#dizzy comes in like five variations

[sillybeanies]

today's beanie: dizzy the dalmatian (coloured spots, black ears)

[delulustateofmind]

Yan!JJK x Reader: How you met!

Fun Fact: It's wholesome! What could possibly go wrong in the future? :)

Characters: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, Choso and Shoko!

TW: Mentions of partying (it's brief), pet names, maid cafe (Suguru gets a little pervy thoughts), Mostly Fluff. Oh but it's yandere fluff :)

WC: 5.1K

A/n: So anytime I do a Yan!JJK this is the lore for those headcannons. I might make it, its own masterlist? idk still debating. Also, I rotated through so many ideas. My drafts for this are insane (Literally). I tried different variations for each one. Feel free to give me feedback if there are certain yan tendencies you want to see.

The dark content for this week: How they kidnapped you :)

Satoru: Are you an angel?  

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer of the century, was running a high fever.

Swaying slightly as he walked down a quiet neighborhood street, his head spinning, he tried to focus. He just needed to get to the pick-up location. That was it. He could handle it.

But it was getting harder to concentrate. The heat of the summer sun seemed to beat down on him relentlessly, his body too weak to handle the intensity. His normally steady steps faltered, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse.

Then, he heard it. A soft, sweet voice, like the melody of an angel.

“You alright?”

Gojo turned his head toward the sound. An angel?

There you were, standing in front of your apartment, your hands gently watering the flowers that lined your balcony. You were older than him—maybe five years, judging by the way you carried yourself, the maturity in your voice, the way you looked at the world like you had it all figured out. There was something about you that made his pulse quicken. Why was he feeling this way?

He blinked, his feverish thoughts clouding his focus. You were so gentle, so sweet. His head throbbed, but your soft gaze was like a balm.

“Come have a seat here,” you continued, your voice soothing. “And is that a blindfold? Honey, that’s probably why you’re running a fever. We’re going through a heat wave, you know?”

You chuckled lightly, but it wasn’t condescending. No, it was sweet, nurturing. You carefully led him to the small outdoor patio that was adorned with delicate chairs and a charming little table, a tiny vase of flowers sitting in the center.

Gojo followed, his head still dizzy. How could an angel like you ever trick him?

You weren’t just sweet, you were… perfect. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been so caught up in someone like this. His usual cocky, overconfident demeanor felt like it was slipping away, replaced by something softer, more desperate. Something he’d never let anyone see—until now.

You guided him into one of the chairs with gentle hands, taking the blindfold from his face with the same tenderness. His fevered skin flushed under your touch. He couldn't help but let out a low groan of relief as the air hit his face, the sensation a small comfort amidst the haze of his fever.

"Stay here for a minute," you said softly, your smile so warm and sincere that it made his heart skip. "I’ll be right back with something for you."

He nodded, feeling a strange sense of peace wash over him. There was no reason to leave now. He felt dizzy, weak, and content to stay under your care forever.

And when you returned, he saw that you weren’t just being kind—oh no, you were going above and beyond.

You made him rice balls, neatly wrapped in seaweed, and a glass of iced tea, its chilled surface sweating under the heat of the day. Homemade baked goods sat on a small plate next to the drinks, their scent filling the air with sweetness.

"You must be hungry," you said, setting the food down in front of him with a smile. "It’s not much, but I thought it might help."

Gojo picked up one of the rice balls, staring at it for a moment. There was no way he could say no to you. He didn’t even want to. Your kindness, your soft voice, the way you treated him like he wasn’t just the strongest sorcerer, but someone who needed care—it was intoxicating.

He bit into the rice ball, the taste as comforting as your presence.

You were perfect. Sweet, caring, thoughtful, and so effortlessly graceful. It was as though the universe had put you in his path, just for him.

But he knew better than to trust anyone so easily.

Gojo’s mind was clouded, his thoughts sluggish under the fever’s grip, but there was one thing he was sure of: You were too good to be trusted.

You were standing right beside him, still watching him with those soft, caring eyes as if you really cared about him. Your gaze was warm, concerned, but—he couldn’t help it—he felt a twinge of doubt. People like you didn’t just act like that without wanting something. He’d seen this before, felt it too—people were always after something, even when they pretended to be kind.

And yet, in the back of his mind, a darker part of him couldn’t shake the thought. Maybe this time was different. Maybe you weren’t like the others.

“Thank you,” he murmured between bites, his voice thick with something more than just gratitude. Did rice balls always taste this good? 

You hummed sweetly, a soft smile playing on your lips as you shrugged. "Just doing the right thing."

You weren’t just being kind—no, you were going out of your way to care for him. It felt too personal, too intimate, but he didn’t mind. In fact, the more you did for him, the more he wanted from you.

“You shouldn’t be wearing all that black during a heat wave, y’know?” you chided lightly, your voice lilting with that same gentle concern. But when you looked into his eyes, Gojo couldn’t miss the way your gaze lingered, like you were looking at him— just him. Sick, weak, and so very human.

He wanted to laugh at the thought. He was Gojo Satoru, after all. The strongest, untouchable. But in this moment, with you here, something about the way you cared for him made him feel... vulnerable.

“Even the cicadas aren’t singing today," you said, tilting your head as if you were pondering something deeper. "Is there somebody I can call for you?"

Gojo’s pulse quickened at the soft weight of your words, the way you framed your question. Was it concern? Or was it an invitation? He leaned back slightly, the fever making his thoughts blur, but he didn’t want to let go of that feeling of closeness you’d given him.

Someone to call?

A soft, amused smirk spread across Gojo’s face as he locked eyes with you. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice low and almost teasing. But inside, something darker flickered. “But... if you really insist, you could always stay with me for a while. Keep an eye on me.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but there was no hesitation in your answer. You didn’t sense the undercurrent of possessiveness in his words, didn’t feel the quiet edge to his smile. You were too kind, too innocent, to see the real reason Gojo had said it.

But Gojo? He knew what he was doing.

You had helped him. You had made him feel seen.

And now... well, now he would make sure you never left his side. 

Suguru: Maid to Fall for You

The girls were turning six this weekend, and all they could ask for was some… magical girl doll? Suguru recognized the figures. Satoru used to make him watch that show all the time. Yet, did they really need to sexualize the magical girls so much? 

Suguru was genuinely concerned—how could anyone fight in a mini skirt and high-heeled boots? But, if that’s what the girls wanted, then that’s what they would get.

The problem was that the doll was so limited edition, the only place in Tokyo that had it was this… maid cafe? Suguru sighed, looking at the cute pastel pink exterior of the shop. He had missions to complete and didn’t exactly want to be seen here.

As the bell above the door jingled when he stepped inside, Suguru scanned the room. His eyes were immediately caught by you.

Was it the pretty lolita black dress with the dark red bow tied around your waist? Or maybe it was the collar wrapped around your neck, or the cute garters hugging the soft fat of your thighs. Perhaps it was the little cat ears with bells that sat perched atop your head. 

No… it had to be the way you looked at him. Your flushed face, the innocent sparkle in your dewy eyes as you purred, “Welcome home, Master!”

Oh, God. Suguru had to bite his lip to stifle a frustrated groan. The cuteness aggression was overwhelming. He just wanted to pick you up, throw you over his shoulder, maybe chain you to his bed so no one could ever find out how adorable you were.

No. No, he couldn’t think like that. He was here for one thing, and one thing only. He wasn’t some pervert who went to maid cafes. But still… he couldn't help but wonder if the dress came with matching… No! He couldn’t think like that either.

“Yes, I, uh…��� Suguru, fumbling with his words? A first. “I need a limited edition magical girl doll. The pink one and… the purple one?”

You blinked for a moment, and then your eyes lit up in recognition. 

“You’re a fan of Magical Girl: X&X too? Oh my goodness, I’m a huge fan too!” 

You squealed, practically bouncing on your heels as you turned to lead him toward the back of the store. Suguru had to look away, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to keep his gaze from lingering on how cute you were. Focus, Suguru. Focus.

You practically skipped toward the back of the store, the sound of your little heels clicking on the floor making Suguru’s heart race. He couldn’t stop his eyes from following the sway of your hips as you led him deeper into the shop. The way the skirt of your dress swished, revealing cute little bloomers under your petticoat. He mentally slapped himself. He had  to keep his thoughts in check, focusing on the task at hand. Geto Suguru was not some pervert! 

As you reached the display, you turned to face him with an excited gleam in your eye. “Here it is! The last one in stock,” you said, pointing proudly to a pair of limited edition dolls. The pink one, with her sparkling pigtails, and the purple one, holding a very magical looking wand. 

Suguru's gaze briefly flickered to the dolls, but then it shifted back to you. The way your eyes lit up, the excitement in your voice—it was all so… intoxicating. Like you were holding onto his every word. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, still not quite sure how to behave around you. "I didn’t expect… I didn’t think it would be so hard to get."

You giggled, a soft, melodic sound that made something flutter in his chest. “Well, Magical Girl: X&X is a very popular series! It’s hard to find the dolls, especially the limited edition ones. I’m glad you came in time.”

Suguru didn’t trust his voice to speak anymore. He just nodded and pulled out his wallet, handing over the money. You didn’t even look at the transaction, instead continuing to talk to him as you carefully wrapped the dolls in bright, crinkling pink paper.

Focus, Suguru. Focus on the dolls. You’re just here for the dolls.

But how could he? His eyes couldn’t seem to leave the way you tilted your head just slightly, your little cat ears bobbing with every movement. The little jingle that came with every movement. And the way you smiled at him, so genuinely, with that adorable little glint in your eyes that made something inside of him twist. He couldn’t stop it—his heart was pounding, and his brain was screaming at him to do something.

You handed him the dolls with such enthusiasm, your hands barely brushing against his fingers as you passed the package over to him.

Oh god, even the way you handed me the dolls is cute. Why are you so cute?

Suguru swallowed hard, the overwhelming desire to just… hug you, smother you, rising up in his chest. He wanted to pick you up, hold you close, and just protect you from the world. He wanted to be the only person you ever looked at, the only one you ever smiled at like that.

You were practically defenseless anyways. 

But he had to hold himself back. He couldn’t be that person, could he? No, no—he was here for a reason. He was supposed to be here for the dolls. 

“Uh… Thanks,” Suguru managed to choke out, his voice coming out hoarse and unsteady. He was so aware of the way his hands were shaking, holding the package. He needed to leave. Now.

But you were still looking up at him, your lips curving into a playful little smile. “You know, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you, Master?” You giggled, the sound so light, so melodic that Suguru almost felt like he could die from the sheer cuteness of it all. 

No, no, stop, Suguru! Stop!

“I—yeah, I guess,” he muttered, looking anywhere but at you. His gaze darted over to the corner of the room, anywhere but those soft eyes that were making his chest feel like it was going to explode. 

The urge to reach out and squeeze your cheeks—to just hold you—was so strong. His fingers twitched, his jaw clenched. He wanted to pull you closer, get a better look at how delicate you were, how fragile. 

“I hope you enjoy your figures, Master!” You brightly smiled up at him. God, how he wanted to strangle that pretty little neck of yours. How he wanted to tug on that collar so tight that you were choking with tears in your eyes. How he wanted to bite your cheeks to see what sounds you’d make. 

Stop smiling like that. Stop acting so cute. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

His hands tightened around the package, the sharp edges digging into his palm. He wanted to scream, to yell at you to stop making him feel like this. But instead, he just smiled back, a smile that felt more like a grimace than anything else. 

“Right… right. I will,” Suguru said, his voice barely a whisper now. “I’ll… I’ll come back soon.” He forced the words out, though they felt foreign on his tongue. The truth was, he didn’t just want to come back—he wanted to stay. He wanted to be close to you. He wanted to know everything about you, every little detail. 

You smiled even wider, completely unaware of the danger you were putting yourself in. “I’ll be here! I’ll be waiting for you, Master!”

Suguru turned on his heel, trying desperately to calm his racing heart as he walked toward the door. But the entire time, his thoughts were consumed by you. The way you looked at him. The way your voice sounded when you called him “Master.” 

His thoughts spiraled as he stepped outside, gripping the package tightly in his hands. His chest felt tight, constricted. He had never felt this way about anyone before. This level of intensity, this overwhelming desire to possess and protect—it was like nothing he had ever experienced. He didn’t know whether to run or stay. All he knew was that you were the most perfect person he had ever met, and the more he thought about you, the more he spiraled.

But you were still so innocent. So dumb to how he felt. And that—that—was what made it so unbearable.

Nanami: Online Dating

Nanami Kento didn’t have time for dating. Not that anyone believed him when he expressed that.

Gojo, that meddling idiot, had sneakily downloaded a dating app on his phone, swiping through profiles until Nanami found himself matched with you—a party girl, as Gojo put it. The last thing Nanami needed was some whirlwind romance or a string of distractions. He had work to do, responsibilities to handle. Yet here he was, standing outside a quaint little café, a man of routine now playing the part of someone interested in this game.

He glanced down at the photos on his phone. There you were: pictures of you laughing with friends at clubs, holding drinks in your hands, the glamorous nights out at fancy restaurants. And then there were the modeling shots—posing next to sleek supercars, all shiny and polished. Nanami’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know you were probably a disaster waiting to happen. You had issues, he could tell. And that was the last thing he wanted to get entangled in. He wasn't the type to judge a book by its cover, but he knew enough to assume you wouldn’t be the kind of woman he'd ever bring home to his parents.

His brows furrowed slightly, a sigh leaving his lips as he shoved the phone into his pocket. He adjusted his long coat, letting the cool evening breeze swirl around him. This date was probably going to be a waste of time.

Then, out of nowhere, you appeared.

You walked toward him in a soft pink maxi dress, the delicate fabric flowing behind you like some ethereal vision. A simple, sweet white bow tied neatly in your hair. You radiated a charm, an innocence that Nanami hadn’t expected, and for a brief moment, his chest tightened with something he couldn’t immediately place.

You smiled at him, sweet and genuine, and he couldn't help but feel...

“Am I late?” you asked softly, your head tilting as you looked up at him, your eyes bright with genuine concern. “Sorry, I had a late shift at the cocktail bar I work at, so I was really worried I was going to—”

Your voice trailed off as you noticed the strange expression on his face. Nanami blinked, clearing his throat, but the chill of his cynicism seemed to melt under your gaze. The hardness in his chest softened, and that unsettling feeling gnawed at him again, the one that made him feel like he should be on guard. But why? Why did you make him feel like this?

“No,” he said, his voice gruff but steady. “You’re fine. I’m just... surprised.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud, but there it was. He was surprised—surprised by how genuine you seemed. It wasn’t the image he’d built in his mind based on the photos. He was used to women who were superficial, all looks and no substance, but you… you didn’t fit that mold.

You smiled again, this time a little more shyly, before giving a small nod. “I’m glad. I really didn’t want to make you wait too long.”

Nanami nodded curtly, unsure of what to do with this strange reaction inside him. His eyes studied you more closely now, noting the little details—the way you moved with a kind of quiet grace that almost made him forget the judgment he had passed on you. You weren’t like the other women he’d met, and that was... unsettling.

You stepped closer, the scent of your perfume—something light and floral—lingering in the air around him. He found it strangely intoxicating, though he hated to admit it.

"So, what do you want to do?" you asked, the sweetness in your tone making him feel almost... guilty. He was supposed to be the one guiding this evening, not you. But it was hard to ignore the pull you had over him already.

He cleared his throat again, pushing the discomfort aside. “I was thinking dinner. Nothing fancy.”

You smiled softly, your eyes twinkling, but there was something behind that smile—something that made his stomach twist, and not from discomfort. It was an entirely different kind of tension, one he had no intention of analyzing too deeply.

“Sounds perfect,” you agreed.

As the Date Continues:

Nanami hadn’t expected much, but as the evening wore on, he found himself listening to you in a way he hadn’t done for a long time. You weren’t just talkative, you were engaging, and each laugh that escaped your lips seemed to stir something inside him. You were kind, warm, easy to talk to—and it was starting to unsettle him. This wasn’t what he had imagined, and that, in and of itself, was a problem.

Every time you reached across the table to grab your drink, or brushed a lock of hair from your face, Nanami couldn’t shake the growing sense of... need. It wasn’t the typical attraction he felt—this was different. You were slipping under his skin in a way that was both dangerous and familiar.

By the time the meal was over, Nanami was no longer concerned about how out of place he felt. He was no longer thinking about the party girl who didn’t fit into his carefully constructed life. Instead, he found himself obsessed with the way you moved, the way you spoke. Everything about you now seemed... necessary.

“Are you sure you want to head home alone?” Nanami asked, his voice quieter than before.

You paused, blinking in surprise, but your smile remained sweet. “I’m used to it. My apartment’s not far.”

For a moment, Nanami didn’t speak, just watched you with an unreadable look in his eyes. 

“I’ll walk you to your door,” he said finally, his tone calm, as he gave you a smile. “It’s the right thing to do” 

Choso: Heart Shaped Lattes

Choso stood outside the small café nestled in the heart of Akihabara, waiting for Yuji and his friends. The city buzzed around him, but he remained still, his gaze distant as he watched the passing crowds. His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling his attention. It was a message from his little brother:

“Sorry Choso! We’re running a bit behind, you can order first if you want! :)”

Of course, he wasn’t upset. Even though Yuji was already fifteen minutes late, and Choso had been awkwardly standing alone outside, he would never feel anger toward his brother. It was just a small thing. A human thing.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed open the café door, and the familiar sounds of clinking cups and soft lofi music washed over him. The dimly lit interior felt cozy, a warm contrast to the bustling streets outside. Choso’s tired eyes scanned the room, his thoughts clouded as he made his way to the counter, gaze fixed on the floor.

“One latte. Please,” he ordered in his usual low, steady voice. He glanced up at the menu, as if the words there would help him understand what to say next. “Hot.”

It was the only drink Yuji had introduced him to, and despite its simplicity, Choso had come to enjoy it. There was something comforting about it. Something predictable. He was still getting used to this—this human lifestyle, the routine, the small moments that made up their lives.

The barista behind the counter smiled, her eyes warm as she took his order. Choso barely noticed the kindness in her expression, too focused on his own thoughts to appreciate the way she smiled at him. She handed him the receipt with a soft clink, and he nodded in acknowledgment before stepping away to find a table.

The café wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. It was just the right amount of busy that allowed Choso to sit quietly in the corner, unnoticed. He chose a seat by the window, glancing at his phone again to see if Yuji had messaged. Nothing. He smiled faintly. He could wait. He had all the time in the world.

A moment later, his latte arrived, set on the table with a soft clink of ceramic against wood. Choso’s eyes flicked down to the cup as the barista placed it in front of him. He froze.

There, on the surface of the coffee, was something unexpected. A perfect heart, etched into the foam.

Choso’s breath caught in his throat. His mind spun in confusion. Why was his heart beating so fast? Was it—an enemy? Was someone threatening him? No… that wasn’t it. This wasn’t danger. It was something else. Something he didn’t understand.

Blood rushed to his face, and he quickly glanced away, his eyes darting around the café in a frantic search for a distraction. But there was nothing. Nothing to explain this. 

No. It wasn’t possible. Was it?

His gaze snapped back to the barista. The girl who had taken his order. Her face was bathed in the soft glow of the café lights, and now that he was looking—really looking—he saw how stunning she was. Her lips were slightly pressed, a small concentration as she worked, preparing drinks with smooth, delicate movements.

You. You were the one who had made the heart in his coffee.

Choso swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His pulse was erratic, the sensation almost overwhelming. 

A heart. You had put a heart in his latte. The pretty little barista.

That must mean… love, right?

His mind raced with the possibilities. Was this some kind of sign? A gesture? Were you—interested in him?

No. It couldn’t be. He didn’t even know your name. He had barely spoken to you, hadn’t even properly looked at you until now. But still… the heart was something. It had to mean something.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away as you moved behind the counter, your every action now laced with meaning. The simple task of preparing drinks had transformed into something so intimate, so personal.

Choso leaned forward, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of his coffee cup. His thoughts churned as he stared….at that sweet little heart. 

Yuji and his friends would be here soon, but for now, he was lost. Lost in the warmth of the coffee, and in the warmth of a feeling that was new—and so very dangerous. A feeling that crept into his chest, tugging at something dark inside him.

Choso couldn’t help himself. He ordered at least three more drinks before his friends showed up. His heart is racing every time. Each time, you greeted him with that same smile, handing him the perfect coffee, each cup as flawless as the last. Each one had that sweet little heart in the foam. When you even gave him a free pastry—something small, something extra—he was sure of it. 

Surely, this was love.

Surely, he was meant to be here every day, because you two—you and him—were meant for each other, right?

This was what a soulmate was. 

Shoko: Medical School 

Oh, medical school. What a joke.

Shoko could cheat her way through most of her labs using her technique—healing, manipulating, fixing. But there was one thing she couldn’t control, couldn’t fake: Organic Chemistry.

She could easily fix broken bones, curse away a cold, hell, when her students lost limbs, Shoko could put them back together without even breaking a sweat. But Organic Chemistry? That was her undoing.

How was she supposed to understand what a nucleophilic attack was? Why were there shapes in chemistry?

It was a joke.

Which, of course, led her to you.

It was a slow morning, and Shoko dragged herself to the lecture hall, already exhausted from last night’s work. She slumped into the back row, hoping to at least catch a nap while pretending to take notes. Her eyes half-lidded, she scanned the room, not expecting anything interesting. That was until you—sweet, innocent little you—sat right next to her.

“Hah... I was worried I wasn’t going to make it. I never miss a lecture, y’know!” You said brightly, your accent heavy from one of the more rural areas of Japan. You were so… casual, so warm.

You leaned over, extending your hand to her with a smile. “I’m Y/n, and you are…?”

Shoko blinked, looking at your outstretched hand for a long beat, her gaze flickering from the innocent shine in your eyes to the warmth in your palm. She didn’t even bother to hide the smirk that tugged at her lips.

“Ieiri Shoko,” she hummed, amusement dancing in her tone as she took your hand and gave it a firm shake.

You were like a cute little puppy, weren’t you? Too trusting, too innocent.

She could already picture you with a tail wagging—completely unaware of what she might do to you.

Then, her gaze shifted.

You pulled out your notes—so detailed, so organized. Color-coded, of course, and even had cute little doodles in the margins explaining everything. A simple little smiley face here, a heart there, like a child’s drawing. Everything was perfect.

It irritated her. Not in the usual way. It wasn’t jealousy. No, it was something else. Something darker. Something that whispered: You’re the answer. You could help me…

Shoko’s eyes lingered on the page as she tried to suppress the urge to take those notes. She wasn’t proud of it, but—well, she had to admit it to herself. Organic Chemistry was her weakness. And you? You were her ticket to fixing that.

It didn’t take long for Shoko to fail the first exam. She’d be fine, of course. She could always cheat. But for now, it was an excuse to get closer to you.

She leaned over, her tone casual, but with a hint of something more—something almost… possessive.

“Your notes,” she began, voice dripping with barely-contained amusement, “they’re cute.”

Your face lit up immediately, a pure excitement in your eyes as you beamed at her. “Oh, thank you! I almost always get a seat in the front, but today I just missed my train after my shift at the Lawson, and well—”

Shoko didn’t need the backstory. She never did.

Her lips curled into a teasing, playful pout, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, which glinted with something more dangerous. She leaned in just a little closer, lowering her voice.

“Could you lend them to me?” she asked, her tone silky and smooth, the words almost too innocent. “I really need them for studying. And I didn’t quite catch everything in the lecture…”

Your enthusiasm was infectious. You beamed, completely unaware of the darker edge in her voice. “Well, I can’t exactly lend them to you…but I could give you a copy!” you chimed brightly. Your excitement was so pure, so sweet, it made Shoko have to stifle a laugh.

Oh, you were cute.

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if she were plotting something already. “Sure, sure. How about you come over to my apartment and drop them off, yeah? Maybe we could study together too… You seem to know your stuff.”

She watched as you nodded eagerly, too eager. Someone could just easily kidnap you, couldn’t they?

“Oh, that would be great! Here’s all my contact information!” you chirped, pulling out your phone and eagerly handing it to her.

Shoko took the phone from your hand, the faintest smile playing at her lips. 

You had already caught her interest. In more ways than one.

[brittle-doughie]

But the Dance is Today! (Hollyberry Kingdom)

You decided to take a break from all the dancing to get some punch, having to dance with a dozen or so Hollyberrians can tire anyone out.

Ok, stepping backwards for a moment.

You were invited to one of the Hollyberry Kingdom’s festivities that you were more then happy to go to! You did chuckle at the fact that it seemed a number of cookies there had sent a letter to you! Royal and Jungleberry, Hollyberry, Raspberry, even Princess and Knight Cookie sent you letters expressing their good wishes and wonder if you would be attending the festival. With how many cookies wrote to you, who were you to deny them!

Your kingdom’s cookies were there at the gate to bid you farewell with a variation of high fives, hugs, kisses, brief cuddling, you name it!

The ferryman cookie complimented you on your suit/dress, with how handsome/beautiful you were! It’s making him swoon on the spot, you were going to be a popular cookie amongst the Hollyberrians. You thanked him and he expressed that it was a shame that he doesn’t have the opportunity to have a small dance with a captivating cookie like you. This man took any opportunity he could to dish out a compliment about you!

Approaching the palace, you would catch the stares of many cookies as you made your way through the plaza, feeling the stares of many made you start to kinda speed walk. Cookies you walk past would stop to look at you in amazement, those conversing with each other on the sidelines would stop to gaze at you, with other cookies in the conversation doing the same.

You took a look behind and noticed that there quite the number of cookies lowkey tailing after you, some were trying to signal you to come over to them for a second! The amount of questions about you and the propositions to spend time together with them were substantial! Gentlemen wished to invite you to a nice dinner, ladies wanted to ask you out to the ball! With how many there were, there was bound to be fights over who asked you first and how spending your day with any one of them will be a lot more pleasant then others!

“Your allure makes my heart beat with passion! May you accompany me to dinner?”

“Ah! Your sweetness makes butterflies in my stomach! Can I please be your partner to the ball?”

“I never would’ve believed in love at first sight until I met your eyes! It would make my day if I were your dance partner…”

“Excuse me, but I had asked to dance with them first!”

“My heart has never been so sure of what it wants. I will duel with you for them!”

You were able to gain distance from the crowd of cookies when they started to fight amongst themselves, some even devolved to full on fighting. Hand to hand combat, hair pulling, oh god-

You managed to make your way to the palace without incident and…

With the cookies inside looking at you with gazes of adoration and infatuation, something tells you that it wasn’t going to be any less hectic in here then out there. Which leads you to your current state, having danced with a dozen or so cookies and was in dire need of a drink.

You finished your drink and turned around..to more cookies waiting patiently for you with smiles on their faces, they wished to dance with you! You sigh as you placed down your cup of punch, if they wanted to dance with you

Then let’s dance!

You waltz, you spun, you tangoed, and you tap danced your way through the crowd, always leaving your partner in a red faced stupor, with hearts in their eyes as they giggled uncontrollably.

You chuckled to yourself as you took a look at your handiwork! Cookies were stumbling around in lovestruck dizziness, some sat down while others were dizzy enough to fall down to the floor.

However, your time to take in your victory was short lived as you were suddenly pulled into a crushing hug.

“Y/N Cookie! You made it! I’m so happy you’re here!”

Princess Cookie spun you around as she nuzzled your face, god her grip was strong!

“Y/N Cookie! It’s great to see you again, friend!”

Princess let you go so you can go and hug Knight to greet him. Knight proceeded to stutter like crazy, red to his cheeks forming. He regained his composure a little after as he hugged you in return.

However, the vibes were suddenly halted when you felt the glares of many towards your direction. You turned to see your many dance partners staring death towards Princess and Knight Cookie. Ok, maybe you had overdone it with the dancing..

“These cookies, why are they staring at us like that? If this is about Y/N Cookie, then forget it! I just got to them today!”

“Don’t worry, Princess. I will protect both you and Y/N Cookie from any danger!”

The two cookies stared down the group of envious cookies as they slowly approached, it looks like just one drop of a pen would be enough to set off the ballroom into a fight. Princess gripped her staff tightly as did Knight with his sword.

If it came down to it, they’d gladly bludgeon or slash at any cookie that came their way…

“Now now, calm down, all of you!”

The crowd that was drawing close stopped in their tracks in surprise as they heard the voice. It also snapped Princess and Knight Cookie out of their staredown too.

It was Jungleberry Cookie! To her side, it was her husband, Royal Berry Cookie!

“Y-yes, please Cookies! There’s no need to start a fight here!”

The crowd gave their looks towards Princess and Knight Cookie..before begrudgingly dispersing from each other. You sighed in relief that a potential fight was averted..

Before that sigh was suddenly taken away as you were scooped up in another crushing hug.

“Y/N Cookie! Your dough is as crispy as ever! Oh and that suit/dress of yours looks brilliant on you!”

Jungleberry and Royal Berry agreed with her and followed up on Hollyberry.

“Yes, it matches your eyes very well, don’t you agree, darling?”

“They do, my dear! Their outfit really brings out the freshness of their dough and the application to their icing, it’s splendid! Say, would you care to join us for a dinner, Y/N Cookie? It must’ve been a long journey here.”

No thank you, you did ultimately have fun being here, but you should really start heading back and oh look at the time, perhaps it was time to start catching the next ferry back and-Jungleberry stood in your way.

“No no, we insist. It would be wrong of us to send you on your way on an empty stomach. Please, join us for dinner. We’d love your company!”

Hollyberry nuzzled you close.

“I agree, it’s been a while since we shared glasses of juice together, Y/N Cookie! Don’t think you can scurry away from me this time!”

Princess pouts at Hollyberry, clearly bothered at what she was doing to you.

“Hey, you can’t just take them away from me. I never got to spend time with them yet…”

“It would mean a lot to me and her Highness if you stayed to eat, Y/N Cookie!”

You wonder if you had just got flung out of the frying pan and into the oven when there was a squabble over who got the chairs next to you.

[leavethemtorot]

you stay soft, you get beaten (only natural to harden up)

I heard you guys wanted more Hearts? Maybe some more Tremaines?

The first time Desi met the eldest Heart it was pouring rain. 

The storm had hit fast and quick. The rain pounding on the boarded up windows and seeping through the walls. Going outside for anything longer than five minutes would be in a death sentence. Luckily, it had already been a slow day at the salon with barely any clients all day. Unluckily, it meant that the Heart triplets were trapped by the storm. 

One of them, Vladijov, had tried to leave but the thunder had scared him back in and the others had quickly whispered about someone coming to get them. All that meant was that she was stuck babysitting. People were never allowed unsupervised in the salon, this is the Isle afterall, but the Hearts weren’t doubly so. The first day they had entered the salon one of them had nearly killed themselves three times. So someone always had to be on babysitting duty and Anthony was tending to the children upstairs, Devin, Dell, and Dixie were no doubt scared out of their mind. 

Kazimíra and Mečislav were draped over each other passing cards to Vladijov who was tearing them in half and braiding them into the twos hair. While occasionally trying to eat one of course. Mečislava suddenly bolted up, staring straight at the door, where the elder prince entered just a few moments later. He was tall, sopping wet with dark hair and darker clothing. She could barely see any red, which was notably strange for a Heart, even the twins heavily wore red. 

“Em!” She cried, knocking over Kazimíra in her attempt to grab the brother. The other two quickly followed after him.

Em looked nothing like his siblings. She couldn’t quite tell what color it was, not with this lighting and how much water was in it, but it was certainly a different color. Almost blue? Not to mention all of the features looked wrong. There is some expected variation between siblings but this was far too much. He didn’t have the heart face shape that every other Heart had. She had never seen a Heart without it, not even the glances she once had of the Queen and King. 

He looked up, brown eyes locked with hers, clearly knowing that she knew something was off. 

A thump sounded, something had fallen upstairs. A series of knocks sounded, a code between her and Anthony meaning that something was wrong with Devin or Dell. Her eyes shifted upwards and despite her best efforts she knew that some emotion showed on her face.

“Go. I have them.” 

She froze, staring at him. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, attention seemingly captured by the babbling triplets surrounding him. Nodding and silently doubling checking that everything was okay with them, all while they didn’t notice or were too used to him doing so that they didn’t care.

Another thump. This time accompanied by a short cry.

Something was wrong. Something was clearly wrong, but the Hearts couldn’t be left alone and this was the first time that Em had ever stepped foot into the salon. Who was to know if he could be trusted.

“Desi?” Dizzy called, standing near the top of the stairway, just far enough down that she could see into the salon, “Can you come up here? Dev-”

She froze, just then seeing the Hearts, knowing that she just said something she shouldn’t have.

He looked up again, this time understanding in his eyes. Something clicked for him. She’s not sure she wanted it to.

“Go,” he said more urgently, almost shooing her away, “I get it. Go take care of them.”

In that moment, Desi knew. Like recognizes like. He may not be their blood, but there was most certainly blood connecting them. Trusting the word of a Heart at face value for the first time, she turned and went upstairs, finding out what had happened to her children along the way.

[dustedmagazine]

John Cale — Mercy (Domino)

Photo by P. Cornett

John Cale’s Mercy is a maximalist edifice, its moody, drifting atmospherics bolstered by sweeping arrangements (strings, layered vocals, glitchy beats), its credits studded with the cream of young mainstream indie and its length impressive at over 70 minutes. The songs themselves stake out considerable territory, running five, six, even slightly over seven minutes in length. They are never in any hurry to reach a climax, but rather clank on in desolate, reverb-swathed caverns, touching on dance, EDM, quiet storm soul and Talk Talk-ish orchestra epiphany. The man who did more than anyone to herd a nascent rock ‘n roll into droning, dissonant art-song seems content here to let sounds billow and surge and recede like natural currents.

Cale has been out of the foreground for quite a while. His last solo album was 2016’s M:Fans, which may or may not count, depending on how you feel about remakes; it re-envisioned songs from Music for a New Society, released in 1982. His last album of new, original solo material, Shifty Adventures in Nookie Wood, came out over a decade ago, when he was a septuagenarian, not an octagenerian. Time flies at all ages, apparently. 

But it’s not like John Cale has to do much to ensure his legacy. That was largely sealed by the 1960s, when the artist lit an experimental fire under the proto-punk Velvet Underground and set rock music off in an entirely unexpected direction. Solo work, like Paris 1919, and production duties for the Stooges, Nico, the Modern Lovers and others further assured his place in music history. At 80, he has very little to prove. 

And so, it is really inspiring to see Cale reaching out in all directions, enlisting electronics innovators like Laurel Halo, rock experimenters like Animal Collective and indie rock mainstays like Sylvan Esso and Weyes Blood to broaden and renew his art. It would be even better if he let them do more. 

Despite the variety of collaborators, the main problem with Mercy is that it sounds too much the same from track to track. The guests get a line of vocals at most, a la Panda Bear’s aching, twitching intro to “Everlasting Days” or Sylvan Esso’s Amanda Meath’s sighing counterpart in “Time Stands Still.” They’re swallowed in a moment, and we’re back to Cale’s mordant, echo-sheathed baritone, swirling in a mix of electronic beats, supple strings or runs of evocative piano. 

The one exception to this trend is “Story of Blood,” which puts Cale on ruminative jazz piano and Natalie Mering at the mic, at least intermittently. As the jazz cabaret fades out and twitch-y squiggly synth riffs enter in, Mering wraps Cale’s lead in a dreaming, swooning shroud. Both are overdubbed, so that they come at you from all directions. It is dizzying, cathedral-large and beautiful. 

All of which is to say, it’s not that these songs are bad, just that they sound a lot alike: elegant, chilled, full of foreboding.  They touch elliptically on the events of the last few years, plague, division, isolation, death. They are murky and resonant and stirring. But they go on and on, without a lot of variation, either within the tunes or between them. More isn’t always better. 

Jennifer Kelly

[puffpasstea]

Satellite

Warnings: drugs, alcohol

---

Chapter 6

I spent the last two hours of the night, before the sun came up, in the bed in one of Harry’s guest rooms, scrolling on my phone between the seemingly infinite number of “news” articles publicizing the photos from earlier tonight. They were analyzing the handful of pictures that people had snapped. Some clearer than others. The stuff they published made me sick. Not only were they scrutinizing our body language, facial expressions, and my dress, but they had “insider sources” who “reported” that Harry and I were “spending time together.” Whatever that meant. I’m sure it was intentionally vague. Designed to get clicks and keep people talking without actually saying anything that would get them in legal trouble. The comment sections oscillated between two extremes. Some commenters left variations of heart and crown emojis, commending Harry for being “such a gentleman” for letting me hold onto his arm, and others called me a fame hungry whore, or a “beard” concealing whatever it is they think Harry has to hide. We aren’t even dating. A fact that hardly seemed relevant to those who were openly offering their very strongly worded opinions on our non-existent relationship. The dizzying speed at which these photos were being shared and written about made me nauseous. Just when I thought I’d seen it all, something new would pop up. My social media accounts exploded with notifications. I don’t know what made my skin crawl more, people I’d known my whole life and hardly ever spoke to who were now suddenly emerging from the midst of nowhere to “reach out” to me, or complete strangers tagging me, commenting on my past posts, and reviewing my every digital move. I instantly felt defensive though I wasn’t sure what I was defending or why. If a few moments of walking alongside Harry had resulted in this burst of articles and rumors, what would people say once they’ve had a few minutes to scroll through my accounts? For a moment, I had the urge to set all of my accounts to “private,” but that somehow felt weird and cowardly. Like I was afraid, or had something to hide.

I’d managed to work myself into another spiral. I needed a break. As the sun was rising in my window, I buried my phone underneath a mountain of pillows and got up to go check on Harry. I hoped the medication he’d been given, and the events of the night before, had knocked him into a deep slumber. When I got to the living room, the couch where I’d set him up, and where he’d drunkenly kissed me, was empty. Shit. Where l was he? How’d he even manage to get up on his own  with one of his arms mysteriously immobilized? Why do I feel like I’m in charge of babysitting a toddler?

 I walked around the house looking for him. He wasn’t in the kitchen, or in either of the massive dining areas. I went upstairs to his bedroom, but the room was empty and his bed looked untouched. Perfectly made with the throw-pillows symmetrically aligned. He hadn’t slept in it. He was nowhere to be found when I checked the bathroom, and the five guest bedrooms and bathrooms that he’d shown me in a tour of the house upon my arrival. The gardens on his property were enormous, but as far as I could make out from the front of the house, none of them had been lit during the night. No way was he out there on his own. 

I dialed Harry’s phone but was sent straight to voicemail. Fuck. Could he have gone back to the hospital, or something? Was he in so much pain that he just had to leave in the middle of the night to go back to the emergency room? If so, why hadn’t he come to get me? Or at least leave a message? My mind had no trouble at all coming up with several violent scenarios for me to choose from. So. Many. horrible things could’ve happened.

Numerous attempts and three voicemails later, I called Christopher to see if he’d heard from Harry, or if he had any idea where Harry could be.

“I’m sorry, no. I’ve just been sleeping since we dropped him off.” Christopher’s sleepy-leaden voice grumbled from the other end of the line.

I sighed loudly. Unable to voice the spiral in my mind.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s fine. Wherever he is.” Christopher offered, clearing his throat to sound more comprehensible. 

“How? How could you be ‘sure he’s fine’ if you have no idea where he is? Hmm? What if he’s hurt? What if he needs help?”

“You’re spinning out, you realize that, right?”

“S-sorry. I just- he’s not well. He’s on pain pills and whatever else he imbibed at the afterparty, and-”

“Fine,” Christopher groaned. “ I’ll come over.”

***

In Harry’s kitchen, Christopher leaned against the counter as I poured us both some coffee from the touch-screen espresso machine that Harry had shown me how to use. 

“Should- we call the police? Report him missing?” I asked as I handed Christopher his mug.

“And risk a public outcry? Are you insane?”

We’d spent the early hours of the morning unsuccessfully negotiating with his security guy. We begged him to let us see the security footage to check where Harry might have gone, or if he’d ordered a car or used his own, but the guy wouldn’t budge. Our names were not on Harry’s emergency list. Therefore he wasn’t going to share ANY information with us under any circumstances. Even though we were Harry’s guests.

“At least the police would be able to override the security guy…” I shrugged and  took a much needed, enormous sip of my coffee and burned my tongue.

“You’re crazy. It’s Harry Styles. in LA. He’s safe. I’m sure. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you prepared to deal with the public outcry that will definitely happen if it turns out that he isn’t safe?”

Christopher rolled his eyes.

“Cuz I’m not. Fans will crucify you. For the rest of your life, suspicion will haunt you. You’ll be THAT guy. The guy who could’ve called the police but didn’t. Wonder why? You wanna be that guy, Christopher?”

“Have you…been taking Harry’s pain pills?” 

“I hate you.”

 Chris laughed and pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” I walked over to stand over his shoulder.

“Like I said, it’s Harry Styles, this is LA. Chances are, if he’s somewhere public, someone out there must have seen him somewhere.”

Christopher opened his instagram app and searched for Harry’s name. His account information with its trusty blue checkmark appeared. Christopher swiped to Harry’s “tagged photos” and found the most recent picture he was tagged in. It was from two hours ago.

“Would you look at that?” Christopher handed me his phone and I immediately knew what he meant.

“Of course.” I was relieved he was okay.

“Already on it.” Christopher pulled up his contacts and made the call. “Hey, sorry to wake you. Could you put Harry on the phone, please?”

“Dude, speaker!” I whisper-yelled at Christopher.

He obliged, putting his phone down on the kitchen counter between us and hitting “speaker.”

“He’s not here, Chris. Not anymore, anyway.” Sienna’s voice replied. “He was. A couple of hours ago. Asked if he could borrow my dog and-”

“And you let him??” I interrupted, perhaps a bit too aggressive. Christopher shot me a corrective look.

“Forgive her. She’s really worried. Sienna, did he tell you where he and the dog were going?”

“I don’t know but I can send you the address. He seemed too loopy to drive so I called him an Uber.”

“Text me the address?”

“You got it, Chris.”

Ending the call, Chris gave me a fake sigh and smiled. “You and Harry better get married at the end of all this.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

****

I got into a car to the address that Sienna had sent us without thinking, but now that the driver had dropped me off, it occurred to me that I hadn’t thought far enough into the future to decide what I was going to do. I stood in front of the front door of this home. It must be a friend of Harry’s because the place was in a gated community. Weirdly, Harry’s driver’s car was recognized and allowed inside, so Harry must have been here before. I rang the doorbell without a clue who’d be on the other side, but as soon as the door swung open, everything made sense.

“H-how? How’d you find him?” asked the tall, dark haired man in the sweat suit as soon as he saw me.

“It’s Jeffrey…right? We met. At the Forum, remember?” I extended my hand out.

Remembering his manner, he shook my hand. “Please, call me Jeff.”

“Jeff, I just wanna talk to him. Make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s so gonna kill me for this,” Jeff mumbled under his breath as he stepped aside, letting me in.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let him.”

***

“He’s right through there” Jeff nodded as he walked me down the hallway of the second floor of his home. “Last door on the felt.”

I thanked him for his help and he retreated back to the lower floor to give us some privacy.

I knocked twice before opening the guest room door where Harry had spread out on the floor, Sienna’s beagle snoozing next to him, with a guitar on the floor, Harry struggling to hold it with his one functioning arm, beer bottles, empty cans, and an ashtray scattered in a semi-circle around his body.

“Seriously, Harry?” I exhaled in disbelief, walking in and shutting the door behind me.

Clearly startled, Harry looked up from his spot on the floor, his expression twisting into distant avoidance as he realized it was me. “Alice.” his eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but in my direction. The height difference between us made him look small and scared. I wished I could understand what was going through his mind or comfort him. But it was more likely that I was the cause of it all.

I was taken aback by the pain that this caused me. He might as well have driven a knife through my chest. This was the first time Harry had ever called me by my real name. No “Matilda.” Not even “babe,” or “darlin.’” Just “Alice.” 

“What- are you…how? How did you...” 

 Though he never finished any of his questions, I knew what he was trying to ask, so I pulled my phone out and showed him the instagram picture of him with Sienna’s dog that led me here.

“‘Course, internet.” he  nodded, mumbling to himself.

“Harry, how drunk are you right now?”

“Not drunk.”

I squatted down and took a seat on the floor next to him, shoving the beer bottles to the side to make more room. 

“You’re not supposed to drink with the meds you’re on.” I reminded him, glancing around the room for more evidence of his solitary activities. “...or smoke…or take other pills…gosh, Harry what’ve you ingested? Is there anything you HAVEN’T taken?”

“You know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.”

I rolled my eyes. Fighting the urge to indulge in his self-pity. It was extremely difficult though. I kept my face harsh and steady, but it was killing me to see him like this.

“You wanna share? I bet I could scramble together a line at least?” He grabbed his credit card off the carpet and felt around his small clear baggies for leftovers.

“That’s not funny, Harry.”

“Wasn’t joking.”

“Stop, okay? You’ve had enough. Let’s get you home.”

“I’m not goin’ home…I’m- staying here.” His speech was slow and slurred. Sienna’s dog got up and walked in circles scratching at the floor to find a comfortable spot, then giving up, he jumped right into Harry’s lap.

Harry’s hand automatically began petting him.

“You need to go home and get some sleep. Flush all this…shit out of your system. Sober up.”

Looking me dead in the eyes, Harry grabbed a pill out of one of his plastic bags and swallowed it whole. “No.”

“Look, I get it. You’re in pain. You’re angry with me. You’re sad. We’ve all been there. Things suck right now, but you can’t run from your feelings. They’ll catch up to you eventually. And thing will be much worse when they do.”

“Like you even care? We’re not together, remember? We can’t be. You said that last night. So why are you here? Why are you trying to help me? I don’t need you to help me, I need you to love me. But you won’t do that, so why’d you come here? What, were you hoping to apologize and make it all go away? I can’t do that anymore, I can’t keep making allowances for your emotional shortcomings. It’s exhausting, I’m exhausted just leave me the fuck alone, Alice!!”

[not-quite-girl-nor-quite-boy]

So day five on day six byt moving on. Day six is coming just probably on day sever lol. Sorry anyway. Sorry im behind but i have a heavy workload but anyway. It of course is supernatural but today we have sabriel and not destiel so dont say i don't give you any variation.

Have fun <3

Whumptober day 5- every whumpee's needs. (Bleeding out)

Sam's eyelashes slowly fluttered open, he went to stand only to be caught by the hancuffs on his chair. He hadnt noticed that he was bound. He looked around wondering what the hell was doing wherever the hell he was. His vision was bleary and he felt weak and confused. He saw a glowing ring on the floor, something was inside it.

"Sam, are you ok?"

"Gabriel?"

"yeah Sammy, it's me.'

"we've been looking for you, what's- what's happening, I don't remember how I got here."

"are you ok?"

"I don't know I feel really weak and dizzy. Where are we, who did this?"

"ok, don't panic but your bleeding quite alot from a cut on your leg." Sammy looked down to see a red plume on his jeans over his thigh. He felt thick blood sluggishly roll out of the wound. "Lucifer has us, he kidnapped me and put me in this weird ring thing, that's dampening my powers. And he just Brough you here bleeding and unconscious. That was almost a day ago which explains why you're so weak and dizzy."

"why did he take you?"

"he's pissed at me for trying to kill him at the elysian hotel, remeber?"

"yeah, but why am I here?"

Gabriel blushed and looked down. Satan entered before he could answer.

"Sammy! Good morning."

"why am I here you evil son of a bitch?"

"he didn't tell you?"

sam looked over at Gabriel his breathing becoming more strenuous his head spinning.

"I told him that I would I kill everything he loves."

"what are you gonna kill sex? Drinking? Candy?"

"he enjoys those things yes. But all I have to do is kill you." Sam looked confused and Lucifer looked down at his leg, "and it looks like I don't have to wait long." Gabriel started to cry.

"please brother, please, kill me torture me, anything, let him go. Lucifer I swear to father don't touch him."

Sam looked at Gabriel more confused, then it clicked, Gabriel loves him of course Sam had always loved Gabriel but he never thought he'd feel the same. Sam couldn't see much at this point and he was fighting hard to stay conscious but he could see the light of the circle slowly dimming. He just needed to buy time, he hoped, then Gabriel can get free and help us both.

Lucifer ignored his words, "y'know Sammy I've missed our chats, lets make this last." He said cutting sams upper arm. Sam flinched as did Gabriel as if he could feel sams pain. Lucifer pulled up a chair in front of Sam he leaned forward and cut the back of sams hand into a cross cross pattern, it must have been 16 cuts. Sam never gave Lucifer the satisfaction of displaying his pain. He could still see the faint light dimming, only looming at it in his peripheral so as not to tip of Lucifer.

"LUCIFER! ENOUGH." Gabriel shouted.

Lucifer didn't even dignify him with a glance but said nothing to him. Instead he turned back to carry on 'playing' with Sam who was not having a good time. He felt his eyelids getting heavier, his resistance wavering. Lucifer stabbed sams shoulder and could almost hear his teeth grinding stopping him from screaming just then sams head fell back and Lucifer vanished, his fun over and his prey dead. The light vanished and Gabriel ran over to Sam.

"sammy, sammy please!" He tried to shake him awake to no avail. He put two fingers on his forehead. A cold blue light filled the room. The blood remained on his clothes but the wounds vanished, Sam grunted in his sleep Gabriel took several deep breaths before disintegrating sams cuffs. He lifted the hunter up grunting in pain and flew him to the bunker. Where dean was pacing thinking about how to find his Baby brother.

"Gabriel?!" He looked at Sammy in his arms. "what happened?" Gabriel set sam down on a bed

"he'll be fine, he lost alot of blood so let him sleep. We were kidnapped by Lucifer, he tortured Sam and- and me." the strength in his voice wavering as he stuttered stumbling his way through the sentence. He turned back to look at Sam on the bed revealing the gruesome array of wounds peppering his back, some slashed, some stabs, even some burns. Dean flinched at the sight of them.

"I hea- healed him, he'll be fine, he'll sleep for a few days probably." Gabriel faultered, stumbling, struggling to stay upright and conscious

"Gabriel, what about you?" Dean asked, gravely concerned.

"I'm fine." He gasped between breaths, His knees buckled and he fell to the floor in a heap, unconscious. Dean fell to the ground and tore his shirt off revealing the wound and another, his shoulder had been stabbed, as was his abdomen and his forearm had a sizeable gash on it on top of the damage to his back. Dean was shocked he had been awake this long knowing that Sammy had been gone over a day so he got to work, he lifted Gabriel onto a bed and started the stitches. He was in an infirmary with his sleeping little brother and an unconscious, injured archangel. He had no idea what had happened or why. But they'd both live.

when Gabriel woke up about an hour after Sam, Sam gave him the lecture on prioritizing other people over himself. He also confessed his feelings for Gabriel.

"I love you too." He said and leaned in for a kiss Gabriel tried to escalate it but his wounds pulled him back.

"damn. I need more rest to restore my grace." He all but passed out,

"I love you more" he mumbled as he drifted to sleep. Sam smiled and layed down to sleep next to Gabriel who snuggled into him despite being unconscious. Sam smiled harder and fell asleep, his arms around the man he loved.

Hope you had fun <3

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Reoccurring Nightmare- Prompt Fill

cw for exhaustion, anxiety, crying

Send me more prompts!  (Bingo by @celosiaa​) The ones with stars are the ones I already have prompts for, the crossed out ones are the ones I have posted! Send me a character, a prompt, and tell me if you want an art or a fic!!!!!! I am captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr!

There is a knocking in his ears.�� At his door.  On his person.  On the inside of his skull.  The knocking in his chest.  His heart trying to get out of him.  Anxiety?  Mirroring the knocking on his door for two weeks.  Knocking that should have been Tim or Sasha or Jon.  

Every night the same.  Every night on a passible cot.  In this cramped little room.  Variations on the same theme.  The knocking in his head… in his memory shaking him for the same dream.  Leaving him bleary and only the slightest bit alive during the day.  Turning the past… month?  Into nothing but a sleep deprived blur.  Days having no meaning when nights don’t bring rest.  When there is no daylight, and few meals.  He isn’t hungry because all he can think about is that damp, decaying smell.  Of earth and compost and rot.  Gone past the restless hunger of exhaustion, and straight into the churning nausea of trying to stay conscious.  

His handwriting is worse than it ever has been.  Nodding off at his desk.  The notes he is taking turning into cryptic squiggles as the words blur before his eyes.  

He’s been trying to listen to Jon tell him something for the past 15 minutes, but he has no idea what.  His eyes keep sliding shut and his neck is getting sore from jerking as he tries not to fall asleep.  

“Martin?”  That would be Jon, right?  Yes.  Jon is right in front of him.  It would make sense if it were Jon.  Right?  Right?  Right?  Is he even at his desk?  Is he still backed against the wall at, in his flat?  Spare cloth shoved under every crack?  Duct tape and packing tape and linens and clothes?  Keeping them out?  But the knocking continuing?  Or is that his heartbeat?  

Jon is getting a little alarmed by Martin.  Martin had looked… rough when he burst into his office, weeks ago now.  But he isn’t looking better.  Jon watches Martin repeatedly fall asleep as Jon tries to express his growing… concern about Martin’s current state.  

Jon wrings his hands nervously for a few seconds before stopping himself.  He clenches his hands into fists by his sides to stop his fidgeting.  “Martin…. Are… are you all right?”  Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Of course he isn’t.  The man is falling asleep at his desk.  He isn’t alright.  

This jerks Martin awake again.  

“Fine  I’m fine!”  Martin’s voice has jumped an octave and breaks halfway through.  

Jon clears his throat.  He really hasn’t planned out what to do next.  What did he even think he could accomplish here?  He could get Martin to the cot, but as far as Jon knows, Martin has spent a lot of time there.  Jon has been keeping later and later hours since Martin got back, and has tried to keep an eye on Martin.  

He needs to do something.  

How did he not get suspicious?  

He should have checked in on Martin.  14 nights.  14 nights he spent sleeping or... trying to sleep... or to be fair about 10 nights sleeping, and 4 nights failing to and working instead... in any case he wasn't there!  He has to do something this time.  He failed last time.  He should have been a better boss.  He should have been less of a right ass.  

"Martin, I have to request that we continue this conversation once you have gotten some rest.  Please."

Well that probably wasn't helpful.  Especially because Martin looks slightly panicked now.  

"It's fine, Jon really.  I'm fine.  I'll just... I'll just get back to this..."  Martin glances down as if checking what he is actually supposed to be working on.  "Followup.  I'll have it for you in an hour, yeah?  I'll bring you tea?"  

Jon pulls a face.  This is not what he was getting at.  "Martin I want you to get some rest so you don't collapse, you can worry about that later so I don't have to redo everything because you aren't awake enough to do it properly."  Well... he got a sentence out, but it wasn't as... kind as he had hoped it would come out.  

Martin's face falls.  "right ...yeah.  Sorry."  Martin makes no move to get up.  

Jon is half afraid that he will just give up and sleep at his desk, which Jon can reliably report is not good for the spine.  And Jon does not have the means to lift Martin, nor does he want to break the touch barrier.  He doesn't know Martin well enough for that.  It had taken him months to get there with Tim.  Maybe Tim could carry Martin... but that is all the farther he get with that thought before Martin bursts into tears.  Which Jon honestly finds even more alarming.  

Jon prefers to do his crying far far away from prying eyes.  The idea of being comforted sounds both very nice and very uncomfortable and if anyone were to catch him crying at work, he would very much prefer they simply pretended nothing was going on. 

Right.  Martin.  

Jon nudges Martin's box of tissues a little closer and just... stands there, staring off just above Martin's head.  What else is he supposed to do?  He could bring him water, but that acknowledges that Martin is crying, which Martin might not appreciate?  Then again, Jon doesn't know what Martin likes.  Would it betray his trust to go and fetch Tim?  Or Sasha?  Or hell even Rosie would be better equipped to handle this.  Jon doesn't know shit about comforting people.  He is half convinced that that is part of the reason Georgie broke up with him.  

He turns on his heal and retrieves water and some biscuits for Martin.  It isn't tea, but Jon has no clue how Martin takes his tea and doesn't want to leave for too long.  Maybe he can shield Martin from the others if they actually come back from lunch on time.  Which ....Jon doubts.  

Martin is doing his best to dry his eyes with minimal success, when Jon returns.  Jon sets the water in front of him and nudges the biscuits in line with the water.  

Jon clears his throat.  "Would you like to be left alone or would you... like a hug?'  

Martin snorts at the clear awkwardness laced in the word "hug."  It's a damp sound.  "Not if you say it like that, Jon.  I'm fine.  I'll just... wash my face and get back to work."

"Martin, please I... you need to rest.  Not just for your work, that was supposed to be a... Martin I am actually worried about you.  Please go and get some rest."

Martin whines slightly and then flushes at the idea that he made such an embarrassing sound.  At least, Jon presumes that is why he flushes.  

He is clearly embarrassed enough to give it up and go to the cot because Martin gets up and heads in that direction.  Muttering a teary, "fine," as he leaves.  

Jon is jolted out of his work by screaming.  He follows it towards Martin's room, heart hammering loud enough to make him dizzy.  "Martin!"  He bursts in without knocking.  And Martin is...

curled up on the cot... looking even more tired and embarrassed.  

"Sorry," he mumbles, having come awake with his own scream, Jon presumes.  Or perhaps when Jon entered. "Nightmares.  I'm fine.  Go back to work.  Or better yet You take a nap."  

The last part was in a sharper tone then Jon is used to from Martin.  

"I'm fine," Jon echos.  Defensive.  He is.  Mostly.  True he's been pulling some ridiculous hours, but that is for Martin.  He needs to help.  He needs to try to understand what is happening.  "Martin, is there anything I can do?"

"No.  Jon.  It's fine.  Go back to work.  I'll have a lie down and then I'll get back to work."

"Would... would company help?  I... I could take a lie down on the floor?  And then you... wouldn't be alone?"

Silence falls heavily.  Jon is worried he has overstepped.  Wouldn't that be just like him?  Make Martin feel worse.  Just like he always does.  

Adrenaline from earlier getting recycled into guilt.  His hands are prickling with anxiety.  He tries to shake them out subtly.  

Martin is staring at Jon's feet.  Or rather at the floor next to them, and has gone a bit red.  

"Look, Jon, I don't want you to sleep on the floor."

"It's fine.  Better than my desk.  It will likely be the best sleep I've gotten in a while.  Think of it as a benefit to me.  ...I... I understand not sleeping well."  Jon also stares at the floor.  He distantly wonders if they are staring at the same spot.  An indirect staring contest.  Indirect like everything Jon does.  Everything just to the left of what he means.  He scuffs his foot on the floor.  

Martin scoots until he is pressed to the wall, and pointedly doesn't look at Jon as he pats the cot next to him.  

Holding himself stiffly, Jon toes off his shoes and folds his jacket, and stretch himself next to Martin on the too-narrow cot.  

Hardly five minutes later, they are both are in an uneasy sleep.  But it is an improvement.  

[sssrha]

Imposter

Later, Lan Xichen learned what, exactly, his mother had done. Later, he would learn that the normal punishment was death. Later he learned that his father had married her so she could escape that fate, only to lock her away from the world she loved so much.

But, at that moment, Lan Huan was five and anything was possible, so he told himself he didn’t need to be Sect Leader Lan—he would be A-Huan, travelling the world with Mother (and maybe A-Zhan) and making her smile. That’s all he ever wanted.

Or: When the people spoke of the Twin Jades of Lan, Lan Xichen could never push away the distinct sense of wrongness in his stomach. They didn’t know that he was an imposter, after all.

[written for XiSang Week 2020. read it below or on AO3.]

-

Lan Huan’s mother used to card her fingers through his hair once a month, pulling and twisting the strands into elaborate braids that Lan Huan would spend hours looking at, if given the chance. When Lan Zhan would, inevitably, fall asleep to her quiet humming, she would turn her twinkling eyes upon Lan Huan and Lan Huan alone, and she’d keep on braiding and unbraiding his hair, singing sweet nonsense into the silence.

Afterward, right before leaving, he would quietly unbraid his hair, each movement leaving his limbs increasingly leaden until he was but a human caricature, inanimate and yet still breathing, unable to finish what he’d started. His mother would press a kiss to his forehead and finish for him. “Look at you,” she would whisper, careful not to rouse Lan Zhan, “you’re the perfect Lan. My son—so handsome!”

She’d brush her fingers against Lan Huan’s cheek—she did it so often that Lan Huan memorized every scar and callous on them…and there were many. Lan Zhan had only truly learned how to count after their mother let him count every blemish across her palms. When asked, she would say, “I didn’t always live here, A-Huan.”

That made sense. She probably earned those scars in the same place she’d learned how to braid Lan Huan’s hair—the very same braids that sat atop her own head. It must have also been the same place she’d chipped her front tooth and lost the very tip of her left ring finger.

He would ask her about that far off time which he wasn’t alive to see, and she’d regale him with stories of warriors, of freedom, of ancient forests filled with beasts ready to fight, and many times, she’d tell him about a butcher who worked hard until he became so much more. It was his favorite story. When he unbraided his hair and felt his limbs turn to lead, his mother would tell him the story, and suddenly, things weren’t as bad.

He should have known that it wouldn’t last.

***

Lan Huan is eight, and he is floating. He thinks he’s cold, too—he must be, sitting out in the snow like this for so long, nowhere near close enough to his brother to share any warmth. He knows that he should go, but he’s floating over his own head and it’s hard to see anything other than Lan Zhan’s form, crystal clear against the rest of the world.

He cannot leave his brother sitting out in the cold, and even if this is a dream, like he’s starting to suspect, it’s still the principle that matters; Lan Huan watches himself stay completely still until his fingers turn so white that it must be frightening. He watches them curl, one-by-one, creaking in protest after their disuse, and he hears himself say, once again, “A-Zhan, let’s go.” Lan Zhan glances at him once before going back to staring at the door—the one that will never open, no matter how long he waits, no matter how much his older brother wants him to be happy—

Lan Huan floats, and he can’t come back down.

He watches himself hunch over and, slowly, feels the dizziness run rampant through his mind.

The first time Lan Zhan moves that evening is after Lan Huan’s body tilts sideways and doesn’t get back up.

“Brother!”

The world whirls away.

***

That should have been the end of it.

It is not the end.

***

The Cloud Recesses’ infirmary stands apart from the rest of it. It’s in its own nook of time, unchanged by the ebbs and flows of the world and Lan Xichen is sure that if he were to trace the lines of the blanket covering his form, it would remain with the same folds and contours as always. He can almost see the world whirl by, the sun rising and setting with the sands of time.

He sees two winters pass before he’s finally back in himself, fingers running through his own hair, unconsciously folding the roots into braids before undoing them. He should most definitely stop—before someone sees, before someone realizes that he’s dared to keep this little part of his mother for himself—and he seizes when he hears footsteps nearing his area.

Briefly, there is hesitation thick in the room, but then a voice quietly murmurs out a greeting. “Brother,” Lan Zhan says, his voice quiet and full of concern.

He said the same thing two years ago, when Lan Xichen collapsed in the cold, but back then he’d been apologetic, asking for forgiveness for letting him collapse. Now, he just hesitantly places his fingers on Lan Xichen’s hair, carefully helping him undo the last of the braids. “Brother,” Lan Zhan continues, “Uncle said you threw up.”

He had, right in the middle of class. He remembers the gasps that had rippled through the room, the plain horror on the instructor’s face, and the pain in his stomach as he retched. “I did,” he responds.

“What did the physician say?”

Lan Xichen says, “Nothing is wrong. She doesn’t know what happened.” He does. He knows exactly why his head started spinning and his breath came heavy and oppressive. He knows exactly how his world turned upside down. It started with his new instructor smiling at his class and saying, “Today, we will discuss a story.”

It was a story about a butcher who worked hard until he became so much more. For a second, he could almost hear it told from his mother’s lips.

So he threw up.

Lan Zhan doesn’t believe him, he knows, but he doesn’t say a word, still dutifully unbraiding his hair. Lan Xichen lets it happen and wonders, briefly, if he should warn Lan Zhan of this travesty, this complete invasion of their mother’s privacy, but he realizes that Lan Zhan wouldn’t understand. After all, their mother never told the story to him, only to Lan Xichen, unbraiding his hair in the Jingshi. (And, for a moment, Lan Xichen wonders at how similar Lan Zhan is to their mother. Their uncle is always on the lookout to ensure neither of them turn into their father, but…but Lan Zhan really is a carbon copy of her in every way but mannerisms.

And so, Lan Xichen loves him even more than before, surprised at how that’s possible.)

Lan Xichen doesn’t say a word about it. Instead, he asks, “How was class today?”

He asks this every day, and he always receives similar answers: easy, difficult, interesting, uninteresting, etc. Today, however, Lan Zhan says, “Unimportant.”

That stops Lan Xichen dead in his tracks. “Every class is important,” he says firmly, wondering what on earth Lan Zhan was taught to inspire such a response.

Lan Zhan frowns. “You are more important. What happened?”

Ah. Lan Xichen once again finds himself turning away, shame coursing through him at the realization that his little brother is so concerned for him. “I will talk to Uncle about it,” is the only response he gives.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Lan Zhan nods and continues to unbraid Lan Xichen’s hair.

Lan Xichen wonders when his brother got so grown up.

***

Every night, Lan Xichen and his family performs a ritual: their uncle wishes them both a goodnight, gives them a hug, and then heads to sleep. Lan Xichen has learned that, as of late, Lan Zhan has taken to not hugging their uncle, but Lan Xichen still does—it’s a rare bit of his childhood that he does not want to let go of, and his uncle does not mention it.

Tonight, however, Lan Xichen doesn’t let his uncle go without a word. “I have a question,” he says.

Lan Qiren pauses, obviously taken by surprise. “What is it?” he asks.

Lan Xichen says, “Today, in class, Teacher was telling a story. I didn’t get to hear all of it.”

Lan Qiren frowns, contemplative. “What do you remember about it?”

He wets his lips. “It was about a butcher,” he explains. “That’s all I heard.”

“Ah, yes, the founder of the Nie Sect, Nie Fan. He was a butcher that started cultivating, as our Lan An was a monk who began cultivating. Tomorrow, I will tell you the story since you missed it in class. For now, sleep.”

Lan Xichen does not want to sleep. He wants to know why the story was known by others, why it wasn’t special like he always thought it was—why his story was out in the open, like a festering wound that no one let heal. However, exhaustion pulls at his features, dragging him under its spell so effectively that he knows that he will fall asleep soon, whether he likes it or not, so he nods in acceptance and watches his uncle’s form as he leaves Lan Xichen’s room.

Lan Zhan is probably already asleep, and all Lan Xichen will be, too, soon, but—he needs to do something. The endless itch lingers beneath his fingertips, and he finds himself moving before he even realizes what he’s doing. He is sitting in front of a mirror, hands in his hair, braiding and braiding until three long strands sit atop his head. His fingers shake and his shoulders ache, the only thing going through his head being variations of “Mother’s story, my story, our story” until it’s too much and he feels a pressure growing behind his eyes, his shoulders tensing.

He focuses on the chattering of his teeth and the texture of his hair, and by the time he finally stumbles over to his bed—forced into it from exhaustion, no longer quivering—his head is in braids.

That night, he dreams of his mother’s voice singing a song that he will never know the words of.

***

Once upon a time, there was a boy. Every day, the boy dreamed of being a butcher just like his father, so he learned everything he could. One day, his father passed away, but the boy was ready—he used his knowledge to become the best butcher in China. However, soon, his village was plagued by monsters of all sorts. Qinghe was sparsely populated back then, and cultivators were few in numbers, so unless a rogue stumbled upon them, his village was doomed. Nie Fan, seeing all the pain his peers were facing, decided to take matters into his own hands.

Using the very butchering knives he so dearly loved, Nie Fan cultivated until he had a golden core and then saved his village.

This is the story that Lan Xichen knows. What his mother never told him, though, is that there is more.

After becoming the protector of his village, others joined alongside him, cultivating in his manner. Their numbers grew and grew, even past his death, until it became a great sect: the Nie Sect.

Lan Xichen listens to the story with a bowed head, and he wonders what else his mother had kept from him.

***

The forests of Qinghe dwarf Lan Xichen, who is all of thirteen years old. Coming here was never his plan, but his uncle insisted, explaining that Lan Xichen needs to get accustomed to meeting with important people if he’s going to be Sect Leader one day. Lan Xichen nearly hissed back that no one ever asked him if he wanted to be Sect Leader—he doesn’t, not in the slightest, but no one ever asked his uncle if he wanted to rule the sect in the absence of his brother, so Lan Xichen held his tongue.

Now, he wishes he had said something—anything—to stay away from Qinghe, because if he had never come, then he would never have to see the Nie boy.

Gusu and Qinghe are not close geographically, and the GusuLan and the QingheNie are not close politically, so Lan Xichen has never had the (extremely dubious) pleasure of meeting a Nie cultivator until now. Of course he’s taken by surprise.

The boy swept up to the Lan contingent, drenched in olive and gold, saber held tightly in hand. When he bowed, Lan Xichen got a clear view of his head…and of the braids that sat on it. For a second, he was back in the Jingshi on that last day, before everything went so wrong, listening to his mother tell story after story, singing a sweet song.

This boy is like his mother, and he doesn’t understand why.

***

The Unclean Realms sprawl outward, a fortress made for the protection of its inhabitants without a care for aesthetic, but Lan Xichen sees beauty in it, anyway. He sees the thought in every wall, every door, every tile on the floor. While the people in it make Lan Xichen’s heart hammer in his chest, fingers shaking while hidden deep in his robes, the Unclean Realms itself feels like a haven, the likes of which he had never known before.

The meeting with Sect Leader Nie goes smoothly, and Lan Xichen even finds himself unwinding until Sect Leader Nie and his own uncle send him off with another boy. “Play,” Sect Leader Nie had said, and though Lan Qiren had made a face at the phrasing, he hadn’t contradicted him.

Nie Mingjue is broader than Lan Xichen, though a few inches shorter, and he is wearing the same braids as everyone else, broad saber clutched close. It looks a bit too big for his body, suggesting the expectation of future growth, and considering the height of his father, Lan Xichen doesn’t doubt it.

Nie Mingjue drags him around the Unclean Realms, showing him every nook and cranny, an interesting story accompanying every single one of them, chattering on and on until Lan Xichen could recognize his expression by just the dips of his voice.

It’s when they sit beneath a willow tree—a desperate attempt to escape the heat—that Lan Xichen finally asks him, “Those braids…where did you get them?” His voice is so soft, so hesitant, and for a moment, he thinks that Nie Mingjue didn’t even hear him over the rustling leaves.

Then, Nie Mingjue says, “Oh, these? Everyone in the Nie Sect wears them. I’m Sect Heir, so I know how to do it.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t look at him, eyes intent on staring into the horizon and whatever is beyond. He asks, “Can you teach me?” Perhaps they merely look similar. Perhaps it is a different braid entirely. Perhaps Lan Xichen is concerned about nothing.

But Nie Mingjue just laughs. “I can’t teach it to someone who isn’t from the Sect!” As if the mere idea is silly. Then a mischievous look falls over him. “So unless some beautiful maiden sweeps you off your feet and brings you here as her groom, you won’t be wearing the braids any time soon.”

Lan Xichen stays silent.

***

The Lan contingent stays the night, readying to depart tomorrow.

Right before bed, Lan Xichen braids his hair as well as he can, and he stares in the mirror for much longer than is appropriate. He lets his fingers glance over the hardening edge of his jaw, the point of his nose, the skin of his lips. He peers at the warm brown of his eyes, the height of his cheekbones, and the paleness of his skin. Then, finally, he looks at the braids, and he realizes that his reflection is more real than he will ever be.

Breaking curfew is forbidden in the Cloud Recesses, but Lan Xichen isn’t in the Cloud Recesses. So, when he slowly opens the door to his quarters and steps outside, he’s not doing anything wrong. He stays cautious, anyway, looking over his shoulder to ensure that his uncle hasn’t magically appeared to scold him.

The Nie Sect has no official curfew, as far as he can tell—if it does, then it’s much later than the Cloud Recesses’, for disciples are still wandering the halls, attending to duties and chatting animatedly about this or that. They all ignore him, and Lan Xichen feels invisible, like he’s blended into the wall, and he’s all the more grateful for it. After all, the braids still sit on his head and if anyone were to notice him, he wouldn’t be able to stand it. (In reality, he is probably not invisible. Instead, he’d slipped on the night robes that the rooms had stored away. He thinks he must look like a normal Nie disciple. He quite likes the thought.)

Lan Xichen is a ghost, haunting these halls without rest until it is well past his bedtime. He is unseen and unknown—until a voice calls out, “Young Master Lan?”

He sees himself turn around, still feeling lost in a dream. His hands go up to his hair, wondering who has discovered him and how he is going to explain his impropriety. For a second, he fears it’s Nie Mingjue, who will take offense to Lan Xichen wearing these braids even after being told they were only for Nie disciples. He thinks of the boy who he’d become rather fond of twisting his face in rage, and shame courses through him, hot and unbearable.

But it is not Nie Mingjue who finds him. Instead, it is a young boy—younger than Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue, definitely, though he distinctly has Nie Mingjue’s eyes and nose. Vaguely, Lan Xichen remembers Nie Mingjue mentioning a younger brother who was Lan Wangji’s age. “…Second Young Master Nie?”

Nie Huaisang shrinks backward, obviously startled by Lan Xichen’s recognition, but then squares his shoulders. “Young Master Lan, are you okay?”

Lan Xichen sees himself turn. “I…” How is he supposed to answer that? He doesn’t feel all that here. He’s watching himself, no control over his own body, everything out of focus, and—

He’s floating.

“Young Master Lan?”

“Yes?”

“Are you lost?” Maybe he is. Can you get lost in a dream? “Young Master Lan, can you hear me?”

“I can,” Lan Xichen hears himself say.

“Do…do you want to come with me for a bit?” Lan Xichen doesn’t see a reason not to, so he follows Nie Huaisang without protest. “Oh, good.”

Good? He doesn’t think so. Vaguely, Lan Xichen hears Nie Huaisang talk—about what, he can’t tell. It blends into the background along with everything else, but there’s certain dips and edges to it that pull him closer, even as he floats. Soon, he finds himself in what he assumes are Nie Huaisang’s chambers as Nie Huaisang prattles on. “I smuggled some sweets from the kitchen but they’re new kinds that I’ve never tried before. My tastebuds are delicate—Brother always scolds me about it, but it’s not my fault! Young Master Lan, can you tell me what it tastes like? I need to be prepared.”

Soon, a few pieces of candy are shoved into Lan Xichen’s hand. His head shifts upward and Nie Huaisang encourages, “Go on! Just tell me the taste and texture.”

Okay. Lan Xichen slips the first piece into his mouth and focuses on it as much as he can manage. “It’s sweet,” he says.

“How sweet? Honey sweet? Sugar sweet? Berry sweet?”

“Honey, but it feels like…sand. Gritty. Do you like gritty things?”

“Maybe,” Nie Huaisang allows. “Does it have a bad aftertaste?”

Lan Xichen swallows and then waits. “No. It’s good.”

“What about the others?”

So Lan Xichen goes on, describing candy after candy until he’s actually holding the pieces, not watching himself eat them. He stops abruptly, placing his palm on the table and then asking, “What was that?”

Nie Huaisang smiles kindly. “Are you feeling better now?”

Better, yes. Good, not precisely. But certainly better. Moonlight streams into the room from the open window, clashing with the flickering of Nie Huaisang’s lamps. Disciples are still chattering, doing their duties, and the Nie night robes that Lan Xichen has thrown on are light and freeing despite the terrible pressure creeping up his spine. “I am,” he says. “What did you do?”

“Helped you come back to yourself,” Nie Huaisang explains. He stumbles to his feet and then goes deeper into his chambers, still talking. “It happens to my cousin, sometimes, too, so I learned how to help.” He comes back with a cup of water, sloshing against the opening with each step he takes.

Lan Xichen takes it and drinks. “I apologize for any trouble—”

“No trouble!” Nie Huaisang immediately insists, only to go red. “I mean, helping people is what cultivators do, right? I might not be that great of a cultivator in any other sense, but I can still do this!”

Ah, yes. The Second Young Master Nie who hates cultivating. “Then, I thank you.”

Nie Huaisang’s face flushes even deeper and he turns away. For a moment, Lan Xichen rests in amused silence, but then Nie Huaisang says, “Young Master Lan, those braids…”

Lan Xichen freezes. “Oh,” he says immediately, hands shooting up to his hair, “I apologize, I’ll take them off immediately.”

“No! I mean,” Nie Huaisang backtracks, “you can wear it! The Nie disciples all wear it but. No one ever mentioned that anyone else couldn’t.”

“But your brother…”

“Brother says a lot of things!” Nie Huaisang says. “Don’t always listen to him! You can wear the braids if you want. You look good in them, anyway. And with those robes, I almost thought you were a Nie disciples!”

Lan Xichen’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah!”

And Lan Xichen smiles. He smiles when he goes back to his room as well, and he even manages to smile as he unbraids his hair.

It’s the first time anyone has told him that he’s looked good in these braids—not even his mother had said such a thing. Lan Xichen thinks that, for now, everything is going to be okay.

***

The first time Lan Xichen really breaks a rule is when he sneaks into the Cloud Recesses’ weaponry. Only the senior disciples are allowed in—which a fourteen-year-old Lan Xichen very distinctly is not—but he has a question in mind that can’t be solved in any other fashion.

Carefully treading the wooden floors, he enters the side room that not even the senior disciples are allowed into, and he observes its contents. Stacked into neat little rows are hundreds of swords, all belonging to his deceased martial siblings. Off to the side, however, he finds a crypt—wholly out of place.

Slowly, he slides the lid off. Just a bit, just enough to peak inside, and he finds a saber—broad and imperious, to be wielded by a master. Its glare is blinding in the dull light of the room, its sharpened edge pricking him without needing to touch him. Atop the casket, there is an engraving that he will never forget: Nie Jiaying.

“Jiaying.” It’s what his uncle used to refer to his mother on the rare occasions they spoke. “Jiaying.” It’s a beautiful name for a beautiful woman. “Jiaying.” It’s for a wonderful woman with scars, braids, and a saber.

“Nie Jiaying.”

And she’d told him that he was the perfect Lan, but she was a Nie and Lan Xichen had always loved her so much. Lan Xichen bows his head and cries.

***

Lan Huan was five when he found out that, one day, he was going to be Sect Leader. When Lan Qiren told him that, he buried his face into his uncle’s robes and said, “But I don’t want to. A-Zhan can be the Sect Leader.”

Lan Qiren’s face hardened and he spoke, voice sharp, “Don’t forsake your brother when this is your duty.”

Lan Huan buried his face deeper into his uncle’s robes. “But if I’m Sect Leader,” he says, voice muffled, “then how will Mother and I travel around China?” To see all the places she’d told him about, to make her stop looking so sad when she talked about them. He wanted to see them all and…and then maybe he’d pretend to be Sect Leader so A-Zhan could do the same thing, too. Then they could both go with Mother and Mother would get to go twice, because she deserved it.

Lan Qiren’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “You will do no such thing.”

“Why not?”

“You will be the Sect Leader, and your mother cannot leave the Jingshi.”

Lan Huan looked up. “Even then?”

“Even then.”

“Why?”

Lan Qiren pursed his lips. “Your mother did something very bad, A-Huan. This is her punishment.”

Lan Huan didn’t understand. Whenever he got in trouble, he had to copy lines and do handstands. Sometimes he saw the older disciples get hit with the discipline rulers. He’d never heard of a punishment like having to stay inside all the time. He didn’t think he would like it.

Later, Lan Xichen learned what, exactly, his mother had done. Later, he would learn that the normal punishment was death. Later he learned that his father had married her so she could escape that fate, only to lock her away from the world she loved so much.

But, at that moment, Lan Huan was five and anything was possible, so he told himself he didn’t need to be Sect Leader Lan—he would be A-Huan, travelling the world with Mother (and maybe A-Zhan) and making her smile. That’s all he ever wanted.

***

Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue stay in contact through letters, talking about when they’ll next meet and what they’re going to do. As Nie Mingjue’s sixteenth birthday draws closer and closer, they also discuss all the things that they plan to do when he comes to the Cloud Recesses.

Three months beforehand, news arrives: Nie Mingjue’s father has died, leaving Nie Mingjue as Sect Leader Nie. He sends a very formal apology letter, explaining why he can’t attend classes in the Cloud Recesses, and it is not in his handwriting but Lan Xichen keeps silent about it. Lan Qiren heads to the Unclean Realms as soon as news reaches them in an effort to help Nie Mingjue deal with his new responsibilities, and Lan Xichen is left behind.

Lan Wangji approaches him that night. “Brother,” he says, sweeping into Lan Xichen’s quarters and seating himself across from him, “I heard what happened.” Lan Xichen seals his eyes shut. Lan Wangji continues, “You…did not go to the Unclean Realms.” He’s surprised that Lan Xichen hasn’t gone to comfort his friend.

Lan Xichen shakes his head. “Uncle said that my being there would make things more complicated for him. I’ve arranged to visit in a few months.”

Lan Wangji observes him. “Second Young Master Nie,” he says, “has informed me that Sect Leader Nie would not be opposed to your presence.”

Lan Xichen pauses. “You’ve spoken to Huaisang?”

“He and I have kept up a correspondence.”

Lan Xichen knew that the two were in contact, but he never expected them to talk about these kinds of things. Lan Xichen looks up, staring at the ceiling. “Is he positive?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. “And he mentioned…he would like to meet you, as well.”

This causes Lan Xichen’s head to spin in confusion. “What?”

“Second Young Master Nie wishes to meet you.”

Lan Xichen and Nie Huaisang exchange gifts—little, useless trinkets that are technically not allowed, but to which Lan Qiren always turns a blind eye when he visits Lan Xichen’s residence—but they haven’t written actual, substantial words to each other. And why would Nie Huaisang want to meet? The last time they’d met for longer than a few minutes was on that first time he’d visited the Unclean Realms and caused Nie Huaisang so much trouble.

Nie Huaisang was being polite, Lan Xichen decides. And his uncle is right, anyway—Lan Xichen’s presence will only make things worse for Nie Mingjue. Who knows what kind of power struggle is happening within the walls of the Unclean Realms? Having to deal with Lan Xichen won’t be helpful at all.

“I shouldn’t impose, Wangji.”

Lan Wangji looks like he wants to protest, but no words leave his lips. Instead, he bows his head and says, “Yes, Brother.” The amount of skepticism and exasperation he manages to pack into those two words is astonishing.

Lan Xichen pointedly ignores it.

***

Lan Xichen expects Nie Mingjue to never again step foot in the Cloud Recesses. It’s unconscious and illogical, but he sees an ocean between them now—an ocean he so desperately wants to cross, even when everyone insists on him making his home on the other side.

That ocean seems a little smaller when Nie Mingjue sends him a certain letter. Its contents are very simple: Nie Mingjue cannot attend class at the Cloud Recesses, but Nie Huaisang most definitely can and he will be when he turns 15. Nie Mingjue came to iron out the details and they sat and spoke as if nothing had ever gone wrong—as if they were still just two Young Masters, hiding from the sun beneath a willow tree.

The day before Nie Huaisang is due to arrive, Lan Xichen receives a letter from Nie Mingjues. “You and that brother of yours better take care of Huaisang,” it says. Affectionate as always, and Lan Xichen’s lips quirk upwards as he passes it over to Lan Wangji. He gives it a deadpan stare.

“Rules are rules,” he intones. “If Nie Huaisang breaks any, he will get punished.”

Lan Xichen raises an eyebrow. “And when did you start calling him by his name?”

There is a pause before Lan Wangji’s ears flare up, brilliant red. “Brother…”

It’s nice to know that his brother has a friend.

***

Nie Huaisang’s arrival in the Cloud Recesses is marked with all the fanfare that a Young Master of his status deserves, and he delights in every bit of it. It’s nothing material, of course, but there are a great deal of greetings and tours and fawning over the quality of robes—something Lan Xichen had never before taken into account, but now he runs his fingers through his own and wonders if it will live up to Nie Huaisang’s standards. It will, most likely, since his are among the best quality in the Sect.

His robes are special. They’re a cocoon with which he wraps himself, an illusion behind which he hides. These robes say that he is Lan Xichen, the First Jade of Lan, the most eligible bachelor in China. He is none of these things, but it’s easier to pretend when he wears these robes. (Sometimes, though, the robes are not enough. Sometimes, when nothing seems right, Lan Xichen is not even sure if he is Lan Xichen. And at those times, his robes hurt more than they help.)

Lan Xichen makes sure to check in on Nie Huaisang often, just as Nie Mingjue asked him to. He mentions time and time again to focus on studies and get enough sleep, to come to him if he ever needs anything, and every time Nie Huaisang giggles and says, “Of course, Brother Xichen!” And then he never comes.

Lan Xichen almost thinks that Nie Huaisang has resolved to ignore him entirely when, close to curfew, he gets a knock on his door. It’s a bit late for visitors, but far enough from curfew that any visitors can still arrive back at their residence after a decent conversation. He does not expect to open the door to Nie Huaisang in tears.

“Huaisang?” Lan Xichen gasps, ushering him inside.

Nie Huaisang clings to him, sobbing into his night robes. “I can’t do it,” he gasps. “I can’t do it, Brother Xichen. It’s too hard.”

“What are you talking about?” Lan Xichen asks.

“School!” he exclaims. “I just don’t understand! I try and I try but I’m just—just stupid!”

“You’re not stupid,” Lan Xichen says immediately, sitting him down. “Come, Huaisang, let’s—” He suddenly freezes when the smell hits him. “Are you drunk?”

“I am,” Nie Huaisang admits, and there’s so much shame in his voice that Lan Xichen can’t bring himself to be mad at him.

“Oh, Huaisang,” he says. “Is school really troubling you that much?”

“I don’t know,” Nie Huaisang says. “I don’t know! I just…this isn’t working, Brother Xichen.” He lets his head fall onto the table with a soft thud, and Lan Xichen grimaces.

Carefully, he pries Nie Huaisang up and says, “I’ll help.”

“How?”

“I’ll teach you in the evenings,” he says. “Hopefully, some extra attention can help you absorb the information better.”

Nie Huaisang stares at him with wide eyes. “Really? You would do that?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

Lan Xichen blinks. The obvious answer is because Nie Mingjue asked him to look out for Nie Huaisang, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “Because you’re my friend.”

Nie Huaisang stares, then smiles. “I’m really lucky to have both Jades of Lan as my friends.”

Lan Xichen perks up, delight seeping into him. “Wangji actually admitted that he’s your friend?” he demands.

“Not yet, but he’s getting there! I’ll wear him down eventually…” he says. Lan Xichen lets out a light huff of amusement.

They continue like that, time whirling alongside their words, moon rising ever so slightly higher in the sky, until Lan Xichen has to finally put an end to it. “It’s nearly curfew,” he says. “I’ll overlook your drinking just this once, but you should get back to your room before curfew. The disciples on patrol won’t be anywhere near as kind as I am.” He’s already setting the tea away, rearranging the miscellaneous objects that had fallen out of their places along the way. Nie Huaisang watches it all happen.

Then, Nie Huaisang says, “Do you have a mirror?”

Lan Xichen blinks. “Of course.” He immediately points him in the direction of his mirror, which sits, largely concealed, by his bed. Nie Huaisang ambles over to it with a hum, out of Lan Xichen’s sight. He doesn’t pay it any further mind until he hears Nie Huaisang give off a huff of frustration.

“What’s wrong, Huaisang?” he asks, approaching him.

Nie Huaisang’s fingers are tangled in his own hair, sloppy and shaking as he tugs on the strands. “My hands won’t work!” he says. “They’re all…” he waves his fingers around in an approximation of something Lan Xichen doesn’t quite understand.

He settles for a laugh. “You’re drunk, of course your movement is impaired.”

“I’m not that drunk!” Nie Huaisang exclaims. Lan Xichen merely raises an eyebrow and watches as Nie Huaisang shrinks away from him. “Fine,” Nie Huaisang admits, “maybe I’m a little drunk.” His eyes suddenly widen in an epiphany. “Brother Xichen!” he says. “You do it!”

“Do what?”

“Braid my hair for me!”

Lan Xichen’s world grinds to a halt. “What?”

“My hair! I know you can braid!”

He should not. He most definitely should not. The braid is not for him, it is for an entire sect surnamed “Nie,” and he is not part of that sect. He will never be a part of that sect. The knowledge of the braid is merely a relic left behind by his mother, who had a right to it. It is not for him to indulge in. “Huaisang,” he whispers, “I can’t.”

“You can,” Nie Huaisang insists. “I’ve seen you do it before! Please, Brother Xichen, my fingers are too…too slippery!” He demonstrates by trying to braid his hair. All he succeeds in doing is mashing the strands together. “Brother Xichen,” he whines.

Lan Xichen should not—but Nie Huaisang is staring at him with such open desperation in his eyes, and how can Lan Xichen refuse? So, very quietly, he says, “Okay.”

Braiding Nie Huaisang’s hair is different from braiding his own. Working on the heads of others is entirely new territory for him—he’s never done it before. Not to his mother and not to Lan Wangji. And yet, he finds himself doing it with such ease on Nie Huaisang’s head, carefully untangling knots and twisting them into braids that fall against his robes so neatly that Nie Huaisang marvels at them. “Brother Xichen,” he says once, “you really are good, aren’t you?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t say anything, because lying is forbidden and he doesn’t have the heart to explain to Nie Huaisang that he’s really, really not. So he keeps braiding, long past the grease that crawls up his spine and the terror that sits in his throat, until his own hands are shaking so badly that he can’t braid anymore. He’s done at that point, anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

Nie Huaisang marvels at his reflection in the mirror. “You’re the best, Brother Xichen!” he insists.

Lan Xichen turns away and doesn’t say a word, clutching his own robes tighter around him in a desperate attempt to ward off the shivers that wrack his body. Nie Huaisang, too drunk to notice the change, smothers Lan Xichen with a hug from behind, startling him so badly that he immediately turns around to steady him. “Brother Xichen,” Nie Huaisang whines, “you’re really going to teach me, right?”

“Yes,” Lan Xichen manages through chattering teeth.

“Then I’ll bring my books! I promise!” He bounds out of the room without so much as a goodbye, leaving Lan Xichen clutching at empty air.

He closes his eyes and he’s still shaking. Sleep does not come easy that night.

***

There are good days, and there are bad days. The bad days were getting fewer and fewer, but they hadn’t disappeared—not at all. Two weeks after Nie Huaisang first enlists his help, he has a bad day. He wakes up coated in grease, head too light and too heavy at the same time. His chest aches, his back aches—his very being aches, and he can’t do anything about it.

He does not know if he can help Nie Huaisang today, but he decides to try, anyway.

There is a cup of tea in his hands, scalding hot, when Nie Huaisang bounds through his door, smiling brightly. “Brother Xichen!” he exclaims. “Brother Xichen, I kind of understood what Teacher Lan was talking about today, so I don’t have to take up too much of your time today! I can—Brother Xichen?” He stops abruptly.

Lan Xichen’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “What?”

“Are you alright?”

Lan Xichen swallows. That is a very good question. Unfortunately, it only has one answer. “I don’t feel good.” It’s the only way he can think of to describe the claws that scratch down his neck, leaving his jaw clenched and head bowed. Spiders crawl up his spine, fire burns behind his eyes, and through it all he can only manage to sit still and wait for it to leave him alone.

Carefully, Nie Huaisang sets his books on the table. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We should start doing your homework.”

“But do you want to talk about it?” Nie Huaisang insists.

Lan Xichen takes in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“What do you know, then?”

Lan Xichen’s jaw aches from the effort of keeping it still. Then, very slowly, he raises his hand to his hair and cards his fingers through it, trying to grab hold of a few strands. His hands won’t stay still and suddenly, Lan Xichen knows exactly what he wants. “I want to braid my hair.” He sets his hands down. “But I can’t.”

Nie Huaisang brightens. “Ah, then I’ll braid it for you!”

Lan Xichen bows his head and he can’t find it in himself to turn Nie Huaisang away, so he forces himself to relax as Nie Huaisang places his hands on Lan Xichen’s head, stroking his hair gently. If Lan Xichen closes his eyes, then he can almost pretend it’s his mother doing it for him, instead. Nie Huaisang doesn’t have any calluses on his arms, no scars or discoloration, but he doesn’t need them because his fingers follow the same patterns, do the same dance, and, in the end, he sings the same song.

Lan Xichen’s eyes fly open. “Huaisang!” he gasps. “Where did you hear that song?”

Nie Huaisang blinks, startled. “O-Oh, it’s a common song from Qinghe. Should I not have sung it? I’m sorry if it—”

“No,” Lan Xichen immediately denies. “Don’t stop.”

Hesitantly Nie Huaisang continues. They manage to stay like that for a few seconds before Lan Xichen whispers, “My mother used to sing that song.” Nie Huaisang stops. “She also used to wear these braids and she had a saber and—and her name was Nie Jiaying.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, “I don’t think I’ve heard that name before,” Nie Huaisang murmurs, lost in thought. “She must have been part of one of the branch families…I’ll look into it, if you want.”

Does he want it? Maybe. He’ll think about it later. For now, he says, “I loved her so much, Huaisang.”

“I know, Brother Xichen. Her loss must have hit you really hard.”

“It was worse on Wangji.”

“But it was still hard on you.”

Lan Xichen squeezes his eyes shut. Then, “I’m still mad at her, though.”

“Why?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“She…she would unbraid my hair and call me the perfect Lan.”

“Is that bad?” Nie Huaisang asks. His head is tilted sideways, genuine confusion resting on his features. “You are amazing, Brother Xichen.”

“But I don’t want to be the perfect Lan.”

“What do you want to be, then?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so indulging, so willing to talk to him at his worst moments. Lan Wangji would stay a silent guardian at his side, and his uncle would help him get his mind off of bad thoughts, but Nie Huaisang is here and he’s…he’s talking to him about it. So Lan Xichen answers. “I want to go to the places Mother talked about. I want to go to the forests and see the beasts and wear the braids. I—” he swallows— “I don’t think I want to be a Lan.” And it’s true, he thinks. It’s selfish of him to want so desperately to abandon his home for a place he’s only step foot in a handful of times…but it feels so dear, so intrinsically important to his very being, and he wants it so badly.

Nie Huaisang looks contemplative. “You don’t have to be a Lan. You could join the Nie Sect. Brother definitely wouldn’t stop you.”

“But how can I just leave?” How can he leave his brother? How can he leave his uncle? How can he leave his mother’s saber?

“It doesn’t have to be forever. You could visit. You could come back. I don’t think Grandmaster Lan would stop you, either.”

And then he thinks of telling these ideas to his uncle, who will definitely be against them, and a feeling of such complete and utter helplessness enters him that he can’t blink away the tears that gather in his eyes, and he desperately tries to wipe them away as they fall over onto his cheeks. “He’d be upset,” he sobs. “He wouldn’t let me.”

Immediately, he’s enveloped by a hug—this time from the front. “Brother Xichen,” Nie Huaisang says, “he doesn’t get to decide for you! If you want to run away and join another sect, then he’ll just have to suck it up! And…and he really does adore you, you know. He’d be mad but I don’t think he’d stay mad.”

“And Wangji?” Lan Xichen whispers, still holding him close.

Nie Huaisang pulls back a bit and laughs. “Oh please, Lan Wangji would cheer you on even if you murdered somebody.”

Lan Xichen shakes his head. “He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t.” He can’t believe any of it. They’d hate him for the rest of his days, he’d never get to see them again, and even though he would be free, he’d have to live with the knowledge that his own family hated him. “I can’t do it.”

Nie Huaisang grabs him fiercely by the shoulders. “You can!” he insists. “You’re strong. Everyone believes  in you, Brother Xichen, I promise. If anyone can pull it off, then it’s you.” He looks frantic, voice stubborn and unyielding, and Lan Xichen can’t think, doesn’t understand—

Suddenly, Nie Huaisang moves and Lan Xichen doesn’t realize what’s happening until Nie Huaisang’s lips are on his own, and the world grinds to a halt as Nie Huaisang grips the front of Lan Xichen’s robes. For a second, Lan Xichen doesn’t know what to do, but then he tugs Nie Huaisang closer, desperate to keep his warmth, letting it chase away his shivers. It’s a chaste kiss, from what he knows. Lips on lips, completely still, moving only with their breathing, but Lan Xichen wouldn’t change it for the world.

When Nie Huaisang finally does pull back, he presses their foreheads together, not moving to escape Lan Xichen’s grip. “I believe in you,” he says. “I always have. Do what’s right for you, Brother Xichen. I won’t let anyone stop you.”

Lan Xichen bows his head onto Nie Huaisang’s shoulder and decides that, maybe, he’ll give it a shot.

***

Once a year, Lan Wangji skips every class he has for a day and kneels in front of a long-forgotten house in a corner of the Cloud Recesses. It’s always in the snow, where he bears the cold—with plenty to keep him warm, of course.

Today, for the first time in eight years, Lan Xichen kneels with him. Lan Wangji does not turn to look at him, keeping his back straight, staring stubbornly ahead. Lan Xichen starts the conversation. “She deserved so much better,” he says. “I didn’t understand it back then, but she did.” Back then, all he’d known was that his mother wanted to travel but she wasn’t allowed to, and that made him sad. That was all. Now, he comprehends the true horror of what their mother was put through. Being locked away in such a small house for the rest of her days—no wonder she died so early. (And he never did learn how she died. He’s not sure he wants to find out.)

Lan Wangji still doesn’t turn to him, but he says, “She did deserve better.”

Lan Xichen blinks, surprised that his brother responded at all. Then, “I don’t want something like that to ever happen again.”

“I won’t let it.” There is steel in Lan Wangji’s voice, the unbending strength that Lan Xichen knows means that he will keep his word. There will be no more prisoners in the Cloud Recesses as long as Lan Wangji has any say in the matter—and long past it, too.

“It would be easier for a Sect Leader to accomplish that,” Lan Xichen says, forcing his voice to level out.

“I know,” Lan Wangji replies.

“You’d have an easier time if you were Sect Leader.”

Now, there is a brief bit of silence. Hesitation, Lan Xichen knows. Confusion, a break to comprehend new information. Then, “Brother?”

“You’d be a better Sect Leader than me, Wangji.”

“Brother, I’m…I’m not good with this.” With politics. With talking to others. With so many things. As if Lan Xichen is any better.

“But you want to help,” Lan Xichen whispers. “And you can only ever do everything you can if you’re Sect Leader.” Lan Wangji’s heart is pure and radiant, and Lan Xichen sometimes doesn’t know how they could be siblings. People call them the Twin Jades of Lan, but Lan Xichen knows the truth: Lan Wangji is the only Jade. Lan Xichen is an imposter hiding in his silk cocoons.

Lan Wangji stays silent for some more time. Then, “What are you saying?”

“Would you be Sect Leader if you were given the chance? Be honest, Wangji.”

The very world slows around them, as if it, too, is holding its breath for Lan Wangji’s response. And then he says, “Yes. What about you, Brother?”

Lan Xichen hums and closes his eyes. “Mother used to tell me so many stories of far away places. Of brotherhood. Of fights and battle and glory.”

“Is that what Brother wants?”

Lan Xichen thinks of Qinghe and its vast forests, and then the Unclean Realms and its unrestrained inhabitants. “Yes,” he decides. “That’s what I want.”

“Then Brother should have what he wants.”

“So should you, Wangji.”

It’s nothing official, nothing definite, but—at that moment—everything suddenly feels so much easier than it ever was before.

Lan Xichen kneels in the snow with Lan Wangji for the rest of the day, just as he had eight years ago, but now he stands tall and he doesn’t float. When he returns to his rooms, there are a few pieces of candy placed on his table and a letter from Nie Huaisang: “So you don’t forget when we first met.”

Lan Xichen pops one into his mouth and he remembers a night spent laughing with Nie Huaisang in the halls of the Unclean Realms, and he smiles.

For the first time in forever, he looks upon the future and he smiles.

fin

[sbtlns]

Home, part eight

Warnings: anxiety, mentions of fire

A/N: sorry this is short i had major writer’s block. send me suggestions of what you want to see happen in this series!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven

You woke up suddenly to the sound of the high-pitched ringing of your smoke alarm. Your eyes shot open and you bolted upright in bed, scanning the room for Castiel. Your heart dropped when you realized he wasn’t in the room and his side of the bed was cold. What if he feels like last night was a mistake, you thought. What if he doesn’t actually love me? He’s only been human for a week how could he possible have a grip on his emotions? The blaring alarm suddenly cleared your doubt-filled mind and you went into survival mode. You clambered out of bed and onto your feet, cringing when pain shot up your swollen and bruised ankle. You silently cursed yourself for not icing and elevating it last night before hobbling out of the room and into the hallway. 

Your heart was beating out of your chest when you saw the bathroom door was open, meaning Cas wasn’t there either. “Cas?” you yelled panicked. You heard a grunt from downstairs followed by the sound of glass breaking. You hobbled down the stairs as fast as you could, ears ringing from the insistent alarm. You heard a loud crash coming from the kitchen and took off toward the sound. As you got closer you could smell something was definitely burning. You finally reached the kitchen- heart racing, ears ringing, ankle throbbing- and took in the scene before you. 

Castiel, in only his boxers, stood in front of the stove covered in flour and was surrounded by a few pots, pans and shards of glass from your broken measuring cup. He was still facing the stove, tending to something in a pan, and as you got closer you saw the charred remains of a pancake. You were unable to stifle your laughter and the sudden noise made Castiel jump before turning around to meet you. 

“Y/N, I don’t know how to make the noise stop, how do you make the noise stop?” he yelled over the alarm. You laughed even harder, seeing how distraught he looked while practically naked and covered in flour. You managed to calm down enough to pull a chair over to the alarm so you could step on top and press the button on the alarm. When the alarm stopped, you climbed down from the chair and turned to assess the state of the kitchen. Pots, pans, and broken glass all over the floor, flour all over the counter, several bowls filled with variations of what was supposed to be pancake batter, a sad, burnt pancake permanently stuck to the pan, and finally, a sheepish Castiel casting his eyes down, not wanting to meet yours. 

“Cas,” you giggled, and he looked hesitantly up to you with furrowed brows and soft eyes. You cast your eyes around the kitchen again and laughed. “How did this even happen?” you asked through your giggles.  A small smile formed on his lips. “I tried to make you breakfast. I remember when Sam and Dean made you pancakes on your birthday last year and how happy you were, I didn’t realize it would be so....” he trailed off. 

“Messy?” you offered. He smiled again. “Challenging,” he stated. You took a step closer to him and ran a finger down his chest, collecting flour along the way. “How about we get this cleaned up and then we can go out for breakfast?” You looked up at him and smiled. He sighed and nodded. “I wanted to do something for you, you have been so kind to me and last night..I..there are no words-” you cut him off with a quick kiss. “You can start by cleaning this up,” you laughed before pecking him on the cheek and going back upstairs to get dressed. 

You finished getting dressed and stood in front of the mirror, giving yourself one last once over before heading downstairs. You felt two strong arms wrap around your waist from behind you and you looked up to see Cas in the mirror. “So beautiful,” he murmured into your hair, pulling you closer to him. You smiled, melting into his embrace and feeling a blush creep up your face. You turned to face him and smiled up at him. “Ready?” 

By the time you got to the diner the two of you were starving. Cas proudly ordered both of you huge stacks of pancakes and you couldn’t help but laugh as he shoveled down the food. He’d stop periodically after hearing your laugh to look up from his plate and give you a sheepish smile. You were two pancakes down when two girls at a table across from you caught your attention. You knew that they looked familiar but you couldn’t place them. Cas noticed your confused demeanor. “Y/N?” he asked trying to get your attention, but you were too busy racking your brain to hear him. Eventually the sound of fingers snapping caught your attention and you blinked a few times, seeing Castiel’s fingers in front of your face. 

“Whats wrong?” his face screwed up in concern. You wanted to tell him nothing and get back to your breakfast date, but you couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling you got from them. You leaned in closer and lowered you voice, “those two girls at that table..I know them from somewhere but I can’t place it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. He furrowed his brows and looked in the direction you nodded your head in. He immediately stiffened and his whole demeanor changed. He turned back to you quickly. “We have to go. Now.” he said through his teeth. Your heart started beating faster and you cast another look at the table, accidentally making eye contact with one of the girls. You quickly averted your gaze from her and back to Castiel. “Why? Who are they?” you asked nervously, seeing them get up from the table and walk towards the door. You watched Castiel’s eyes cautiously follow them out the door before turning back to you. “Demons,” he muttered. 

You furrowed your brows and confusion washed over you. “How can you tell? You’re human now,” you questioned. “Their vessels, I recognized them from the last hunt we went on before the angels fell,” he muttered. It all came back to you, the four of you had been sent a bad tip and showed up to an old farmhouse where you were expecting a few demons, but quickly got over run. The four of you had barely gotten out and couldn’t kill all of them, including the two demons you had just seen in the diner. 

“Well, how do you know they’re still demons? It could just be the poor girls they were possessing,” you offered, but Cas wasn’t buying it. He chuckled and shook his head. “And they both show up here together? In your hometown? Do you really believe that, Y/N?” he questioned. You didn’t. But you still smiled and took one of his hands in yours. “I do,” you said looking up at him, earning yourself a disapproving look from your former angel. “But,” you started, letting go of his hand and picking your fork back up. “I also believe that I need to finish these pancakes before I turn into a demon too,” you joked, stabbing a piece with your fork and waving it in front of him. He tilted his head, face scrunching up in confusion. “Y/N that’s not how-” “Cas.” you cut him off, laughing. His features softened and he let out a small laugh. “You’re messing with me,” he stated, realization thick in his voice. “Duh,” you joked back.

Castiel’s plate was long empty before you finished your stack. You put your fork down and sat back groaning, immediately regretting eating the whole stack. “Cas, you’re gonna have to roll me to the car,” you groaned. There was a moment of confusion, evident by the slight squint of his eyes, before he realized you were joking with him again. He smiled softly and looked down. “Should I call for a wheelbarrow or do you think you can manage?” he asked coyly. “Oh, I suppose I’ll manage,” you said as dramatically as you could, earning another chuckle from Cas.

You put down some cash on the table. “Ready?” you asked standing up from the booth. Cas quickly followed, widening his stride to hold the door open for you. The sound of a fire truck’s siren pulled you away from the sweet moment and you watched the truck speed by and disappear further down the street. 

On the drive back to your house, another fire truck sped past you and you offered up a silent prayer to the poor bastard needing the trucks. Your blood ran cold when you saw the truck that had just sped past you turn into your neighborhood. “Shit,” you cursed under your breath. You slammed your foot against the break, effectively throwing Cas against the back of his seat. His hand found the handle on the roof of your car and he shot you a concerned glance. You kept your eyes on the truck in front of you, heart racing faster with every turn leading you to your house.

By the time you got to your house, multiple police cars and firetrucks were blocking your driveway and the street in front of your house. You stared in disbelief as you put the car in park and got out. Flames were shooting out of what was left of the house’s foundation and the air was thick with smoke. A fireman tried to usher you away but you pushed past him, numbly walking closer to the charred remains of your childhood home. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt hot tears running down your cheeks. It all suddenly became too much and you felt dizzy, knees threatening to buckle beneath you. You felt a pair of strong arms engulf you right as you were sure you were about to collapse and you immediately recognized the warmth of the touch. 

You turned in Castiel’s arms so that you were pressed against his chest, and let the sobs wrack through you. Castiel continued to hold you and let his chin rest on the top of your head, occasionally murmuring affirmations against your hair. Finally, the flames were put out, leaving behind a few wooden beams and partial walls. A fireman approached you, telling you what they knew about the fire and that they suspected arson. You perked up at the suggestion of arson. 

“Do you know anyone who would want to harm you?” he asked. You laughed to yourself, thinking of all the monsters, demons, and angels that would love nothing more than to cause you harm. “I guess we’ll see,” you answered vaguely, walking past him and Castiel to further examine the house. Castiel caught up to you as you were bent over looking at something near where the front door used to be. “What is it?” Cas asked you. You collected some on your fingers and stood up to face him, holding out your fingers for him to see. 

“Sulfur.”

----------

tag list: @antoniamarie1989-blog @transparentfestivaltiger @tinymalscoffee

[thenightling]

My scatter-brained review of Wonder Woman 1984 (written partly while watching and then revised afterward)

I finally got curious enough to watch Wonder Woman 1984.  

Warning: There ARE spoilers here! 

I was reluctant to watch it because I knew the plot would deal with wishes coming true “But at a price” and Wonder Woman’s love coming back as a result of this plot Magoffin. This is something I have seen many times before.   And frankly I was bored with it years ago. 

 The predictable plot beats being a “Be careful what you wish for” theme.  The Monkey’s Paw (and all adaptations of the story) and variations like The Twisted Claw in “Are you Afraid of the Dark?” It was obvious to me that such a wish would bring Steve back and he would eventually “have to “ return to being dead. Frankly, I’m tired of that.  I think a great twist would be if the person didn’t have to return to being dead for once.  I’ve seen this plot done too often in comics, TV, and film.

Now for the good.  I LOVE the early 80s aesthetic.  I even got a bit of Legend of Billie Jean vibes.  It’s very accurate to the look and feel of a 1980s film.  It felt authentic, not just “Hey, remember this!”    

Nineteen minutes in and I saw the ham-handed tell-tale signs that Diana would have to learn to love again, to trust and open her heart, and to invite others in again.  And to heal she would have to “learn to let go” of Steve.  But as I said, I’m tired of these grief messages. Especially now, especially in 2020.  I want a new twist . I want the lost loved one to come back, I want the happily ever after with the formerly dead loved one.  I’m tired of this trope.

They even out-right compare it to “The Monkey’s Paw” story in the film.  Acknowledging that something is a cliché doesn’t make it any less of a cliché. You’re just trying to lampshade it by pointing it out in story and it just didn’t really work for me.

The “Dreamstone” in this does not look like Morpheus’ ruby amulet but instead it resembles the “ruby” (this one is a citrine) from Justice League Dark (the animated movie).  And no, the God mentioned is NOT Morpheus.  The God in question is a “trickster and a liar.”  Gee, I wonder who that could be?   I suspect the “true name” wasn’t given because they were afraid of confusion with Marvel’s depiction of the same character.  A lot of people don’t realize Loki is in the public domain.  Even Joanne Harris (author of Gospel of Loki) thinks her book can’t be adapted into film because Marvel / Disney owns Loki but that’s not true.  The character is as public as Snow White or Robin Hood.  Anyone can use him. 

There’s some subtle hints of Diana’s bisexuality.   I’m glad for this, I still come across fans who refuse to accept she’s bi and insist word of author (Gail Simone) don’t count because she didn’t “create” Wonder Woman.  The same people should REALLY look up the behind the scenes life of the man who did.  Anyway, I almost thought Diana lean in and kiss Barbara after the rescue in the park but she didn’t.

Maxwell Lord offers Diana a nineteen inch TV.  Note to kids: that is NOT big even by 80s standards.  We did have large screen TVs back then. My grandfather had a very big one back in the 80s.

I also really like the soundtrack.   

When the camera spun around Diana and Steve’s reunion it made me dizzy.   I don’t like that effect.   It’s so common with romantic scenes but I found it dizzying.  Flashbacks of the film Legend of Hercules from 2014... 

The dreamstone in this appears to have been made of sand all along so maybe it is one of Dream of The Endless’ dreamstones after all.  But that’s the only hint to even suggest this.

When Steve shows up, it’s like the writers forgot modern history.  He shouldn’t be THAT impressed with an escalator or a a subway.  Subways were already in existence when he died! The New York City subway, for example, opened in 1904.  And he knows what trash cans are!  I know that was meant to be funny but that’s stupid.  He’s from the early twentieth century, not five-hundred-years-ago.

How did Maxwell Lord know Steve Trevor was inhabiting someone else’s body but didn’t know for certain Barbara had made a wish?  Does he just know everything the stone touched or does he sense the desires of others?  How did he know to suggest “Don’t you want to be a real boy?” with Steve?

Steve’s fate was painfully predictable, so much so that I felt nothing when she had to let him go.   See, these “realistic” / “have to stay” dead plots they’re shoe-horning into comic stories are now done so often that they are trite.  You know what’s coming.  You know what they want you to feel and you (or I, at least) went numb instead.  I think I would have felt more if she somehow got to keep him . But the fact that he wasn’t even in his own body was the first clue that my prediction was right.

Finally, I actually really like how they resolved the Maxwell Lord (Trump-esque) plot and his character arc.   It was very late in the story that they decided to show a sympathetic side to him, and flashbacks of his upbringing and I feel it should have been done earlier in the film but it still worked.  I like that love for his son is what saved everyone.  I am a sucker for a redemption story.  

  I like the themes of love and hope even though I still resent the predictability of what happened with Steve Trevor and the hamhanded “She needed to learn to move on” part.

The Steve plot was the weakest part of the story, in my opinion.   But as far as superhero movies go this was decent . It wasn’t boring and the morals weren’t too preachy.  Sure, it had some corny and predicable moments (Not just with Steve Trevor) but in general it was enjoyable to watch.   

I don’t think it was as good as the first Wonder Woman movie but I do like it more than most of the Marvel sequels so that says something.   I’d like it a lot more if the Steve Trevor plot wasn’t even in there or had a new and interesting twist rather than the “You have to learn to let me go.”  As I said, I’m tired of death.  I’m tired of grief plots.  And I’m tired of how predictable this new obsession with perma-deaths in comic book-inspired stories has become.  

I’d say the film is a seventy nine out of a hundred for me, maybe three and a half out of five stars.  Not the best superhero film and definitely not as good as the first Wonder Woman movie but still better than many other superhero movie sequels.   

Also a certain outfit was added to the movie shamelessly to sell a new action figure.  Even kids know the trick.  A superhero movie gets a sequel, that means the hero has to get some new costume, or their look has to change in some way, just to sell a new action figure distinctly from this movie and not the first.  Marvel did this all the time. Loki went through three distinct outfits for three films.  

I loved Lynda Carter’s cameo in the end credits bonus scene for her.  That was the perfect role to her and very respectful to her legacy as having been the 1970s Wonder Woman.   That was one of the nicest and most respectful “original actor” cameos I had ever seen. 

Something else, I kind of wish the films would reveal the Greek Gods aren’t dead.  It really bugs me that they have implied since the first Wonder Woman movie that all the Greek Gods are dead / gone.   Then why do things imbued with their power still work?   I wish Hollywood would be more respectful to the old lore and polytheistic beliefs that many people (such as Neo pagans) still have.

Anyway, good.  Not great.   But still god and better than a lot of other superhero sequels and still better than more than half of DC’s other films of the last ten years.    

[fuzzywitchsoul]

They Had Mild Covid. Then Their Serious Symptoms Kicked In.

Pam Belluck is a health and science writer whose honors include sharing a Pulitzer Prize and winning the Nellie Bly Award for Best Front Page Story. She is the author of Island Practice, a book about an unusual doctor. @PamBelluckMs. Khan said that she experienced “heart palpitations if I just got up to open the curtains.” Her cardiologist said she was the fifth previously healthy young person to walk into his office that week. In the beginning, her fatigue was so severe that walking two or three laps around her 600-square-foot apartment would exhaust her for the rest of the day. In addition, she said that she had “really intense mood fluctuations that don’t feel like they’re mine.”“Waking up every day in this body, sometimes hope feels a little dangerous,” said Ms. Khan, who will soon start the cognitive rehab program. “I have to wonder: Am I going to recover, or am I going to just figure out how to live with my new brain?”In his job, “my clients would tell me things like a passcode or an address and I couldn’t remember it,” he said.At Mr. Palacios’s first appointment with the Northwestern clinic, “I did the cognitive tests, and I failed them all,” he said. On a return visit, he did another battery of tests, he said, “and I didn’t do so hot on that, either.”Mr. Palacios was referred for cognitive rehab at a long-established program in Chicago that helps give patients strategies to manage and improve memory, organizational and cognitive difficulties. But he didn’t go, he said, because “I completely forgot.” He plans to go now.In the Northwestern study, 43 percent of the patients had depression before having Covid-19; 16 percent had previous autoimmune diseases, the same percentage of patients who had previous lung disease or had struggled with insomnia.Experts cautioned that because the study was relatively small, these pre-existing conditions might or might not be representative of all long-term patients. “We are all seeing very small pieces of the elephant in terms of the long Covid group,” Dr. Bell said. “Some of us are seeing tail; some of us are seeing trunk.”Along with neurological symptoms, 85 percent of the patients were experiencing fatigue, and nearly half had shortness of breath. Some also had chest pain, gastrointestinal symptoms, variable heart rate or blood pressure. Nearly half of the participants were experiencing depression or anxiety.“I was cleaning my gutters and I forgot where I was, I forgot what I was doing on the roof,” Mr. Palacios said. When he remembered, he added, the idea of doing “something as simple as climbing on a ladder all of a sudden became a mountain.”Dr. Allison P. Navis, a neuro-infectious disease specialist at Mount Sinai Health System in New York City who was not involved in the study, said that about 75 percent of her 200 post-Covid patients were experiencing issues like “depression, anxiety, irritability or some mood symptoms.”Participants in the study were overwhelmingly white, and 70 percent were women. Dr. Navis and others said that the lack of diversity quite likely reflected the demographics of people able to seek care relatively early in the pandemic rather than the full spectrum of people affected by post-Covid neurological symptoms.“Especially in New York City, the majority of patients who got sick with Covid are people of color and Medicaid patients, and that’s absolutely not the patients one sees at the post-Covid center,” Dr. Navis said. “The majority of patients are white, often they have private insurance, and I think we have to figure out a little bit more what’s going on there with those disparities — if it’s purely just a lack of access or are symptoms being dismissed in people of color or if it’s something else.”In the Northwestern study, Dr. Koralnik said that because coronavirus testing was difficult to obtain early in the pandemic, only half of the participants had tested positive for the coronavirus, but all had the initial physical symptoms of Covid-19. The study found very little difference between those who had tested positive and those who had not. Dr. Koralnik said that those who tested negative tended to contact the clinic about a month later in the course of the disease than those who tested positive, possibly because some had spent weeks being evaluated or trying to have their problems addressed by other doctors.Ms. Khan was among the participants who had a negative test for the virus, but she said she later tested positive for coronavirus antibodies, proof that she had been infected.Another study participant, Eddie Palacios, 50, a commercial real estate broker who lives in Naperville, a Chicago suburb, tested positive for the coronavirus in the fall, experiencing only a headache and loss of taste and smell. But “a month later, things changed,” he said.Across the country, doctors who are treating people with post-Covid neurological symptoms say the study’s findings echo what they have been seeing.“We need to take this seriously,” said Dr. Kathleen Bell, the chairwoman of the physical medicine and rehabilitation department at the University Texas Southwestern Medical Center, who was not involved in the new study. “We can either let people get worse and the situation gets more complicated, or we can really realize that we have a crisis.”Dr. Bell and Dr. Koralnik said many of the symptoms resembled those of people who had concussions or traumatic brain injuries or who had mental fogginess after chemotherapy.In the case of Covid, Dr. Bell said, experts believe that the symptoms are caused by “an inflammatory reaction to the virus” that can affect the brain as well as the rest of the body. And it makes sense that some people experience multiple neurological symptoms simultaneously or in clusters, Dr. Bell said, because “there’s only so much real estate in the brain, and there’s a lot of overlap” in regions responsible for different brain functions.“If you have inflammation disturbances,” she said, “you can very well have cognitive effects and things like emotional effects. It’s really hard to have one neurological problem without having multiple.”In the Northwestern study, many experienced symptoms that fluctuated or persisted for months. Most improved over time, but there was wide variation. “Some people after two months are 95 percent recovered, while some people after nine months are only 10 percent recovered,” said Dr. Koralnik. Five months after contracting the virus, patients estimated, they felt on average only 64 percent recovered.The study of 100 patients from 21 states, published on Tuesday in The Annals of Clinical and Translational Neurology, found that 85 percent of them experienced four or more neurological issues like brain fog, headaches, tingling, muscle pain and dizziness.“We are seeing people who are really highly, highly functional individuals, used to multitasking all the time and being on top of their game, but, all of a sudden, it’s really a struggle for them,” said Dr. Igor J. Koralnik, the chief of neuro-infectious diseases and global neurology at Northwestern Medicine, who oversees the clinic and is the senior author of the study.The report, in which the average patient age was 43, underscores the emerging understanding that for many people, long Covid can be worse than their initial bouts with the infection, with a stubborn and complex array of symptoms.This month, a study that analyzed electronic medical records in California found that nearly a third of the people struggling with long Covid symptoms — like shortness of breath, cough and abdominal pain — did not have any signs of illness in the first 10 days after they tested positive for the coronavirus. Surveys by patient-led groups have also found that many Covid survivors with long-term symptoms were never hospitalized for the disease.A new study illuminates the complex array of neurological issues experienced by people months after their coronavirus infections.

In the fall, after Samar Khan came down with a mild case of Covid-19, she expected to recover and return to her previous energetic life in Chicago. After all, she was just 25, and healthy.

But weeks later, she said, “this weird constellation of symptoms began to set in.”

She had blurred vision encircled with strange halos. She had ringing in her ears, and everything began to smell like cigarettes or Lysol. One leg started to tingle, and her hands would tremble while putting on eyeliner.

She also developed “really intense brain fog,” she said. Trying to concentrate on a call for her job in financial services, she felt as if she had just come out of anesthesia. And during a debate about politics with her husband, Zayd Hayani, “I didn’t remember what I was trying to say or what my stance was,” she said.

By the end of the year, Ms. Khan was referred to a special clinic for Covid-related neurological symptoms at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago, which has been evaluating and counseling hundreds of people from across the country who are experiencing similar problems.

Now, the clinic, which sees about 60 new patients a month, in-person and via telemedicine, has published the first study focused on long-term neurological symptoms in people who were never physically sick enough from Covid-19 to need hospitalization, including Ms. Khan.

[justjessame]

Babysitting Butcher Chapter 34

The logistics of letting a human guinea pig out for a day wasn’t nearly as difficult as I imagined. The hard part was convincing the man I adored to believe that my mom and I were more than capable of going house hunting while manning a cellphone armed with alarms set for each of my manual dialysis scheduled without getting distracted by shiny things.

“Billy,” I was doing a bang up job of NOT rolling my eyes during this, the fourth attempt to convince him that he was better off at work, “you need to type up those reports, and Mom and I BOTH have the alarms set, PLUS she had Dad have the car company add it into their online system just in case. And I KNOW for a fact that the doctors here are planning on calling to make sure I don’t forget, and you’ll probably check in during the day too.” I was trying to smile. I really was, but honestly. “I’m not writing the reports again.” There it was, the gauntlet. Tossed at his feet.

Billy’s lips quirked in a way that said he wanted to argue, but knew he couldn’t. Not without looking like he was shirking work. “Fine, but I plan on calling every-”

“Single time I’m due for a treatment,” I finished for him, leaning in to kiss him deeply. “I don’t doubt it for a moment.” I winked at him when I broke the kiss. “Still overprotective and ridiculous.”

“Still fucking proud of it,” he nudged my nose with his and dipped in for another kiss, arms around my lower back, holding me lightly since I was hooked up to the regular machine still. My heart rate monitor skipped a few beeps, but no one came running because that was a common occurrence with Billy around. “Gonna at least send me photos of our new house?” I smiled up at him, loving the fact that he was being more agreeable with the entire idea of it all.

“I plan on sharing videos of the ones that look promising so we can go back and look again together, Mr. Butcher.” I bit my lip when his eyes widened. “What?”

“You want me to go with you, again?” I nodded, and his smile lit up his face, making him go from slightly frightening bear of a man to breathtaking saint who may make a girl’s panties ignite.

“How can we make a final decision if you don’t see them yourself?” I tilted my head to study him, thinking that I wanted to see him smile more, all the time if possible.

“Veronica Taylor, and you say I surprise you,” he shook his head and moved one hand so he was holding my cheek. “You’re a marvel.”

“Our house, Billy. You said it, OURS.” I smiled up at him.

 Funny little thing about a dialysis catheter, no matter if it’s ‘temporary’ or not, finding something to wear while leaving it somewhat available isn’t the easiest of tasks. Luckily, my mom, with MY key, was up to the challenge. She came back with more than one option, knowing that I liked to make my own choices. She also thought it smart to stick to flats, for which I wanted to and acted on the urge to hug her.

“Ronnie, calm down.” I was grinning when I pulled back and she rolled her eyes. “What? It’s not a terrible nickname.” My mother had HATED nicknames when I was little, it’s why I’d never really had one until Billy gave me one. And here she was using it.

She took a seat while I changed, the doctor had removed my lead from the machine moments after Mom arrived. A duffle filled with the necessary equipment was taken to her car waiting by the curb, while she was in my room with me in case I ran into trouble getting dressed in real clothing for the first time in forever.

I’d gotten a shower the night before. Billy had helped, much to the nurses’ amusement, and I even managed to get clean. Inside and out. So my hair was nice and smooth, my skin had a rosy glow, and I could ALMOST forget that I wasn’t leaving for good. Soon, I promised myself, as I slipped my feet into my shoes, soon.

 The realtor Mom had chosen was a friend of one of Dad’s clients. She met us at the entrance of the gated community and we followed her through to the first of five houses available in this area, but she had another four nearby if we weren’t excited by what we saw.

As Mom drove through the neighborhood, I was surprised when she made a dismissive sniffing noise. Turning toward her, she glanced at me and smiled. “It’s just, this isn’t really YOU, Ronnie.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Took her long enough, but hot damn, I think my mom was finally figuring out just who the fuck I was.

“I’m trying to keep an open mind, Mom.” I muttered, managing through sheer will to not crack up laughing. We pulled into the first driveway, behind the very perky agent and I got out my phone as Mom kept hers at the ready for the alarm.

 Mom was right, of course we both knew she would be once we drove through the gates and were surrounded by McMansions. Luckily, the agent, after waiting while I dosed myself during a video chat with Billy, took us to the other offerings nearby and further from other houses. Billy, typing while chatting through our tours, and my treatments (which Mom helped with on the third and fourth goes), helped me narrow the second trips to three houses. The agent, with the patient of a saint or a woman who saw a sale coming, smiled and confirmed that she’d keep an opening the following afternoon, since Billy refused to wait longer. Single minded, remember? And one more treatment, lunch at Mom’s insistence, and I was back at the clinic before Billy finished his own work day.

 Billy came to see me after work, because even with a running commentary throughout the morning, and even with a day planned for the following day, he couldn’t stay away. I shook my head when I looked up from my laptop where I’d been going over his reports. Editing out a few of his sentence enhancers before sending them in, I smiled as he took the chair across from me.

“Ronnie,” glancing up, I saw that he looked like a cat who ate a canary and sat back. “How are you feeling, love?” I raised an eyebrow, feeling suspicious of whatever had Billy looking like He solved the hardest riddle in the world. Wait.

“You did it?” He stared at me. “You found a way to get Homelander caught and tried and maybe publicly executed.” OK that last part might have been revenge porn on my part, but could you blame me?

His smugness dropped and he shook his head. “No. I haven’t pinned the Caped Cunt to the wall, yet.” Damn it. I felt a frown form, but then the doctors came in smiling and asked if he’d told me. Wait. What? “Not yet, she tried to guess, but-”

“Ah,” the head quack was still grinning and he gestured for me to get back on the bed. Shrugging I did as I was asked. “Well, Dr. Taylor, we have amazingly good news.” Yeah, sure, I thought. Like the time you had great news about the green jello. “We finally managed to isolate it.” It? I must have looked as stupid as I felt because he continued and explained. “The variation that you were given, we isolated it. The traits were completely muddled because the person who introduced them to your system mixed TWO variations.” WHAT?! “After all the testing, one of our interns chose to think outside the box, so to speak, and asked a question that we hadn’t.”

I was laying down as one of the other doctors approached and took a moment to check the lead that would normally hook into the dialysis machine, but hadn’t, since we’d planned on trying out the night machine that I’d be switching to eventually anyway. Another tech had three syringes filled with God only knew what, but the doctor was explaining to me, and Billy that once the intern had realized that they’d only looked at single variations and NOT coupled or tripled ones, they started testing those combinations. The antidote, they hoped, was in the three needles that they were about to inject into my catheter.

Billy stopped them. Always vigilant and careful, he had questions, which I was thankful for because my brain was still playing catch up. While he’d been smug and excited when he came in, he was also cautious. He wanted them to make me understand why they were sure they figured it out, and as they explained more fully, I watched Billy and it dawned on me. He thought I’d gone quiet and stupid because of my slip into madness and fear that he’d kill me. Jesus.

“Guys?” The doctors were on a roll and clearly enjoyed the sound of their own voices and their own intelligence, but I repeated my call for a moment. “I get it. You figured it out. Could you shoot it in and get me out of here already?” Shit, enough. Billy’s eyes were on mine, but I rolled mine. “Overprotective and ridiculous.” I muttered, as the first injection was given.

 Discharge wasn’t immediate. I mean, I’d nearly gone thermonuclear before. I’d have to stay for observation and I told Billy we still had to go to the appointment with the realtor anyway, who knew, maybe he’d love one of the houses more than the one we lived in currently and it would be truly OURS. Since the necessity for a machine was moot, or at least mootable, we squeezed together on my bed, refusing to spend the first night of what could be our future without fear hanging over our heads apart.

The beeping of my heart monitor lulled us to sleep and I didn’t steam, or feel too warm, or get dizzy all night long. I woke up needing to pee, and after I extradited myself from Billy’s arms, I trudged off to the bathroom, happy to find no blood anywhere. No spots in my vision came as I headed back into the room, and I felt hopeful. Even when the doctor joined us once Billy was up and marginally less rumpled than first waking and told us that I’d have to take the supplies with me same as the day before as a precaution and return for a check up after, I still felt positive.

They took blood, more tests, but this time it was to see if an actual antidote worked.  It was to see how much longer I'd have to be under observation.  Then they sent us on our way, to at least partial freedom, and at that point, I'd take it.  Because it was a pathway to the real full one, and that made all the difference to me.   

[hitchell-mope]

(Third film. After “I’ve gotta be me”. Uma looks around nervously)

Uma: I really hope nobody in there heard that

Ben: nah, don’t worry, I shielded and soundproofed is from them

Uma: surprisingly thoughtful, uhhhh, aheh, at this point I usually call you derogatorily by your last name

Ben: Le Roi. Well legally it’s Bach. But officially it’s Le Roi

Uma: Benjamin. Florian. Le Roi. Do you have any idea how fucking ridiculous that sounds?

Ben: and your last name would be

Uma: Facillier. She doesn’t have a last name

Ben: ah.

Uma: oh. Oh my.

Ben: what’s up? Oh. Yeah he does that.

Uma: s’clever.

Ben: that’s Doug for you

Uma: why am I interested by that

Ben: we’re eighteen. And therefore weak to his power.

(They’re watching Doug eat a bowl of peanuts with just his tongue. Ben snaps out of the stupor first)

Ben: moving swiftly onwards. Hit me

Uma: heh?

Ben: hit me, sock me one, deck me, gimme a knuckle sandwich. Any variations the phrase retains the same meaning. Punch me in the face.

Uma: why?

Ben: I’ve got a theory I wanna test out.

Uma: but aren’t you...

Ben: ...more powerful then you? Yes. So make sure to give it you’re all then. C’mon, cahmon. C’mon, cahmon. HitmehitmehitmehitmehitmeWOOOO

(Uma slogs him around the face do hard he flips horizontally in midair and lands flat on his back right next to where the gazebo was. A full three feet away)

Uma: Z’that what you wanted?

Ben (utterly jubilant): as a matter of fact. Yes

Uma: so now what? Gonna Tell the missus?

Ben: nope. I’m gonna offer you a job.

Uma: ahahah that’s funny. I thought you said you were offering me a job?

Ben: I figure. If you put that much effort punching me. You’ll put the same effort into protecting me.

Uma: n-no, no, you’re not supposed to do that. You’re supposed to hate me. I had you kidnapped. I almost had you thrown to sharks. I hypnotised you. I almost capsized your stinking yacht. And you wanna give me the job of protecting you? Who the fuck does that?!?! For all you know I could do that again?

Ben: now why would you do that when our interests align? Besides the fact that I forgive you. I want to get kids off the island. You want to get kids off the island. What better way to do that then by working together? And yeah. You could probably do that again. But I’m willing to take that chance.

Uma (as Ben’s saying all this, and devolving into tears): no, no, shut up I your forgiveness that’s not how it’s supposed to go you’re supposed to hate just like I hate her will you SHUT UP

Ben: ooh. (Through a Cheshire Cat grin) Finally

(She’s skewered Ben in the stomach with her sword. He smiles, bends the blade in half, pulls it out of him and throws it upwards. He leaps up ten foot in the air and gives it a flying kick, shattering it into a chunky powder. He lands next to Uma, conjures an umbrella, pulls her close and lifts the umbrella over them just as the powder lands on their heads. In response she blasts him away with magic. What follows is a very violent, very acrobatic duel that trashes the garden, obliterates what’s left of the gazebo and Harry, gives Uma a broken arm, Ben a broken nose and leaves both of them missing a foot each. As a form of foreshadowing, throughout the entire fight the instrumental for “superhero” plays)

Uma: god I hope you’re happy

Ben: I am actually. Cause now I know I’m right

Uma: what?

Ben: we are both almost perfectly evenly matched. My twelve months of sheer power with your eighteen years of practice and look what we managed to do?

Uma: give your future sister in law a coronary?

Ben: fight to a stalemate. Please? For six months. You’ll get paid to yell at people and beat them up if necessary

Uma:...no

(This is when “superhero” happens. After the song Ben starts fixing the garden)

Uma: ok then. Let’s say I did take the job? Wouldn’t one of your own be more trustworthy?

Ben: Jane’s still in school. Lonnie’s going off to college with Gil next year and she was only filling in for the summer anyway. And Doug’s my major-domo. So can’t choose them even if I wanted to.

Uma: and the other three?

Ben: conflict of interest. Carlos is legally my son and he’s also still in school. Mals my fiancé and Evie’s her sister. So again. No go.

Uma: couldn’t you...

Ben: duplicate myself and have him as my bodyguard? I could. But then I’d be breaking my promise to my mother

Uma: huh?

Ben: she was ok with me having magic so long as I legitimately practiced it, didn’t use it for schoolwork, didn’t use it for paperwork, didn’t use it for personal gain, and it didn’t give my subjects cause to worry. For a year at least

Uma: personal gains the best part of magic though

Ben: last time a king used the power he’d been afforded for personal gain...well. You grew up in the result so telling you wouldn’t achieve anything

Uma: oh. But...

Ben: I could use my magic to quicken the relocation? Like I said. Paperwork, personal gain, worrying the subjects. It’s definitely something that needs to happen. But I’m not taking shortcuts because it needs to be done properly and through the correct channels.

Uma: well that’s bullshit. Wait. What was all that fighting singy thing for then?

Ben: loophole

Uma (snickering): oh beasty boy you are perfect

Ben: why thank you kindly captain

Uma (flatly): Don’t push it

Ben: ok, ok

Uma: I’m serious though. The best part about magic is that you can do anything you want

(This is when “everything is not what it seems” happens. After the song they go back into the house to find it in chaos. Doug has Cj in a full Nelson with her head near the lit stove. Elsa’s downing an entire bottle of sambuca. Evie’s preventing Harriet and Hades from trying to patch up Harry. Mal has stuck Hadie to the sofa so he can’t help Harry. Jane’s drunkenly yelling about how much she loves her friends. Carlos is on Jay’s back, Celia and Dizzy are hanging off Jay’s arms and all four are chanting “kill her” at Doug. Lonnie’s eating a sloppy joe omelette and watching the events unfold intently. Gil is swirling round a smoothie. He notices them first)

Gil: oh you’re back. Finally. D’you wanna...?

Ben: yeah. Um...ooh. Yes that’s it. Uma. Take half of this sceptre and follow my lead

(He snaps his own, collapsible sceptre in half, hands one of those halves to Uma, jumps onto the kitchen island, helps Uma up and together they spin each half until they make a high pitched screeching sound that makes the chaos stop)

Ben: could all my friends please come over to my side

Uma: alright you useless fuckers, SIDDOWN!!!!

Ben: now, what happened

Uma: yeah ceej, what did you do?

Cj: why do you assume I did anything when it was clearly this heterosexual imbecile

Uma: cause I know you kid, since you were five in fact, so I know it was probably your doing

Ben: what happened Doug?

Doug: she insulted Evie and I in our own house, belittled our relationship and tried to stab me in the head with a rotisserie blade. And I f that wasn’t bad enough

Evie: she called me a traitor and slapped me around the face

Doug: and that is how the situation you walked in on transpired.

Cj: bald faced lies

Uma: eh I believe it. What about you beasty boy?

Ben: sounds airtight

Cj: I cannot and refuse to believe that

Uma: that I believe him over you? Well get used to kiddo. Ya just like Harry, no matter how much ya try to deny it

Ben: one question tbough. How are you a traitor

Mal: oooh yeah, you dunno do you? It’s ugly. Just like every Hook in existence

Evie: if everyone must know. When I was fourteen she flirted with me. And I turned her down

Cj: her mother braINWASHED HER

Everyone except for her siblings: shut up!

Evie: I turned her down. Because. A. I’m straight. And. B. Even if I wasn’t, I have higher standards then filthy pirates

Ben: were you rude?

Evie: pardon?

Ben: were you rude? Sometimes you can be a little bit rude.

Evie: if I remember correctly my exact words were “I’m very sorry but my gang sent me on a mission so I must go”

Ben: that was very polite

Evie: thank you. Plus. I even withheld the information from Grimhilde cause I know she wouldn’t take it well.

Cj: What has that got to do with anything?

Evie: Quinn Harts

(The room seems to grow colder as hades and the Vks, including the hooks, all look at each other uneasily)

Cj: oh. So it’s not because you’re

Evie: homophobic? God no. It was incompatible orientation pure and simple.

Cj (chuckling nervously now because the eggs on her face): but you see I thought

Doug: all straight people are jackasses? Quite a few are. But Evie and I aren’t. If we’re being wholly honest. Your sexuality is literally the only thing I respect about you. If you weren’t a pirate I might’ve even introduced you to my cousin Sadie. But you’re an asshole. So I won’t

Ben: good to hear that’s all cleared up

Evie: we are as well. Now. You three. Get the fuck out of my house. You stray bitches have been here too long. I’m sure there’s a nice posture ruining rock outside for you to sleep on

Harriet: we’re family

Hadie: actually. No. You and straw girl aren’t our family. Harry is. But not you.

Evie: nah. He can piss off too. I’m still waiting for a dna test. Until then. He can rot from the inside for all I care.

Mal: even when the test is confirmed he can still rot. (Uma scowls at her) What? It’ll be funny

Elsa: Jay. C’mere. Would it be completely out of the question for you to replicate your previous spell.

Jay: uhhhh....No. But I’d need a living conduit. Like a performer.

Hadie: I’ll do it. The party’s dying and that won’t do. What? I’m a disciple of Dionysus. Partying is literally my job description.

Elsa: as well as loose morals.

Hadie: harsh much?

Jay: she means you sleeping around with any dude that looks at you nicely. Ready

Hadie: fire away

Jay: To get rid of these ants in their pants/I command thee all to get up and dance. Again

(This is when “shut up and raise your glass” happens. After the song everyone but Hadie, Jayand Elsa looks very disgruntled)

Mal: seriously? Again? That’s like twice in one hour

Jay: had to be done. And it’s of my professional opinion that every time you guys get uppity I’m gonna help instigate an impromptu rave

Ben: well it worked. And it was funny. So two birds one stone. Now. I believe Doug and Evie asked you three to leave

Harriet: ya cannae do that man. Ya don’t have the authority

Doug: ok then. Get out of our house. NOW!

Harry: no I. I don’t think we will.

Celia: get out. Or I’ll throw you out.

Cj: you and what army?

Celia: this one

(Here is glow fuchsia and the wall is washed down in shadows)

Harriet: d’ya really think I’m scared of a little girl like you?

Ben: to hell with this. May I?

Doug: please

Ben: thank you. (He jumps off the kitchen island, lifts Harriet off the ground by her coat collar with one hand, morphs his face into that of a beast and screams in her face) GET OOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!

(There’s a moment of deathly quiet. Harriet whimpers. There’s a sound like a leaky faucet. And Ben morphs back to his human face which now bears a look of disgust)

Ben: did you just...?

Harriet: it’s been a really stressful day with no let up

Ben: uh-huh. (He drops Harriet on the floor and turns to his brother) Gil, buddy, uh

Gil (stony faced): burn the shoes then burn them again then throw them out.

Ben: on it

(He poofs out. Celia turn to Doug and Evie)

Celia: my turn?

Evie: yup. But don’t break the glass

Celia: perfect (she grabs Harriet by the back of her coat) out ya go rummy. (She throws her towards the window making her dissipate into shadow before contact). I’ve wanted to do this for years (she slaps Harry around the face, he too turns into shadow) buh bye you fatuous egotist (she pulls Cj’s hair and the final pirate disappears into smoke) that felt good

Uma: where did you put them?

Celia: eh don’t worry. I put them in the nautilus. Now. Shall we crack on with the party?

Everyone but Uma: HEAR HEAR

(Mal inches over to Jane and Lonnie)

Mal: what do you say we get some air for a while

(They nod and two minutes later they’re all on the bench laughing their asses off about certain unsavoury topics)

Lonnie (crying due to laughter but still trying to speak): all I’m saying is going to my grans seventieth in my ROAR uniform is nothing compared to you and Ben and his you know what

Mal (in the same state as Lonnie): its still pretty damn funny though

Jane: my mother should be here

(The other two stop laughing)

Mal: I know hon

Jane: but if she were here she’d complain. “Leave room for Jesus”. “Time for the lobster quadrille”. “I know you can now but you shouldn’t drink when you have guests”. The only ones I wanted to invite are here. Plus the four stooges. And she didn’t even show up to the party she made me have!

Lonnie: oooh please can I call the squid a stooge M? Pretty please with merlot on top?

Mal: you shouldn’t really be calling her a squid or a stooge. But if you do. Ok not responsible for what happens to ya.

Lonnie: fine.

Mal: now Janey. What say you we try and get all these annoyances out huh?

Jane: errrr...I’m game if you are.

Mal: perfect. (She gets up, goes to the midpoint between the bench and the gazebo and magically constructs a model version of Verna) now. What do you wanna say to her?

Jane: I ha...I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.

Mal: it’s ok bud.

Lonnie: could uh could music help? Possibly?

Jane: it might. I dunno.

Mal: shall we try it?

Jane: yes. And uh. You can vent too, I mean, if you want.

Lonnie and Mal: well alright then

(Mal clicks her fingers, a copy of Maleficent and Fa Li appear and music starts up. This is when “you don’t own me happens”. After the song they look and feel better. That’s when they hear Evie scream a profanity and a slap rings out from the kitchen)

Mal (heaving a heavy sigh): and once again. Chaos reigns supreme.

Lonnie: I’ll stay with Jane. You go.

Mal: I’ll send Hadie out to keep you company

(She goes back inside just in time for Evie to stalk past her. Hades is on the floor with a slightly shocked expression, a handprint on his face and he’s apologising profusely to Doug)

Mal: you got it down here? (Doug nods). Good. I’ll go kick her head into gear.

(She heads upstairs. Doug turns to back to Hades)

Hades: I’m so sorry my boy, I was just trying to help, if I caused——

Doug: yeah, no, my opinion of you doesn’t matter. Only Evie’s does. I want to ask you a question.

Ben: uh. Doug. Can I eat what’s left in the freezer? Only I can smell somethings about to go out of date

Doug: yeah sure. There only meat products in it. Go crazy. But please please mute the chewing.

Ben (brightly): thank you!

Hades: what is it you want to know

Doug: Maleficent

(Up in the guest room. Evie enters in a huff and slams the door to show Mal hiding behind it)

Mal (sardonically imitating a British accent): hello Harold (Evie screams in surprise) we need to talk

Evie (fed up): what? What now? What could we possibly have to talk about?

Mal: what I thought you got over earlier toady

Evie (cackles hollowly): THAT? That! Was a fluke. And then he tried to “help” me by getting in my way

Mal: has it maybe occurred to you that he actually WAS trying to help?

Evie: if he really wanted to help then he wouldn’t have abandoned me with Grimhilde sixteen years ago

Mal: oh Christ. You know why he did that

Evie: I know why he did it but it still hurt though. He could’ve taken me with him. He could’ve taken us with him

Mal: they wouldve hunted us down and made him watch as they killed us. Or worse

Evie: that doesn’t make me feel any better

Mal (in what she hopes is a comforting voice): look on the bright side. You got me as a sister. That’s gotta count for something, right?

Evie: no, not really.

Mal: urrrrgh. Would me making a fool of myself help you feel less of a loser?

Evie:...mayhaps

Mal: fine. Remember back before graduation we got paired up for the senior class showcase because verna wouldn’t let you and Doug dirty dance?

Evie: yeah

Mal: Bea Arthur or Bette Midler?

Evie (chuckling slightly): surprise me

(Mal clicks her fingers, they’re transported to a music hall stage with an invisible audience and the song starts up. This is when “sisters” happens. After the song Evie looks briefly empowered. Then deflates and flops onto the bed face first. Mal chuckles at this)

Mal: uh. Sis. Your remember that apart from being the guest room, this is Lonnie and Gil’s room as well, right?

Evie (in a muffled tone of voice): what’s your point?

Mal: well besides both being very sweet they’re also a pair of incorrigible gym rats who always forget to clean up the bed before they leave for home. So it wouldn’t be entirely out of the realm of possibility that there’s still a certain amount of used up gym wear under the covers you’re currently laying on...

(Evie’s eyes snap open cartoonishly, she screams, jumps up from the bed, makes claw hands at Mal in an attempt to throttle her, flails at the window, then looks down at her clothes and screams again. Throughout all this Mal is calmly amused, silently watching her sister crisis. When she’s had enough she grabs Evie by the arm and hurls her into the en-suite. Evie re-emerges two seconds later in new clothes and a cloudy expression)

Mal: lemme guess. Doug make that sweater?.

Evie: of course. I can sew. Doug can knit.

Mal: mmkay. Now are you going to get over yourself and let go of this ridiculous grudge you have against our father?

Evie: you just don’t get it do you?

Mal: probably not so enlighten me

Evie: this isn’t something I’m gonna get over in a day. This isn’t mamma Mia. I found out who my father was in the middle of a crappy day with even more crappy events piled on it. The man I love was put in a coma. My daughter was missing for most of the day. Ive had to fight for my life at least twice. I’ve had no time to process any of this. And you’re expecting me to get over this massive family reveal instantaneously? No. Something like this will take a lot longer then a day to get over. He abandoned me. I understand why he did it. But it still hurts. And as much as you say that you’re not like me. You have to understand that I’m not like you either. I’m angry. I’m angry he could’ve been there for me and wasn’t. And that anger’s not gonna go away any time soon. Either accept that or get out of my face

Mal: ahhhh. Ok. Now I understand. Katara

Evie: what?

Mal: you’re acting like katara. She was mad that her dad went off to war because she was a kid who needed him but felt like she couldn’t be because the reason for him leaving was noble. Dad let us go to save our lives. So you feel pissed that he left us. But you also feel like you can’t be cause of the REASON he left. It’s ahh, it’s a dilemma for sure

Evie: that’s not a dilemma. A dilemma is deciding between chicken and fish at your wedding. This is an impasse

Mal: mhmm, mhmm, uh huh. You know what would help.

Evie: what?

Mal: talking to him. And I mean not just calling him a rat bastard abandoner. Actually talk to him.

Evie: it’s not that easy M. Not when you were raised by Grimhilde. Not when every time you try to talk something out your met with scorn.

Mal: ohhhh. So that’s where “when in doubt, don’t” came from.

Evie: yup.

Mal: you were the good child. The golden daughter. You never misbehaved and you never spoke up for yourself. And now it come back to use your posterior as an entree.

Evie: yup. So you understand why it’s difficult for me. I can’t. I just can’t. Not after how my upbringing went.

(This is when “here I am” happens. After the song Evie confronts Hades in the kitchen just as he’s finishing his talk with Doug)

Hade:...I’m sorry my boy that’s all I know. Hello dear

Evie: I’m mad at you. I’m always gonna be mad at you. But. I don’t hate you. If I’m being honest, to protect Dizzy, I would’ve done the same. But it’s going to take time for me to...accept you.

Hades: I understand

Hadie: per...perhaps it would help if she saw it. The uh...incident in question, pops, maybe she’d understand a bit more if she saw what happened?

Evie: what, what incident

Mal (who’s been listening in): when he made the decision to stop contacting us.

Hades: I’m going to need a wand. And...A hat.

(Mal takes the sceptre, shrinks it down so it resembles a wand, ignores Uma’s incensed expression and hands it to her father while Hadie hands him his top hat. Hades sticks the wand handle in his right ear up to the emitter, to the teenagers collective disgust, roots around for a minute, then pulls out what looks like ash grey smoke tinged with midnight blue and pours it all into the top hat)

Hades: there you go. Just put the hat on the floor and spin

Doug (taking the hat): thanks. I think.

Mal: that looks worse then the hair ball Dude coughed up at his birthday party last month

Doug: how can...

Mal: don’t ask

Doug: ready

Evie: I guess

(In devies room. They’re sitting in the footlocker at the bottom of they’re bed)

Doug: now remember. No ones pressuring you into anything. You can stop any time

Evie: you’re very sweet. But I need to do this.

Doug: well ok then

(He sets the hat on the floor and spins. It goes faster and faster until it’s a blur. Light fills the room and replaces it with an alleyway on the island. They see Hades in his John Barrowman guise arguing with Grimhilde. He obviously loses since he gets a horrified expression on his face and leaves as Grimhilde smirks. There’s no sign of Evie. In Hades’s lair)

Anastasia: it couldn’t have been that bad

Hades (now Sebastian Stan): they both said the same thing. Iris and Hestia will be imperilled if I remain in contact. I have no choice. Please Antoine. For me

Facilier (wearily): only if you’re sure

Hades: yes. It doesn’t matter about me. Do it. Now.

(In the foyer)

Doug: are you ok?

Evie: no. But I want to keep watching

Doug: as you wish

(Anastasia pours Hades a drink and Facillier gets started. This is when “losing your memory” happens)

[piratewithvigor]

Love Break My Heart: Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Summary: A half-life relationship is disintegrating at the seams. Neither of them is good for the other, but after 14 years together, they don’t know how to be with each other anymore.

Word Count: 2059

A/N: A prize story written for @slashscowboyboots​ that I keep putting off working on until I have massive fruitopia-fueled writing bonanzas when I’m supposed to be going to sleep because I work tomorrow. Enjoy!

I can remember back to the first days we spent in the studios. Cutting demos, the silence punctuated by growling stomachs. We were hungry literally and figuratively. Daily scrapings of cash were what we ate from and some days, sleep was all we could afford for dinner. Working on the first album was much of the same, but not quite as desperate. We had a bit of an advance. Something we could eat off of, but nothing that was keeping us in the lap of luxury. We still all shared a shitty house with a carpet full of burn holes and not a single piece of furniture that didn’t boast an array of stains, dents or scrapes. But we weren’t starving for anything except success.

It’s different now. You didn’t have to look beyond the people occupying the studio to know the energy felt different. Steven was gone, to begin with. He’d struggled along with the rest of us, and now he was gone because he found something that meant more to him than we did. Success got to his mind and gave him the delusions of invincibility I had seen so many of my heroes succumb to. My mind drifted to him sometimes when nothing else was occupying it. Call it a happy place, if you will. It’s simply a corner of my mind I can go to when the reality around me doesn’t live up to my expectations of it.

The other difference is everyone’s attitudes about the albums-in-process. Our collective passions were what created the first, but this? The passion here lay in something besides music. Slash is doped up, hiding behind his curtain as if he thinks we can’t tell. He used to share this passion with Steven and me, but times are different now. Duff’s baby is in the bottle. How his liver hasn’t exploded yet is beyond me. His passion lies somewhere deep within his endless bottles, in drinking them down like he’s trying to find it. Axl? His passion lies in control, in perfection. In a way, it always has, but it’s begun to overpower him and, in turn, the rest of us. His demand for perfection drives everyone to their respective new passions as well. As for myself, I’m no saint. I’ve drank my fair share and I took part in every drug I could get my hands on. But they weren’t my passions. The struggles I went through to kick all of them were in the honour of the one thing who held control over me: the bitchy redhead who’s barking orders at everyone in the studio.

I’m trying to comply with what he’s saying and follow directives. Axl’s in no mood to hear anyone’s ideas but his own. Neither Duff nor Slash seem eager to offer any. Matt and Dizzy look more inclined to lick peanut butter off his ass than to offer constructive criticism. It’s no one’s fault the day is going this way; simply the cycle that’s been constructed during these albums. A single mistake in the morning leads to an outburst, which leads to stress, more mistakes, more anger and fear which leads to shit being taken secretly to cope, then playing gets sloppier, and eventually, something will break. It’s as certain as any law of motion.

I’m not even sure who messed up when Axl pauses us again. I started tuning him out after we did a perfect run-through and he still found problems. As much as I love him, sometimes a tune-out is the only way to cope. It’s the only way I can keep loving him. He’s in the control room, arguing with our producer. I can’t hear his exact words through the soundproofed glass, but I can see his lips moving and his body language isn’t screaming “I’m in a fantastic mood; please approach.”

It takes five or so minutes for our producer to eventually lean into his mic to be heard in the recording booth.

“Iz, Axl thinks you might be flat.”

I purse my lips and make a show of checking my tuning quickly. I’m not flat. Axl knows I know I’m not flat. He’s lashing out because something isn’t living up to his grand vision and he isn’t sure what it is. I’d have heard if someone was flat. He would have too, without having gone through an entire shouting match with the producer to wreck his voice.

Satisfied with my efforts, Axl returns to the booth and we start another take. They’re numbered, for some reason, but we’ve done so many, I don’t know why anyone would bother to keep track. It’s the same for every song. Every song on these twin albums that we thought would be a great idea. No one had anticipated just how much of a pain they would grow to be. A single album takes months. We’ve been at both of them for over a year. Almost a year and a half, by my count. A year and half of my time spent being yelled at by a man who just wishes he could yell at the universe, but instead chooses to whittle it down to who he used to consider his universe.

I’m playing again, but I don’t remember beginning. Everyone is playing, but no one looks like they’re actually here. Mentally, anyway. We’re all in our respective happy places. Axl stops us again and the room heaves a collective mental sigh. The take was as perfect as he’s going to get. For tonight, anyway. Time passes in a different way in the studio. The lack of windows and clocks ensure it. Once the exhaustion sets in, minutes seem like hours, seem like seconds. I know I ate breakfast with Axl this morning, but nothing since. I can easily bet that it’s beyond lunch time.

Once Axl’s back is turned in the control room, I pull my neck strap over my head and place the guitar on one of the stands in the corner, unplugging it in the process. The minute details of imperfection have Axl swamped sufficiently that he doesn’t notice when I leave the recording booth. Nor does he notice that I’ve left the studio.

It’s late evening when I walk outside. Full moon on the rise and everything. For the first time today, my movements aren’t planned. Sure, I’ll eventually have to return to the studio and face Axl’s wrath, but for a few moments, I’m free. It’s yet crowded enough that Axl would be a fool to walk in the streets. Moments like these are when I respect Kiss and everyone who had the same idea as them: when you become famous, your face is no longer your own. It belongs to the public to use as they please. So they created new faces to give to the public and keep the ones they were born with for themselves. Staying out of the spotlight gives me a variation of the same luxury. A fan could identify me if they tried, but a casual viewer never could like how they would be able to with Axl. Being the frontman, everyone knows his face. He’d get swamped the instant he set foot outside the studio. I’m walking with my hands shoved into my jean pockets to keep them a little warmer. It might be Californian May, but it’s still nightfall and growing colder. Not enough that I’m wishing I had something warmer on, but enough that it’s starting to grow unpleasant. 

The first time I remember my intentions for leaving the studio is when I reach a cheap diner a few blocks away. The kind that looks like it employs people who spit in your food if you order anything more complicated than a burger and a soda. In short, the perfect place for a hiding musician.

The diner is empty save for a couple of skeevy patrons dotting the bar stools and other booths. A pretty sorry dinner rush, but the food looks edible enough to spend money on. Playing safely gets me a coke and a cheeseburger served in a plastic basket, somehow both looking like the most beautiful things I’d seen all day. Grease is seeping through the parchment paper lining the basket and the coke is a little flat, but it’s quiet. No strings cutting into my fingers while I played the same two minutes of a song over and over, no screaming, no more little bubble of resentment that was building up deep within me. Just soft conversations between patrons. For the first time in almost a year and a half, it’s quiet enough that I can let myself think.

A little scrap of paper’s been metaphorically burning a hole in my pocket since we began writing for the album, but I never knew what to add to it. My original idea was to write a love song for Axl, but the frustration of having nothing to say only got me more depressed. I hadn’t even tried to put anything down since I got clean.

I uncap a pen and begin to write. Nothing in particular, just a few words that could maybe be something some day. I eventually finish the cheeseburger and start dedicating my brain power to scribbling while I sip on my flat coke. The chorus is starting to come together and the verses are well on their way when someone slides into my booth across from me. I know without looking up. A pair of aviators join my field of vision of the table, but I’m not giving Axl the satisfaction of acknowledging him yet. It’s what he wants; to have the proof that I know I wronged him. So I keep at the task at hand. If he’s able to read my handwriting upside-down, he’s not saying so. Just sitting as uncaring as I am. As soon as I leave the diner, shit is going to fly. If I’m lucky, my nose will stay intact, but I’ve never been known to be that lucky before. All I do know is that the longer I sit here, the worse I’m going to have it. It’s the little quirks like that that you pick up on after 14 years with someone.

The final verse closes up under my hand as I awkwardly slurp up the last few drops of coke hidden under semi-melted ice cubes. I fold up the scrap of paper and put it back into my pocket as I get up, leaving most of my spare change on the table as a tip. I still haven’t looked Axl in the eye, but I can tell he’s been staring me down ever since he entered. When I push open the door to exit, he follows, no more than an arm’s reach away.

The first time he touches me is when we pass an alley and he grabs my by the collar to pull me in. The jolt is strong enough to startle me, but not strong enough that it hurts. He shoves me so my back is against the grimey alley wall before socking me across the jaw.

“You… Izzy, you…” He looks like he wants to saw something else, but he punches me again instead.

“…you backstabbing son of a bitch!” He figures out what he wants to saw as he swings again, but I’m ready for him this time. Ready enough that I block his arm with mine.

“Cool it, Fireball.”

“Cool it?” He chuckles like he’s in a strange sort of delirium. “You fucking throw me under the bus to deal with those fucking dipshits and you tell me to cool it?”

“I didn’t throw you under any bus you weren’t already swan-diving towards,” I counter, keeping a firm grasp on his wrist. I’ve both thrown and received my share of punches, but it doesn’t mean I’m fixing to get any more. Especially from Axl.

“You’re as bad as they are! Are you all fucking trying to mess up and delay the albums?” He’s struggling against my grasp enough that I let go. Right now, he’s not planning on hitting me anymore. Just yell a little bit and maybe pace some before the steam will be all out. We’ll kiss and we’ll go home together and we’ll call it love when deep down, we know it’s anything but.

[sciencenewsforstudents]

Bird eggs come in a dizzying array of colors. But from a global perspective, that diversity follows a simple pattern — the colder the climate, the darker the egg, new research shows.

Darker eggs absorb more heat than lighter ones, which could help developing chicks stay warm while their parents forage for food, according to the study published online October 28 in Nature Ecology and Evolution.

Biologists have long tried to suss out the selective forces that shape and color a specific species’ eggs. Those forces include keeping eggs hidden from predators, protecting them from bacteria, signaling egg quality and maintaining egg warmth. “All of these hypotheses have some level of [evidential] support,” says Phillip Wisocki, who worked on the research while studying biology at Long Island University Post in Brookville, New York.

But scientists weren’t sure whether any of these factors were important in determining egg diversity globally. “If your focus is too narrow, you can miss a lot of what’s going on,” says Wisocki’s adviser, biologist Daniel Hanley.

Using museum collections of bird eggs, Hanley, Wisocki and their colleagues compiled data on eggs from 634 bird species from 36 of the 40 living orders of birds. They then analyzed the data against a global map, and found that the brightness and color of eggshells closely correlated with temperature, even after correcting for color similarities between closely related species.

Birds in “the far north, which tends to be colder, had darker, browner eggs,” Hanley says. Eggs became lighter and slightly bluer for birds living closer to the equator, though egg colors were generally more variable in the tropics.

Researchers created a global map of egg color by averaging the brightness and color of eggs from species nesting within an area. Each 23,322-square-kilometer area is marked by a hexagonal dot on the map. The eggs laid in northern regions tend to be darker, while eggs get lighter and more blue towards the equator.

CREDIT:  P.A. WISOCKI ET AL/NATURE ECOLOGY & EVOLUTION 2019

The researchers suggest the trend may reflect adaptation to the cold: A dark egg, like a dark car parked in the sun, absorbs more thermal radiation from the sun than lighter eggs. Testing the theory, the researchers exposed white, brown and blue chicken eggs to direct sunlight and tracked heat retention. Sure enough, brown eggs warmed up faster and cooled down more slowly than the lighter eggs.

“In the Arctic, parents have to go out to forage and get back to their eggs quickly,” Hanley says. “If you can buy them five extra minutes, that can actually be really beneficial for them.”

Biologist Mary Caswell Stoddard welcomed the study’s attention to the role of egg color in thermoregulation. “That’s part of what makes this study, and the discovery that birds living in colder habitats tend to lay darker eggs, so exciting,” though undoubtedly there are other selective factors at play, says Stoddard, of Princeton University.

Still, Wisocki says the study shows climate to be a major driver of egg color variation, while also expanding the notion of what color is for (SN: 10/31/18). “We usually think about color through the lens of perception — mating displays, camouflage, signaling,” he says. “In this study we show that color matters, but the observer isn’t important.”