“Yes, but I know you, and I know they will be ready in three days if you want them to.”

She slumped in the chair. “Tae…”

Taehyung seemed to have given himself a second to think. Saddening his smile, he added “Unless you don’t want to go.”

“I wish I didn’t.” She sighed.

He held her gaze for a few seconds, before looking down once more. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize; we’ve been through this.” She replied nonchalantly.

Tae’s shoulders tensed up and he quickly tried to amend the situation. “Well, I know, but-”

“It’s fine, Tae.” She finished her food and got up, taking her plate to the kitchen.

That was what she told herself every time they would be together. Tae knew about her feelings, and she knew he didn’t feel the same, he was clear enough. His words were engraved on her brain like a mantra.

She heard him get up and bring the rest of the dishes. While cleaning the counter, she suddenly heard him stop behind her, and gulp before saying “I just…I don’t think I can do this any other way.” He put a hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face him. “I can’t unless I leave this place, and I know I need you with me. I know I am being selfish, but I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it would be good for both of us.”

“What do you mean?” She crossed her arms still holding the kitchen cloth in her hands.

“I mean that you could use the break too. Do you think I don’t notice that your eyes don’t shine as they use to? My (y/n) pours her soul into everything she makes. I don’t want to see you lose that passion.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that is just adulthood.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” He was truly serious.

Of course, he would say that. The forever hopeless romantic.

“Tae,” she paused. “What I have to paint is not what I want to paint. People are not looking for a new Dali or Gogh, people want what they want, and they want it fast. Of course, I lost my spark! Back then I didn’t know how tiring my life would be. How I can barely pay my bills, even though I have two fricking jobs.” She exasperatedly explained.

“But this contest could be your chance! Our chance!” He now held both of her shoulders, too close for comfort. He wasn’t gripping her skin, his fingers held her both firmly and delicately, like if he ever let her go, he would never see her again. “If one of us wins, we will have a foot set inside their world.”

She scoffed. “Always the dreamer, Tae.”

“Please, believe in yourself. Let me take you on an adventure. I know we both have what it takes to win.” He then looked down and took her hands in his, throwing the cloth to the sink. His eyes had none of the insecurity they once had when they looked up in determination. She saw vulnerability, yes, but also a fire that burned like no other.

“Please (y/n), I need you. I can’t do this with anyone else.”

With that final sentence, she knew she would end up signing in for her doom. Her nightmare. How could she deny that from him? How could she, when he asked for her like she was the only one in the world? She didn’t find the strength to say no, and she was sure she would regret it.

“I’m going to think about it.”

“Do you promise?” He asked not breaking eye contact.

“I promise I’ll think about it. It’s not a yes.” She emphasised.

“I’ll take that, thank you so much (y/n).” He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.

Oh, how she wished her heart hadn’t turned into an orchestra, and that her cheeks hadn’t turned a deep colour of red. And that she hadn’t melt at the warmth of his hands and the softness of his lips. She hated it because when she felt him holding her face and saw him looking down at her in awe, she realised that she had said yes.

#bts #btsv #bts x reader #bts fanfiction #kim taehyung #kimtaehyung x reader #color wheel #writing #fanfiction #artist #how do i even tag this #please read #kpop #kpop x you

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scrabble-scribbles · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 11

smuuuut. shoutout to @emmie-henderson for being the only reason i decided to do this (trans nancy wheeler for ya)

Prompt: Clothed Sex

Pairing: Nancy Wheeler x Robin Buckley

Fandom: Stranger Things

“I want to, Robin,” she said, fingers gentle as they played with the collar of Robin’s shirt. Her eyes were still looking down at the bedsheets, lower lip in between her teeth. “I really do, I swear, it’s nothing you’re doing wrong.”

Robin took her hand, twining their fingers together, letting Nancy’s fingers brush over the silver rings.

“Talk to me, Nance,” she said. “I’ll listen, just let me try and understand.”

“I don’t…” Nancy frowned, hands balling up. “I don’t like myself, down there. And it makes sex feel gross,” she said, playing with the hem of her skirt.

Robin cupped her cheek, smiling softly when their eyes met.

“You dont have to see it,” she said, hand curling around her waist. “I think I might know how to help.”

Nancy frowned, confused, until she grasped Robin’s meaning, eyes widening.

“Oh,” she said, jaw hanging open. “Oh, yeah, yeah, that could work.”

The crooked smile on Robin’s lips made Nancy feel so warm, and she kissed the taller girl, smiling into the embrace as Robin’s hands anchored themselves on her hips, Nancy’s going to her shoulders.

The kiss turned from sweet to messy in seconds, Robin getting more confident each time she pulled a little sound from Nancy’s mouth.

They moved on the bed, Robin lowering Nancy’s back to the bed, hovering over her as they continued to kiss. Nancy’s fingers found the buttons on Robin’s shirt, and made quick work of undoing each one, Robin leaning back slightly just so they could slide the fabric off her body.

Nancy gasped when she saw Robin, still wearing a bra, not that it mattered, shirtless for the first time.

(The multiple times she’d had to patch Robin up during their battles with the Upside Down didn’t count.)

She was gorgeous, all lean muscle and smooth skin dusted with freckles, only ruined by the few scars scattered around her skin. Nancy started tracing them, one day hoping to learn where each one came from. A few were circular puncture scars, bite marks from the bats, others long and straight from the Russian torture tools.

Robin’s eyes were dark with lust, skin prickling when Nancy’s fingers ran over one of the little marks on her chest.

“I want to eat you out,” Nancy said, and Robin startled, and Nancy’s eyes widened.

“I-I mean, I-“ she said, trying to find a way to word that better, but Robin was nodding, a hungry look on her face, and she was rolling them over so Nancy was on top of her.

Nancy yelped, nearly cracking her skull against Robin’s chin, scrambling to keep herself from falling.

“Robin!” She said, smacking the other girl’s shoulder.

Robin’s eyes were trained on something else, and Nancy frowned, until she felt it.

Her hips were directly over Robin’s leg, and she was… she was hard.

“Oh, hey, no, Nance,” Robin said, thumb wiping a tear away. “No, don’t cry, baby.”

Nancy tried to move off Robin, but the other girl held her in place, shaking her head.

“No,” Robin said, looking right at Nancy. “I don’t know what’s going through that beautiful head of yours, but it’s not true.”

Freak, mostly, cycling through on repeat, followed by other slurs and hateful things she’d heard over the years, each one making her want to curl up and die.

“Nancy, hey, look at me,” Robin said, shaking her head a little. “Look at me, tell me what’s going on?”

“You think I’m gross,” she said, hating the way her voice cracked. “I’m wrong, Robin, I know that, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think that, Nancy,” she said, cupping her face gently. “Not the first time you told me, not yesterday, and not now, not ever, ok?” Robin got up onto her elbows, pulling Nancy with her.

Nancy almost pulled away when she did, but Robin just hushed her.

“I wound never think that, Nance, I promise,” she said. “You trust me, right? I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Her hands dug into the sheets, and she took a few deep breaths, before nodding.

“Ok,” she said, still staring at Robin’s stomach. “I trust you.”

Robin’s stomach made her heart melt, and she kissed Nancy gently.

“You still wanna eat me out, sweetheart?” She asked, and Nancy nodded. She slid down Robin’s body, pressing a kiss to her hip before sliding her shorts down her legs.

“You’re beautiful, Robin,” she said. She wasn’t lying, every inch of Robin’s skin was perfect.

“Thanks, Nance,” Robin said, a dorky grin on her face.

Robin had boxers on underneath her pants, the elastic so worn out they were loose around her hips.

“Cute,” she said, pulling the waistband down.

Robin just smirked, and Nancy’s knees felt weak.

She was already wet, legs spreading so Nancy could settle in between them, fingers tracing little circles on Robin’s hips and thighs.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she said, and Robin laughed at that. Nancy fucking Wheeler was in between her legs, about to eat her out, and Robin honestly thought she’d rather die than tell her to stop.

Nancy leaned in, tongue swiping up the length of Robin’s pussy, circling around her clit for a few seconds, before moving back down.

Robin’s hands shot to her hair, gripping it tightly, hips bucking into her mouth.

“Oh fuck, Nance, Jesus Christ,” she rambled as that tongue swiped through her cunt again. “Fuck fuck fuck, do not stop!”

Robin’s hips bucked against her face, and Nancy hummed into her skin, trailing a finger down to rub at Robin’s clit. She kept lapping at her cunt, encouraged by Robin’s whimpers and moans, and near-constant babbling. “Jesus fuck, right there, please,” she was saying, fingers still clenched in Nancy’s hair. “Fuck, Nance, fingers, please!”

She looked up at Robin, eyes widening for a second, and then Robin’s hand was around her wrist, bringing it to her pussy.

“Fingers in me now,” she gasped out, and Nancy obeyed, because what else could she do?

Two of her fingers teased RObin’s entrance, and then pressed in when the blonde moaned.

“Fuck, yes, just like that, so good for me,” Robin babbled, and Nancy felt herself flush even hotter at the praise.

She pressed her fingers in deeper, until she found the spongy spot that made Robin’s hips jerk, pulled a long, drawn-out moan from her chest.

“Please,” Robin whispered, and Nancy obliged, fingers hitting her sweet spot with every thrust, mouth suckling on her clit.

When Robin came, her legs clamped around nancy’s head, gasping for air. It was so much, so beautiful, and she kept thrusting, licking her through her orgasm. Robin finally pulled her head away, too oversensitive to keep going, and gasped for air as she relaxed.

Nancy couldn’t ignore her own need now, and ground her hips down against the sheets, blushing when Robin’s eyes landed on her lips.

“You need something, pretty girl?” Robin asked, her voice raspier than usual. Her fingers carded through Nancy’s sweaty curls, scratching at her scalp.

Nancy leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut, and she nodded. Her lip was between her teeth, and Robin noticed.

“Hey, come here,” she said scooting up on the bed to sit. Nancy joined her, ignoring the throbbing in between her legs. She fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, stomach already curling.

“What’s going through that beautiful brain of yours?” Robin asked, tucking a few stray curls behind her ear. “Talk to me, ok? Do you still want to do this with me?”

She nodded, glancing up at Robin. “I do, Robin, I promise,” she said. “I just haven’t done this much.”

Sex with Steve had never even been talked about, and with Jonathan it had been fine, not great, but fine.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said finally, the words spoken so softly they sounded like a secret.

Robin took her hand, and smiled at her, canines poking out from behind that smile.

“Would you feel better if you kept your clothes on?” She asked. “Not just your boxers, but your shirt too?”

“I think so,” she said, and Robin nodded.

“Ok, then,” she said, moving to pull Nancy closer, situating the smaller girl on her lap. “Let me take care of you. Tell me if you want to stop.”

Robin’s first action was to cup Nancy’s face, and pull her into an utterly filthy kiss. She kept at it until Nancy started squirming, her own hands settling on Robin’s hips.

When the blonde pulled back, Nancy was panting for air, eyes blown black with lust.

“Still good?” Robin asked, and she nodded.

Robin’s lips moved to her cheeks, her jaw, then down to her neck, sucking hickeys into the skin where she wouldn’t be able to hide them. Her hands were on Nancy’s back, holding their bodies close together, and the smaller girl moaned when Robin pressed them close enough for her to grind on her stomach.

“Fuck,” she muttered, letting her head fall back. “Fuck, Robin.”

She could feel Robin moving her hands down from her back to her hips, and she shivered at the touch, at what it meant.

“Ok?” Robin asked, pulling back from nancy’s neck for a few seconds. When she got a vigorous nod in response, she moved her hand to brush against the bulge in Nancy’s boxers.

The shorter girl gasped, hips canting into the delicious friction, fingers squeezing Robin’s hips.

“Still good, pretty girl?” She asked, and Nancy nodded, burying her head into Robin’s shoulder when that hand brushed over her again.

Robin quickly figured out the perfect ways to work her up, all without even touching her skin-to-skin. Nancy’s hips were grinding into Robin’s palm, using the other girl for her own pleasure, the knot in her stomach twisting tighter with each touch.

“Oh fuck, just like that, so good for me,” Robin said, grabbing Nancy’s ass to force her against her hand harder.

She threw her head back at the overwhelming pleasure, a broken moan leaving her throat.

Robin’s hand moved away from her boxers, and she whined at the loss.

“Oh, I know,” Robin cooed. “You need my hand. Let me just make this easier.”

She lifted Nancy up, making her kneel, facing the same direction as Robin.

Robin grinned, pressing a kiss to Nancy’s shoulder. Then she forced Nancy down all the way, and reached around her to grind her palm against Nancy’s bulge.

The half-moan, half-sob, that came from Nancy made Robin want. She dug her teeth into the skin of Nancy’s shoulder, worrying with her teeth until she knew a beautiful bruise would form.

And based on the way it made Nancy start to buck her hips into Robin’s hand, she liked it too.

One of the brunette’s hands flew up to grab Robin’s hair, pressing her closer to her shoulders and back.

“Oh god, Robin, please,” she moaned out, desperately grinding for more pressure. Robin was so good, perfect, and she was falling apart because of her.

Robin’s lips pressed to her neck again, this time a gentle brush, before she kept laving bruises up and down her throat.

She was just so fucking good.

Nancy could feel her orgasm coming, looming over her like the sun, she was almost there.

“Rob-Robin,” she gasped out, fingers clenched tight in the taller girl’s hair and sheets. Her hips canted into Robin’s touch, the ache deep in her gut twisting tighter and tighter.

Robin’s touch was like salvation, her hand brushing across her cheekbone, down her neck, chest and stomach to hold her hip, guiding her movements into a more natural rocking pattern.

“Easy, Nance, you’re doing so good,” she murmured, kissing the shorter girl’s neck. Nancy’s skin was flushed and sweaty from her lust, eyes so dark they were almost black. Robin could feel how hard she was, her free hand providing the perfect surface for Nancy to grind against.

Nancy’s grip tightened in her hair, and she gasped, high and needy, her hips stuttering as she struggled to push herself over the edge.

Robin looped an arm around her chest, pulling her so their bodies were flushed, Nancy’s head resting under her chin.

“Close,” she mumbled, rocking harder against Robin’s hand.

The taller girl smiled, and gripped Nancy through her boxers, smirking at the choked groan that came from her.

“Come for me, Nance,” she said softly, paying extra attention to the head of her length. “Come on, pretty girl, come for me.”

Nancy’s body froze, taut as a wire before she snapped, moaning and whimpering, hips desperately bucking against Robin’s hand, as she came in her underwear.

When she came down, Robin had maneuvered them into a more comfortable lying down position.

Her hands were rubbing over Nancy’s hips and knees, soothing the ache from kneeling for so long. Nancy’s heart melted at the realization, and she kissed Robin’s chest when she could move properly again.

“You still ok?” Robin asked, hand going to cup her cheek when she noticed her watching.

Nancy murmured her contentment, doubling down on it by wrapping an arm around Robin’s waist.

Right now, she felt good enough to not even notice how wet her boxers were, to not feel embarrassed that she just creamed her pants like a hormonal teenager. She just wanted Robin to hold her.

And Robin, as amazing as she was, did. Her strong arms wrapped around her back, her lips kissing Nancy’s forehead.

#kinktober 2022 #smut #stranger things #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #robin x nancy #ronance #trans nancy wheeler #trans rights hoes

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abyssal-ali · 1 year

Text

Imagine Dragons

Rating: G

WC: 2.7k

A/N: Inspired by @/salparadiselost's Dragon Batfam AU on ao3.

Lore and Worldbuilding Notes

The dragonet crouched in the corner silently, watching the much larger ice dragon tear through the guards like they were grass, freezing them in place and taking them out with ruthless efficiency. In a minute the ice dragon was snarling, crouched in front of the other dragon, and the fight began with tooth and claw and spike. The ice dragon’s crystal blue scales turned to pointed spikes and the headplate thickened and barbed. It didn’t take long for the ancient dragon to be subdued, his flesh ripped and bleeding.

“I see you’ve come for the Robin,” wheezed the old dragon with a wet chuckle.

“Where is he?” demanded the other.

“We’ve prepared a welcoming for his return,” chuckled Ra’s al Ghul sinisterly.

The ice dragon spun and flashed to the courtyard, darting between guards and ninja to reach the human lying by the gate. The dragonet’s tail twitched nervously as the dragon approached the human. It picked him up in a claw, then unfurled its icy-delicate wings and took off, swooping low to grab the terrified dragonet in its other claw. Once they were out of sight of the mountain fortress, the dragon tossed the dragonet up so that he landed on its wide back. The human followed.

“Hold him tight,” the dragon commanded, but neither knew whom the dragon was ordering. They held onto each other for extra security; the ride was a little bumpy in spots, as air currents blew and birds were avoided by the dragon’s graceful flight path.

When the sun was completely behind the horizon the dragon ducked into a cave and settled down in a comfortable circular lump. The dragonet and the human slid off its back onto the chilly stone floor. The human was unconscious from exhaustion, so the dragonet hid him in a warm corner, then faced the dragon, attempting to mask his trepidation with boldness.

“Why did you take us?”

“I can’t leave you there. I admit I came for Ra’s, but I gained some Intel while I waited and you two are a bonus.” The dragon moved to look at the sleeping human and the dragonet stepped in between the two.

“You can’t eat him. I won’t let you,” he said bravely, though his voice trembled. Curse his babyhood–no matter how intimidating he attempted to be, it never worked. He was so small compared to the ice dragon. Realistically, it could eat both of them and there was not a thing either could do to stop it.

“Why can’t I?” Purred the dragon amusedly.

“Because he is my brother! I will fight you if you lay a claw on him.” The dragonet puffed its needle-like spines up like a cat it’s tail.

The dragon smirked. “Quite the temper you have, hatchling. Protective…do you have a name?”

The dragonet raised his head proudly. “I am Damian al Ghul, heir to the al Ghul and Wayne hoards, son of Talia al Ghul and the Bat of Gotham, Bruce Wayne.”

The dragon huffed and wrapped its tail around Damian. “What do you know of your father?”

“He is the protector of Gotham, his city. He has admirable intellect and fighting prowess, as he was worthy to mate with my mother and has the respect of my grandfather.”

“How do you know that?” Asked the dragon.

“My mother told me a little and my brother tells me stories sometimes when he is with me in between teachers. He was adopted by my father and thus has first-hand accounts.”

“I’m your other brother, Dick Grayson, of the Wayne hoard. At the roost is our 3rd brother, Tim. How is Jason alive? I didn’t know either of you were alive until I was casing the League. How old are you, by the way?”

“I am 8 years of age. Akhi was found by Ummi, wandering the streets of Gotham, and she let him use the Pit to restore his mind and heal his injuries. For the past three years he has been training around the globe with the best teachers.”

“I’ll ask him about that later,” Dick decided, and curled into a ball even more, coaxing Damian into the crook of his tail.

{>|<}

Jason awoke, yawning as Dick nuzzled him. Sleepily patting the dragon’s muzzle, he mumbled, “’s too early, Dickybird. Go ‘way.” He realized Dick should not be nuzzling him and sat bolt upright. “…Oww…my head…” he glared at the dragon, who was now licking Damian. Dami was here too?

“What in skies, Dick?! Why are you here?”

The dragon kept licking unconcernedly, nudging the dragonet to move. “Got a surprise when I spied on the League before I retaliated for them stealing Timmy’s spleen. Imagine my surprise when I saw two brothers, one who’s been alive for four years and one I never knew existed!”

Jason wiggled his way out of Dick’s tail and stretched as Dick continued. “And you were collapsing in the middle of ninja and fell unconscious till now and…I kidnapped Damian before I knew he was my brother, because the League’s no place for a dragonet.”

“Please tell me you got all your hugs out before I woke up,” interrupted Jason.

“Um, yes? No. Never! Climb on so we can head back home already. B and Alfie’ll be so happy you’re alive, and so will Tim- you’re his idol- and Steph and Cass’ll be thrilled too…”

“B needs to work on switching his hoarding from children to something easier, like Bat-paraphanalia or money or…oh wait. He needs to work on his hoarding tendencies, period.”

Dick laughed, happy that his Little Wing was back, and boosted a sleepy Damian up to Jason. “Hold on tight, Jaybird; I’ve gotten faster!”

/>•|•<\

Tim raced through the Manor to find Bruce, finally locating the man in his office. “Bruce, Dick is back, and someone’s with him!”

Bruce and Tim headed out to the garden, where the black-and-blue dragon was sitting. In front of him was a small dragonet, with dark green scales and a smattering of gold-tipped ones across his chest, tail, and legs glinting in the dying sun’s rays. Baby fangs and a few blunted spikes stood straight, revealing the hatchling’s nervousness at being introduced to a new hoard.

“Dick! You’re back safe!” Tim bounced over to greet his brother, while Bruce looked him over.

“I’m glad you’re alright, chum. Who’s this?”

“Meet Damian Wayne al Ghul,” sang Dick cheerily.

Tim looked between Bruce and the dragonet.

“His dam is Talia, so I rescued him from the League. Timmy, I kicked Ra’s tail for your spleen. No more organ-ectomies.”

“You are my son?” Rumbled Bruce, checking Damian out thoroughly.

“Yes, Father. I hope to do you proud as a member of your hoard.”

Bruce tilted his head. “No need to be so formal, Damian. We’re all family here. You are a waterdragon, are you not? You are too slim to be an earthdragon like Tim and myself.”

“Yes, Father. My fins have not grown in, yet. I apologize that I am not an earthdragon like you.”

“Why are you apologizing for something you have no control over? It doesn’t matter to me which species you are. I love all my children equally, no matter which species they are; dragon, human, whatever their abilities.”

Tim observed Damian glance up at that, to gauge Bruce’s sincerity, and felt sorry for the dragonet. Disappointing a parent because of something you can’t do anything about? He got that.

“I also found another brother in the League,” spoke up Dick.

From the shadows around Dick walked one very alive Jason Todd.

Tim’s jaw dropped.

“Hey, B. Miss me?” Smirked Tim’s childhood idol.

“Jaylad?” Whispered Bruce, then he was hugging his un-desceased son fiercely. “How? When?”

Tim compared this Jason to Robin-Jason. This-Jason had a white streak in his black curls, a greenish tint to his once-blue eyes (Lazarus Pit, his mind supplied), was much taller and beefier than malnourished Robin-Jason, and was even bigger than Bruce himself. He seemed sharper, more dangerous, and deadly…but then he smiled at Damian and Tim saw the Robin-Jason in that smile, hopeful and loving and full of happiness.

“You know how I’m the only human one of you?” Jason stepped back. “Surprise!”

He transformed into a hulking, majestic red dragon with black-tipped scales and a white diamond of feathers on his left wing. Bulkier than the others’ serpentine (Dick, Cass, Damian) and armoured (Bruce, Tim) forms, he was the largest species of dragon– an endangered Phoenix. With his razor-sharp claws, fangs, and spines bristling, his flames sparking the dusk, he was an incredibly formidable sight.

“You’re a dragon, too?” Asked everyone at once, in awe of the sight.

Jason nodded. “Turns out I don’t stay dead long, so don’t bury me next time I die, 'kay? Dirt is such a pain to dig, especially when you’re underneath it.”

#ali writes #imagine dragons #fic

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legends-of-time · 8 months

Text

Thorn Bush (Doctor Who Story)

Chapter 32: Deep Breath Part Two

Masterlist

"What do we do?" Clara whispers, slightly panicked.

"Well, you don't want to eat, do you?" The Doctor answers.

"Hmm. Slightly lost my appetite. Ahem. How long before they notice that we're different?" Clara wonders.

"Not long," Kathy says.

"Anything we can do?" Clara asks.

"Well, Kathy and I have a respiratory bypass and could easily hold our breaths for an hour or two. You on the other hand, do not." The Doctor says.

"We could just casually stroll out of here, like we've changed our minds," Clara suggests.

"Happens all the time." Kathy agrees. Perhaps they could walk out and not end up trapped in the larder.

"Ha. Course it does." Clara beams, happy that her suggestion seems to be a good one.

And very casually, they push back their chairs, stand and almost immediately, a heartbeat later, all the chairs in the room are scraping back. All the diners now standing, but none turn to look at them. They're just standing staring directly ahead, blank, unseeing. They try to take a step to the door, but every diner room takes a simultaneous step towards them. They try again but the diners get even closer.

"Might be best to try and blend in for now, yeah? We were looking for the source of the problem after all." Kathy interjects and pulls them back to the table.

So, they sit down again, and the diners return to their tables, continuing their charade just as before. Kathy, the Doctor, and Clara pretend to look at their menus.

"What are they?" Clara whispers.

"I don't know. But don't worry, because that's not the question. The question is, what is this restaurant?" The Doctor replies.

"Okay, what is this restaurant?" Clara asks obligingly.

Kathy winces. "You don't want to know."

The Waiter approaches the table, moving with the same stiff gait as the others. He looms over the table. Just stands there. A blank, cadaverous face.

The Doctor puts on a great show of nonchalance. Flicking through the menu with disdain. "Er, no sausages? Do you? And there's no pictures either. Do you have a children's menu?"

Silence. The waiter takes his pen and shines a small green light at the Doctor from the tip. He scans the Doctor.

"Any specials?"

When the Waiter speaks, it's a grating, mechanical sound. "Liver."

"I don't like liver."

"Spleen. Brain stem. Eyes."

"Mmm. Is there a lot of demand for those?" Clara asks in a high-pitched voice.

"Clara, we are the menu." Kathy murmurs.

"Lungs. Skin." The Waiter has turned to look at Kathy.

The Doctor now studies the side of the Waiter's head. "Excuse me."

The Doctor reaches over, grabs the Waiter's jowel, and simply rips the face from the front of his head leaving the back of the head, and the hair is still in place. Revealed, the metal mesh face, verging on rusty. In the centre of this hollow head, a flame. A simple flame, like from a bunsen burner. The Waiter turns calmly to "look" at the Doctor. Kathy cringes at the sight of it.

"Okay. Robot in a mask." Clara remarks still panicked.

"It's a face."

"Yeah, it's very convincing."

"No, it's a face." Kathy corrects.

"Oh!" Clara bats away the face as the Doctor offers it to her.

"Yes." The waiter speaks.

"Yes, what?" The Doctor asks.

"Yes, we have a children's menu."

The Waiter presses a button on its pen. Metal arms come out of the back of the bench and slam around Kathy, the Doctor and Clara's chest, as they sit there, clamping them to their chairs. Then the bench starts descending through the floor. And down they plunge down a shaft.

"You've got to admire their efficiency." The Doctor remarks.

"Is it okay if we don't?" Kathy retorts.

——

Kathy, the Doctor, and Clara clank jerkily down into the room. The room they are arriving in is a large steampunk circular place, all brass and rivets. It looks a little like a spaceship, but an ancient one. Corroded, dulled with age, deep water green. Cables and chains hang like vines. Hundreds of years old, Kathy knows that it's thousands. Various people are standing still in small alcoves around the wall, and a central dais with the Half-Face Man seated in a chair, his back to them.

Kathy anxiously glances at the alcoves as the Doctor and Clara peer over at the chair.

"Hello? Hello, are you the manager?" The Doctor calls. "I demand to speak to the manager."

"This is not a real restaurant, is it?" Clara asks rhetorically.

"What gave that away? The droids? Or the fact we're alive in a larder?" Kathy doesn't mean to be snappy but she's been trying to wiggle out her sonic and it's not working.

"A larder?"

"Originally an ancient spaceship, buried for centuries," Kathy says.

As they've been talking, the Doctor has been twisting, and thrusting in his metal bonds as if trying to shake his own sonic loose from his coat.

"Very efficient, a sort of automated organ collection station for the unwary diner. Sweeney Todd without the pies." The Doctor comments.

"So why hasn't somebody come for us?"

"We're alive."

"We're alive in a larder." Clara retorts.

"It's cheaper than freezing us," Kathy says.

Clara looks panicked. "Okay."

One last twist and the sonic screwdriver is hanging from the Doctor's inside pocket. "Are you ready?"

Clara and Kathy shift position. "Go for it." The former says.

"Don't let it roll away—"

"I know!"

"We've got one shot at this."

"Next time make one that doesn't roll." Clara retorts.

Kathy wonders if that's ever the case but then Thirteen's probably doesn't have the rolling issue because of the handle.

"Go!" One last thrust and the screwdriver dislodges, falls to the floor and starts rolling the wrong way. Clara and Kathy shoot out a foot each, scrabbling after it and Kathy just manages to catch it.

"Have you got it?"

"I can only just about reach it," Kathy replies. She's taller than Clara so that helps but most of her height is in her upper half.

"Oh, it's at times like this I miss Amy." The Doctor mutters.

Kathy narrows her eyes at him in mock offence. "Oi! Clara, if this doesn't work, be ready to catch it." The companion nods. With an effort, she flicks the screwdriver back towards her. Now catches it between her feet and aims upwards at the Doctor. "Ready?"

"Don't miss."

She flicks up hard, throwing the screwdriver towards the Doctor's lap and the Doctor doubles up with an agonised oof!!

Clara and Kathy both wince.

"Did she... hit something?" Clara hesitantly asks.

"Oh, the symbolism." He gets the screwdriver into his hands and unfastens his bonds with it, then Clara's and Kathy's. They're free and scrambling out of the booth.

"You should make that thing voice activated." Clara comments. The Doctor freezes, realisation impacting. "Oh, for God's sake, it is, isn't it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Guys?" Clara points to various alcoves, around the circular perimeter of the room. Various Victorian people are standing motionless within them with slack, sightless faces. Kathy feels unnerved as she watches them.

"Dormant." The Doctor decides.

"How do you know?"

"I don't. I'm just hoping."

They won't be for long. Kathy needs to make sure to hurry the two along though she doesn't know how she's going to stop the Doctor from wanting to look about.

"So, is it these guys that killed the dinosaur?" Clara asks as they tiptoe away.

"Yeah, all you can eat buffet of organs from a dinosaur," Kathy replies.

"Why would robots need organs? Burke and Hare from space?"

"No, but that's a good theory. Droids harvesting spare parts. That rings a bell." The Doctor mutters.

Well...

"What's important is we get out of here," Kathy tells them but it's too late as the Doctor is now circling the central dais, looking up at the top-hatted, motionless figure in the big chair. It's the Half-Face Man. Half an ordinary face - square-jawed and handsome, like a Roman Emperor, greying hair. A ragged tear down the middle of the face, and then a hollow cage structure. There is a section of the brain projecting from the human half, with wires trailing from it that are plugged into a socket on the chair. The Half-Face Man sits entirely motionless. Staring directly ahead.

The Doctor reaches forward and picks up the hands to look at them before letting them go. Suddenly, there is a noise and Kathy's eyes go to the robot nearest them. He casually moves his hands back to their original position. It makes her blood run cold. It's the calmest, simplest move. All three of them slowly step back from the creature.

"Y-Yeah. And we really need to get out of here." Kathy says as it takes hold of the chair arms and clockwork whirrs. "Now would be best. He's waking up."

"Okay, let's go." The Doctor agrees.

One eye is flickering open. On the other the pupil is dilating and now the same lights flickering on behind the Victorian Droids in the alcoves. Kathy grabs Clara's hand and tugs her towards the door, the three of them moving slowly and carefully so as not to draw attention to themselves. They reach a lit up hallway and Kathy and Clara duck through. The Doctor about to follow, comes to a slamming halt. He spins and looks around the room again. Kathy wants to slap herself; she should have accounted for this.

"I've seen this before. I'm missing something." He rants. Kathy lets go of Clara and hurries over to him, pulling on his arm to get him moving.

"Doctor!" Clara calls.

"Now is not the time!" Kathy adds.

"It's the brand new head, rebooting." The Doctor grumbles, looking around as he tries to figure it out.

"Come on!" Clara begs, but he isn't moving, so Kathy begins pushing him back out the door.

"I've seen this before!"

"You idiot! I'll tell you in a second! We need to get out of here!" Kathy snaps at him, struggling to keep her voice down. This is all going so wrong.

"Hurry up! Get out!" Clara says as she helps in pushing him towards the door.

Kathy tries, she does. She tries to position herself so that Clara would be pushed through the door along with the Doctor and wouldn't be left on her own but that doesn't happen. Instead, Clara does a particularly hard shove that propels the Doctor and Kathy through the doorway just as the Half-Face Man raises his arm and touches his palm. The door comes down with the Doctor and Kathy on one side and Clara on the other. There's a tiny grating in the door, Clara throws herself to it, looking through at them. The Doctor tries to sonic it open and that is when Kathy realises she doesn't have her sonic, she dropped it on the other side.

"Doctor. Kathy. Quickly." Clara urges frantically.

"Doctor, sonic!" Kathy hisses. She doesn't want to risk Clara's safety by getting her to go looking for Kathy's sonic.

The door starts juddering up but slow, too slow. The Half-Face Man is unplugging himself from his chair and is starting to rise, but he hasn't noticed her.

"Quickly!" Clara also hisses, but the door only lifts partway before the Doctor stops it.

"What are you doing?" Kathy snaps. She knows what he's doing but that doesn't mean she can't be angry with him. She had hoped to be the one trapped on the other side, not Clara.

"Sorry, too slow. There's no point in them catching all of us."

"Well, give me the screwdriver," Clara argues, but he gives her a look.

Kathy snarls at him, knowing what he is about to do, "Don't you dare, Doctor."

He hardly spares her a glance before sonicking the door closed. "I might need it."

"Dammit, you idiot!" Kathy growls at him, seeing Clara's crestfallen expression "Doctor!"

He then bolts down the hallway, not once turning back as Clara tries to call him back to no avail. She becomes even more panicked and Kathy struggles to think of something she could do, digging through her pockets for something useful, but finding absolutely nothing. Cursing under her breath, Kathy checks the progress of the Half-Face Man and watches as it reaches the booth where they'd once been and stops.

"Clara, I'm so sorry, I can't, but you've got to listen to me." Kathy pleads and Clara looks at her with wide, glossy eyes. "He's an idiot. A big stupid idiot for leaving you behind and I know you're upset, but you need to listen to me right now, or neither of us will make it out of here in one piece. Get into the alcove nearest to you and don't move. The moment they start coming for you, hold your breath for as long as you can. Move like they do, pretend you're one of them. They might just fall for it, okay?"

"W-What about you?" She breathes out and Kathy smiles a little.

"I'll do the same, but from out here. If you can't hold your breath any longer, I want you to flash your hand like this." Kathy opens her hand and clenches it into a fist again. "Do that three times and I'll find a way to stall them for you to get a breath, okay? But you need to get out of here, got it?"

She nods and Kathy catches sight of the Half-Face Man turning around. Nodding back to her, Clara quickly moves to an alcove and holds her breath just as the other occupants of the alcoves become active.

Kathy takes a deep breath, engaging her respiratory bypass and moves to stand at the wall of the corridor. She now has a slight view of Clara and the room.

The Half-Face Man approaches Clara. He stops and tilts his head as the gears grind, then turns away, proceeding unhurried to the next Clockwork. Kathy swallows thickly as she spies the light reflecting off a tear sliding down Clara's cheek. She'd yet to give Kathy the signal though, so Kathy waits and watches.

The Clockworks are moving around. Proceeding unhurried around the room, attending to consoles, and various pieces of ancient equipment. One of the Clockworks presses a switch and the door through which the Doctor left slides up again. Kathy restricts herself from lunging forward to grab Clara and instead slightly gestures her head when Clara looks over to her.

After a moment of hesitation, Clara begins to move, imitating their stilted walk and goes through the open door into the bright passageway. Kathy moves to stand by her as they move down the corridor which goes on and on. Room, upon room, upon room are filled with droids and Kathy knows that Clara will be running out of breath soon.

Clara suddenly takes a breath and begins to fall to her knees, passing out but Kathy catches her, trying to quickly pull her along but they are immediately surrounded by Clockworks.

"Bring them." The Half-Face Man declares.

She glances at the Clockwork whom she knows is the Doctor in disguise but knows he needs to keep up the pretence, so she says nothing.

"No, you're not having us!" Kathy tries to protest but then feels a sudden force knock the back of her head and she feels herself tilting forward before everything goes black.

——

Clara wakes up, finding herself lying on the ground. She looks around to see Kathy unconscious and chained in one of the alcoves with a Clockwork standing guard beside her. The Half-Face Man faces Clara though, sitting still in his chair, expressionless.

"Where is the other one?" It asks her.

Clara doesn't look at him, still afraid and recovering from her ordeal. She stares at Kathy in concern.

"There was another. Where is he?"

Clara still doesn't reply. She's fighting to control her terror, reign it in. Got to focus, got to keep it together.

"Where is the other?"

Clara still desperately trying to focus. Get it together. What would Kathy do?

"You will tell us, or you will be destroyed."

Clara blinks, thinking it through. Looks slowly up at him. "What did you say?" She questions.

"You will tell us."

"Yeah, I know. Or what?"

"You will die." It threatens.

Clara frowns, remembering her first day teaching at school and Courtney challenging her. Straightening her back defiantly like Kathy would. "Go on then. Do it." Clara stands up, scared, but firm as she faces the Half-Face Man. "Go on, then. Do it. I'm not going to answer any of your questions, so you have to do it. You have to kill me. Threats don't work unless you deliver."

"You will tell us where the other one is." The Half-Face Man replies.

"Nope."

"You will be destroyed."

"Destroy me, then. And if you don't, then I'm not going to believe a single threat you make from now on." Clara challenges it. This is what Kathy, and the Doctor would do, delay and work out their plan. Stay alive.

The Half-Face Man is silent. Cogs turning.

"Of course, if I'm dead, then I can't tell you where the other one went then." Clara continues. "You need to keep this place down here a secret, don't you?"

The Half-Man Man is still silent, that baleful stare.

"Never start with your final sanction. You've got nowhere to go but backwards." Clara is breathing hard, but keeping it together, brinkmanship.

The Half-Face Man eventually speaks, "...humans feel pain."

Clara lets out a breathless laugh. "Bigger threat to smaller threat - see what I mean, backwards."

"The information can be extracted by means of your suffering."

Clara swallows, the fear now getting to her, but she knows she must keep going. "Are you trying to scare me, because I'm already bloody terrified of dying. And I will endure a lot of pain, for a very long time, before I give up the information that is keeping me alive. How long have you got?"

The Half-Face Man's cogs are grinding a bit faster. Almost frustrated. It rises to its feet, looming over Clara now.

She doesn't dare move, holding her ground. "All you can offer me is my life. What you can't do is threaten it. You can negotiate."

The Half-Face Man reaches its right hand to its left, grabbing it around the wrist. He twists and the left hand simply detaches, unleashing a fiery glow from inside the arm. It now simply hangs the detached hand on his coat – the fingers, still active, grip – on by themselves.

A sob rips from Clara, a tear rolls down her face. It's like a break in the façade, the terror now visible, an involuntary step back. "Okay, okay, okay. Okay, yes, yes, yes, I'm crying and it's just because I am very frightened of you. If you know anything about human beings, that means you, you're in a lot of trouble."

The Half-Face Man has a flame-thrower where his hand is, ready to go. "We will not negotiate."

"You don't have a choice," Clara says, voice slightly firmer. "I tell you what... I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."

"We will not answer questions."

"We'll take turns! I'll go first. Why'd you kill the dinosaur?"

"We will not answer—"

"Why'd you kill the dinosaur?!" Clara shouts, interrupting it.

"We will not answer questions!" It shouts in return and Clara looks away nervously.

"Then you might as well kill me because I'm not talking again till you do." It stares at her for a moment, before turning. "Then we will ask the other one."

Clara turns towards where Kathy had been in shock and worry, having not expected the Half-Face Man to go after her. What is even more unexpected, is the fact that Kathy already has one hand free and was apparently working on the chain on her other wrist by the time they noticed her.

"Ah. I was hoping you'd forget I was here for a while longer." She complains, dropping her free hand with a sigh. "I was nearly done breaking free and possibly thinking up a way to heroically save Clara over there and escape with our heads too. Ruined that plan before it even got anywhere."

"H-how did you?" Clara splutters.

Kathy raises an eyebrow in reply, silently saying that's a silly question.

"Where is the other one?" The Half-Face Man asks, approaching Kathy with its flame thrower.

"Ooh, nice welder. Good improvement." Kathy appreciates, glad the Half-Face Man is no longer focused on Clara.

Clara hisses at her from across the room. "Kathy! What are you doing?!"

"Buying time? Nice job at that by the way." Clara can't help but preen slightly as Kathy looks at the Half-Face Man. "Oh, but I don't have any questions to ask you like Clara did. I already know."

The Half-Face Man tilts its head as she goes on. "You didn't have the parts so you've been down here so long that you knew the dinosaur had some part that you could use, yeah?"

"Within the optic nerve of the dinosaur is material of use to our computer systems." The Half-Face Man replies.

Kathy glares at it. "And you killed a whole dinosaur for one part. One measly little part that probably wasn't even vital to whatever plan you're coming up with. And do you know what that means, Clockwork?"

It tilts its head, seeming surprised almost that Kathy knows what it was.

"Oh yeah, that's right. I know exactly what you are." She growled, moving as close to the Clockwork as she could with what the chain allowed her; her expression sending a shiver up Clara's spine. "You killed a dinosaur for a part. A dinosaur that had been dragged through time, not knowing what was going on or where it ended up. A lonely dinosaur who feared the world around it and you went and set it on fire. You murdered an innocent creature who was scared. And that, Clockwork, is why you won't get away with this."

"How long have you been rebuilding yourselves? Look at the state of you. Is there any real you left? What's the point?" Clara questions.

The Half-Face Man turns its head away slightly. As if in shame or reflection. "We will reach the promised land."

Kathy scoffs. "Yes, the promised land. Silly me."

"What's the promised land?" Clara questions.

The Half-Face Man ignores her question. "Where is the other one?"

"I don't know. But I know where he will be. Where he will always be. If the Doctor is still the Doctor, he will have my back." Clara reaches behind her. "I'm right, aren't I? Go on. Please, please, go on, say I'm right."

Kathy keeps quiet knowing Clara needs this to trust the Doctor again.

A hand grabs hers and pulls her back. Then the bald robot removes the skin from his face to reveal the Doctor. "Hello, hello, rubbish robots from the dawn of time. Thank you for all the gratuitous information. Five foot one and crying along with the fiercely protective mother. You never stood a chance." He says, rushing around the room before pushing the Half-face Man's flame thrower down. "Stop it."

He puts his sonic screwdriver into the recharger in the chair. The lights go out. "This is your power source and feeble though it is, I can use it to blow this whole room if I see one thing that I don't like. And that includes karaoke and mimes, so take no chances. See?" He throws the face over at them and Clara jumps up and catches it with an angry look on her face. "That's how you disguise yourself as a droid, Kathy. You don't dawdle."

Kathy sends him a scowl. "I was a bit busy looking after the human you abandoned. I wouldn't call that dawdling."

"Yeah, sorry." The Doctor grumbles. "Well, no, actually, I'm not. You're both brilliant on adrenaline." He turns to the Half-face Man. "And you, were out of your depth, sir. Never try to control a control freak or threaten the friend of an over-protective mother."

"I am not a control freak!" Clara shouts, before then realising that she is holding a face and dropping it on the ground once more.

"Yes, ma'am." The Doctor drawls out.

Kathy gives him a look as well, face red in embarrassment. "I'm not—" She pauses, before swallowing thickly. "—that overprotective."

"Of course."

"Why are you here?" The Half-face Man asks.

"Why did you invite us?" The Doctor counters. The Half-Face Man looks at him. Cocks its head, not understanding. "The message? In the paper. That was you, wasn't it?" The Half-Face man just stares blankly at him. It hits the Doctor then. "Oh! I hate being wrong in public." He takes back his screwdriver and turns accusingly to Kathy, who's thankfully found her sonic during this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Kathy shrugs, holding up the sonic. "I was finding this, and you didn't give me a chance to."

"Everybody forget that happened." The Doctor says.

"Fine. Then don't mind me as I call some friends." Kathy brings out a scanner and presses send as the Half-face Man walks threateningly towards them.

A bang, a flash, smoke. Now, through the ceiling from which the booth and table descended, Vastra and Jenny spin towards the ground with silk fabric tied around their waists. They land on the floor and draw their swords from the scabbards on their backs. Jenny throws a sword to Kathy, who catches it and moves to stand in front of the Doctor and Clara.

"Remain still and lay down your weapons, in the name of the British Empire!" Vastra orders.

For a moment it's wildly impressive then a long cry, and a dumpy figure goes crashing downwards. "Argh." Strax groans.

A moment of weariness from Vastra. "Strax!"

Strax pops up into shot between them, weapon at the ready. A tiny bit embarrassed now. "Sorry."

"I've told you before. Take the stairs." Jenny tells him.

"The establishment upstairs has been disabled with maximum prejudice, and the authorities summoned." Vastra declares.

"Oh, look. The cavalry." The Doctor remarks disparagingly.

"I burned an ancient, beautiful creature for one inch of optic nerve. What do you think you can accomplish, little man?" The Half-Face Man turns on the Doctor, its fiery arm raised, levelling it at him. Kathy promptly knocks down the flame-thrower with her sword, narrowing her eyes at it, challenging him.

"Hang on, she called the police? We never do that. We should start." Clara comments.

"You see? Destroy us if you will, they're still going to close your restaurant." The Doctor receives some looks for that. "That was going to sound better."

The Half-Face Man makes a signal with his other hand. "Then we will destroy you." Sword blades shoot out from the various droids' sleeves. They advance menacingly. Kathy backs up with the Doctor and Clara behind her.

"No, you won't. You're logical. You have restraint. You killed to survive. You're not a murderer." The Doctor tries to reason.

Clara looks at him incredulously. "He's not a what? This is a slaughterhouse."

"Many restaurants could be argued as being a slaughterhouse. Last time I checked you weren't a vegetarian." Kathy counters.

"This is over. Killing us won't change that. What would be the point?" The Doctor continues.

"To find the promised land." The Half-Face Man declares.

"You're millions of years old. It's time you knew, there isn't one."

"I am in search of paradise."

"Yeah, well, me too. I'm not going to make it either."

The Half-Face Man draws back his weapon arm. Kathy, knowing what the Doctor will do next, doesn't step in as it lashes at the Doctor, thumping him hard. The Doctor goes down.

Clara dashes to his side. "Doctor!!"

The Half-Face Man strides towards the table and booth. "I will leave in the escape capsule. Destroy where necessary."

The Droids are now surrounding Kathy, Clara, Vastra, Jenny and Strax, blades levelled. Kathy is unnerved but knows what they need to do. Keep this lot at bay while the Doctor deals with the Half-Face Man.

"Escape capsule? This ship is millions of years old. It'll never fly." Vastra argues.

"It has been repaired." The Half-Face Man counters.

"What with?" Clara asks.

"You." Ugh. Skin balloon.

"Defensive positions, everyone." Strax cries.

"Doctor. He's getting away." Clara panics.

The Half-Face Man goes up on the bench seat. The platform starts to ascend. "Your friend is intelligent. He will know better than to follow me."

Kathy smirks to herself as the Doctor gives them a grin and a wave as he ascends with the platform by holding onto a convenient brass handle on the underside of the seat.

Now that she knows that the Doctor is fine and he'll do his side of things to stop these Clockwork droids, Kathy focuses on the current task at hand. Keeping her friends alive. Kathy clutches at her sword, surveying the droids in front of her as she, Vastra, Jenny, Clara and Strax stand in a circle, facing them.

"What are we going to do?" Clara questions panicked.

"We're going to have to hold our breath. They're stupid, they can't detect us when we hold our breath." Kathy tells them. "It's the only way we're going to get out of here."

"Do we do it now?" Vastra asks.

Kathy shakes her head. "No, Strax, Jenny and Clara wouldn't be able to hold their breath long enough for the Doctor to deal with the droid."

"When then?" Jenny asks, almost snapping but Kathy doesn't blame her considering the stressful situation.

"When I give the signal."

"Well, then." Vastra faces the droids. "It is our intent to leave. If it is your intent to stop us, perhaps we should get down to business." She declares.

Kathy, Vastra and Jenny all raise their swords, and Strax his gun. The Droids respond in kind.

They surround Clara as the droids attack, protecting her as she's unarmed. Strax is straight to Clara's side, handing her a hand weapon.

"Can we hold our breath yet?" Clara cries.

"Not yet!" Kathy grunts, knocking back another droid.

"Don't worry my boy, we will die in glory!" Strax cries gleefully.

"Okay... good-o!" Clara stutters out.

No matter how many droids they knock down, they keep getting to their feet. Slowly though.

"Why can't you stay dead, coward?" Strax cries angrily.

Eventually, they become overwhelmed. The droids have completely closed them in, grabbing them. Sword points are at everyone's throats.

"Now?!" Clara cries.

"Now. Definitely now. Do it now!" Kathy cries.

Everyone takes a big gulp. Kathy quickly engaging her respiratory bypass system. They are all standing, breath held. The droids pause and then lower their weapons, turning, looking, detecting.

Kathy quickly crouches and crawls through the droid's legs on her hands and knees. If the Doctor is for whatever reason unable to succeed or the others don't hold out long enough, she needs to get them out of here. She, stepping so carefully around the Droids, grabs the Doctor's sonic and slowly moves to the door, all the while holding her breath. Clara, screwdriver in hand, now moving towards the door. Slowly, slowly.

The Droids, moving, turning those blank faces.

Kathy gets to the door, gets her sonic out of her pocket and starts sonicking the door open. She begins to panic as she realises how slowly it's moving. She glances over her shoulder at the others. Clara is looking faint. Vastra has her lips locked with Jenny, sharing her breath. Strax is about to fire his weapon before he passes out.

Kathy begins to struggle under the strain of trying to raise the door as well as hold her breath. The door eventually reaches a height that's enough to get someone under. Kathy has no choice but to let air back into her lungs so she can warn the others. "Quick! I can only hold this open for so long!"

The droids immediately begin to turn towards her. The others scramble deliriously over to her, finally letting air into their lungs.

The droids' swords are once again nearing them, almost piercing their skin. Kathy almost calls out for them all to try and hold their breaths again but then the droids suddenly bend forward at the waist, deactivated. A few of them topple over. The room is just silent now except for the distant sound of Big Ben chiming.

——

Strax had driven them home and, just like Kathy expected, the Doctor is gone along with the TARDIS. Clara is devastated, believing she's been abandoned. Kathy tries to reassure her that's not the truth, but Clara appears unsure.

A couple of days later, Clara approaches Kathy in her chambers. Kathy smiles slightly at the sight of her now back in her modern day clothes.

Clara hesitates nervously. "I'm not interrupting?"

Kathy grins. "You never are, Clara." Kathy gestures and Clara takes a seat in front of her. "What is it?"

"Ah, well, i-it's just that, erm, I seem to be stuck here now." Clara stumbles awkwardly. "Was wondering if you and Vastra got a vacancy?"

"We do, but you don't need to worry, Clara," Kathy replies. "You know he's coming back."

Clara frowns. "How can you tell?"

Kathy raises an eyebrow. "Clara, you're wearing your 21st century clothes again."

Clara shakes her head. "No, I– I just wanted a change of clothes. I don't think I know who the Doctor is any more."

Just as she says this, the sound of an ancient set of time rotors can be heard from outside.

Kathy smirks amusedly. "You sure about that?" She smiles sadly. "Till the next time, Clara." Kathy can't help herself; she leans forward and gives a kiss on the cheek. She has to remind herself that this isn't the Clara who'd kissed her, that was technically someone else. "Oh, and give him this." Kathy hands Clara a gold pocket watch.

She had found the tramp without his coat, carrying a familiar gold pocket watch. Kathy had proceeded to trade the coat she'd grabbed from her own supply and ten shillings for the watch.

"And just talk to him."

Clara smiles and nods before running out of the room.

——

A familiar pair of eyes flicker open – one human, one implanted in machinery. The Half-Face man is confused and dazed as it looks around, clambering to its feet. The wisteria is in full bloom. A beautiful, garden. A truly perfect, golden day.

"Hello!" A voice calls.

The Half-face Man looks round. A woman in an Edwardian costume is sitting on the edge of the fountain.

"I'm Missy." The woman introduces herself, standing and walking over. "You made it. I hope my boyfriend wasn't too mean to you. My granddaughter too. She can be a nasty one."

It looks blankly at her. "Boy... friend? Grand... daughter?"

'Missy' ignores this comment and simply guides the Half-face Man into one of the chairs behind them while she takes the other. "Now, did he push you out of that thing, or did you fall? Couldn't really tell. He can be very mean sometimes." She pets its hand. "Except to me, of course, because he loves me so much. I do like his new accent, though." She thumps its shoulder. "Think I might keep it. It's a shame her accent is different. Could've been a family thing."

"Where am I?"

Missy gives him a look. "Where do you think you are? Look around you. You made it. The promised land. Paradise."

She springs up and spreads her arms joyfully. She gives him a smile of utter, utter madness.

"Welcome to heaven."

She snaps her teeth together and dances around the water feature.

——

A/N: Series 8 did feel a bit lost, but I still found it good. I think it's because when the Twelfth Doctor came in for the first time he was lost, and he was questioning on who he was. Was he a good man or not?

With the whole man who regrets and the man who forgets with Ten and Eleven, I like to see Twelve as the man who reflects, which he definitely does this season.

Please leave comments on how you're enjoying this story and what you think.

#doctor who

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