#except everything has to be very carefully masked and blurred

[strawberrycowtime]

general ranting/check in/data collection(?)

have realized that most of my fandom-affiliated posts reach an average of 20ish notes (if they’re text-posty) and grow to numbers as great at 80ish notes (if they’re arty). i have come to the conclusion that tumblr loves my middle aged man and psychologically strange woman yaoi/yuri.

also unrelated but the charger for a computer i use sometimes has been beat up so bady that it sometimes sparks so i can’ charge it overnight ^_^

planning on getting thru more of the og trilogy tmrw as well as cleaning my swamp of a room

to top it off i’ll leave a little photo down here

me if i was a man and a lawyer

[snickiebear]

Hello, snickiebear! Congratulations on your 200 followers! If you have the time, would you mind writing Shisui x Sakura in a nonmass au? I’m actually curious about your take on a time travel scenario with this pairing, but I also understand that a lot of works have been written on time travel already, so it’s still awesome if you don’t do the time travel part!

Congratulations again and thanks for taking the time to read this ask! Your works are really enjoyable to read. Thank you so much for writing and for doing this 200-follower event!

hello lovely anon!!! thank YOU for reading and requesting!!!! this one was so much fun to write! you ask for time travel + nonmass + shisaku? i am helpless to deliver!! this is a bit more angsty than i wanted but are we surprised? (nope, not at all lmao) this is also now on AO3 bc i really liked it!

also, apologies that this took a bit!! lifes been a real fuckin bitch and the wall of writer's block hit me like a train AHAHAHA but i hope you like this one!!! :)))

The sky is sunny and the spring beautiful when the sky splits itself in half with a brillant, blinding flash of light.

Shisui, masked and riding the after mission high, can only stare as a body plummets from that crack, limp and silent.

It is as if the heavens have spit out what they have deemed unworthy.

Or perhaps, the heavens are dropping a gift on their doorstep.

Either way, Shisui is moving before he knows what is happening, catching that body— a woman with shaven pink hair— and holding her close, head tucked under his chin.

She’s breathing, chest rising and lowering feebly.

Shisui catches his breath as the fracture within the sky closes and only then does he notice the mask.

Porcelain and painted. A combination of a snake and fox, a wolf and slug.

His ANBU team materializes next to him, Dog-taicho’s chakra going from lazy to alert at the sight of the woman. “That’s…”

“Yeah.” Shisui says hoarsely. “She- she needs medical attention. I think.” There is a lot of blood, she’s dripping in it. But he can’t see where she’s bleeding from… or if all that blood is even hers.

“Let’s go.” Dog-taicho cuts through his thoughts, voice hard and a bit panicked. Afterall, Kakashi owes his life to this woman, they all did.

Team Ro blurred out of existence in their race to Kohona, their Savior clutched within his arms.

.

.

.

It's funny, really. When she looks back, as she so often does now, it's laughable. The fact that Haruno Sakura, the civilian born, the nobody, the weak one of Team 7 is the only one left.

Sakura was the only one left in the war against Kaguya and she had done what she has always done; what was needed.

So, Sakura was the only one left and she figured out what was left of Naruto’s seals and shot herself through time to fix everything, to save everyone. To take down Danzo, Hanzo, Madara, to save Sai, the Uchihas, Kakashi.

She was the one to heal Obito, to save Rin, to make sure that Itachi’s hands would never be stained with his family’s blood.

And now, now she sits in a T&I room and she laughs, laughs herself hoarse because she succeeded, she won. And now she is in the future, her intended destination, but it is not the same.

In this future, Haruno Sakura does not exist. She is nothing and no one.

Naruto and Sasuke are alive and well and happy. They get to live the lives they could have only dreamed about.

And Sakura. She doesn’t exist.

She laughs herself hoarse, the laughs turning into broken sobs and she drops her forehead to the table, hiccuping and clenching her hands into blood inducing fists.

Alone. As she always has been.

The door creaks open and Ibiki steps in, a folder in hand.

Sakura’s head snaps up, wiping her face as she almost sighs in relief. She loved (loves?) Ibiki, he once was one of her closest friends near the end. She knows Ibiki, trusts him. Or, at least, she had.

Sakura straightens in her chair, careful of the chakra suppressing handcuffs that really do nothing for her, just acting as a hindrance. But, she does not remove them because she is not a threat to Konoha, she never has been, never intends to be.

Ibiki sits down in front of her, eyeing her carefully and it almost feels like coming home. “You say your name is Haruno Sakura.”

“Yes.” She rasps, licking her cracked and bleeding lips. “That’s right.”

Her eyes flit to the glass window, ignoring her own reflection as she narrows her eyes at whoever is behind the wall. An unknown chakra signature, wild and worried. And— and—

Kakashi.

His cool and lazy chakra, almost like a current of electricity. She would know that chakra any where, as if it is engrained deep in her bones. And right now he’s interested, almost antsy.

Swallowing, Sakura looks back to Ibiki, who had been watching her keenly. “You already had Inoichi-san do a mind walk. You know everything I do.” Shoulders back, chin tilted, spine steeled.

The dead man that sits in front of her hums and opens a folder, “We believe you—”

“It is not a matter of believing.” Sakura snaps, eyes flashing. “You know it is a fact. He saw, he showed you, you saw. How could I ever make something like that up?”

“What we know,” Ibiki says too calmly, too pleasantly, “Is that you are severely traumatized.”

And Sakura well, she laughs again. Because. Because what else is she supposed to do? She gives and gives and gives and is given nothing back.

There are no fruits for her labor, no reward for her sacrifice.

Shoulders shaking as she cries and laughs, scrubbing at her face. “We were friends, you know.” She manages. “I made you laugh twice, once after I lost my middle finger,” Sakura holds up her hand to show him, unsure of why she is even talking. “The second when you were dying in my arms.”

Silence rings out as Sakura gathers herself, swallowing harshly. Ibiki is still looking at her, but the way is no longer cynical, no longer studying.

“Haruno—”

“Just Sakura,” She says wearily.

“Sakura-san,” He continues, “When you were brought in you had a mask on. A mask that has been seen countless times saving Konoha shinobi.”

Sakura does not dare mention the fact that she has also interfered with Suna, giving Gaara the childhood he deserves. And with Mist, cutting the head off the snake quickly enough that the caste system would never truly solidify.

So, she nods. “I am aware.”

“And you claim you are the person behind the mask on every occasion.”

Sighing, she runs a hand over what is left of her hair and makes direct eye contact with her once friend, giving a curt nod, “I am the person behind the mask.”

“One last question, Sakura-san.” Ibiki murmurs, jotting something down in his folder. Sakura forces herself not to read the familiar writing. Though, she is well equipped to read upside down. “How did you come to possess the rinnegan?”

The air drops from mildly uncomfortable to freezing and Sakura does not balk at the question. “You saw it for yourself, Ibiki. It was a gift.”

“Yes, but from who?”

Her heart aches, squeezes at the thought of Naruto, of Sasuke, phantom pains. It is as if she has lost a limb, a piece of her heart when they had turned to ash between her fingers. But Sakura does not waver as she says, “It was a parting gift from Uchiha Sasuke before he died.”

The unknown chakra behind the wall erupts into a mess of emotions while Kakashi’s is mildly surprised if not wary. There is tension between the both of them though.

Which is incredibly amusing considering it wasn’t until much, much later did Kakashi ever see anything to be wary about in her.

(It took her flicking the ground and allowing it to split open and swallow any of their pursuers to convince him that she could very well tear him in half without a second thought.

She wouldn’t though. Team 7 and its members will always be a soft and deeply bruised spot for her. A wound she could never quite heal. Sakura cannot remember a time when she has ever been bruiseless. She has come to terms with being wounded.)

Ibiki closes the folder and taps it on the steel table between them, he motions over his shoulder and the door opens swiftly, revealing Kakashi and another Uchiha with curly hair.

He’s just as she remembers him, except not. Her Kakashi had slouched, had a certain energy about him.

This one, he looks the same, has the scar, the slight slouch. But it is clear that ghosts no longer beat on his back, the world's weight no longer bends him to its will.

Pain races through her heart, echoing physically throughout her body. It hurts. It shouldn’t, seeing her old sensei, her once friend, happy. But it does.

Because while she cannot live without Team 7, it is clear Team 7 can live without her.

She straightens, eyes sharp and body tense as Ibiki stands, chair scraping harshly against the floor and then takes her hands into his, calluses and scars scraping against each other.

Sakura could only imagine what Tsunade-shishou would say if she were to see her, riddled with scars and missing fingers. She could have healed them without a second thought, but chakra had been precious then. Every single ounce had been poured into keeping her precious people safe and herself alive enough to keep fighting.

Her once friend produces a key and unlocks the handcuffs, letting them drop heavily into his awaiting hands before standing up, “Sakura-san, this is Hatake Kakashi,” Her former teacher gives her a hard once over. “And Uchiha Shisui.”

Her skin itches and crawls at Kakashi’s look, cold and unfond, nothing like how she remembers him. And of course, of course he wouldn’t be the man who she had come to adore. He is someone else in this carefully constructed future of her own doing.

The blame, as always, rests upon her weakening shoulders. Sakura is crumbling, her sanity chipping away ever so slowly. It is laughable, really. She wants to throw her head back and howl, she wants to bow and allow herself to scream.

But, if she were to begin to scream, she is not sure she would be able to stop.

So, she gives a curt nod, “Hatake-san. Uchiha-san.”

“Shisui, and therefore the Uchiha, have volunteered to bring you into their custody.” Ibiki goes on, taking a step back. Sakura stays where she is, rooted.

A chill runs up her spine and she looks to Ibiki almost pleadingly. “And you can’t simply dump me into ANBU instead?”

“Mah, Sakura-san.” Kakashi drawls and Sakura’s will cracks. (That bruise will never quite heal.) “I can promise that the Uchiha aren’t as bad as they seem.”

Shisui smiles and it is unlike any smile she has seen before.

She cannot remember the last time she had seen a smile.

“Don’t listen to the old man, Sakura-san.” Shisui says and she’s caught off guard at how friendly he sounds, deep and welcoming. Sakura swallows harshly. “We’re a bunch of assholes but no harm will come to you, we can promise that.”

Uchiha men, she thinks with distaste, will always hold a knife to her heart. And they will always know how to twist the wretched blade to get her to bend for them.

But. But perhaps Sakura could bend, bend and lay and rest. Just once. And this time she'll bend for herself. Perhaps.

She finds herself nodding, hands shaking despite the steel in her spine, her shoulders still straight. “You’re going to just let me go.”

Ibiki gives her a hard look and Sakura’s lips twitch. Ah, of course not. The Uchiha compound is just a glorified prison. Then again, it is much better than anything she thought would happen.

Then again, Saura never thought this would happen.

Too desperate, too blind with the possibility of a chance to see them again, to be whole again. She, for all her brains, all her genius, had not even stopped to think of the possibility that her future would no longer exist.

It is laughable, really.

So she laughs, she clutches her stomach and laughs because what else can she do?

Sakura has done what she has always done; what was needed. And once again, like every other time, there is nothing but black at the end of the tunnel. No light exists for her.

She is to blame for her own destruction, her own crumbling.

.

.

.

“You can come out,” Sakura’s voice calls out and Shisui grins.

He steps from the shadows, two mugs in hand as he comes to sit next to her, offering her the drink. She takes it without hesitation but swirls it before sipping from it, Shisui watches as her eyes light up just a little bit.

Hot cocoa with peanut butter. He had noticed, the last time the clan had it, that she’d snuck four mugs worth.

If Sakura was surprised he noticed, she didn’t show it. She was like that, a one way mirror, giving nothing away even as she saw everything.

“Did you want something, Shisui-san?” She twitches as he scoots a little closer, the fireflies floating around the backyard. “Or did you just want some company?”

Shisui smiles boyishly, tilting his head back to look at her, “Heard that Minato-sama called you into the Hokage’s office again.”

“You mean you heard from Genma, who told Itachi while on their date, who then told you that the Hokage summoned me for the fourth time this week.” Sakura snorts, taking a long drink from her mug. There's a little foam on her upper lip that he fights to not wipe away. “He and his wife keep trying to convince me to let them look at the seals I used.”

Shisui pauses, eyes trained on Sakura as she looks to the sky, head leaning back. Her hair has grown out a little, more fuzz on her head than anything, she looks more alive, well fed. Deep bags under her one visible eye, three nasty scars dissect her face and the rest of her body isn’t any better.

She is the most beautiful, most terrifying, most devastating thing he has ever seen.

“The seals you used…”

“To go back and hop through time like a jack rabbit to save the entire world?” She asks, a wry smile on her face. “Yes, Shisui, those seals.”

He hums, leaning back on the heels on her hands, “Why don’t you just let them look?”

“They aren’t my seals to share.” Sakura half snaps, shoulders curling in, her body strung tight. “Naru— my friend was the one to draw them out, I just figured out the last bit of it. Plus, there is no reason why they need to see those seals.” Her tone sharp, unyielding almost pleading.

Shisui stays quiet until Sakura begins to slowly relax. She gets like this sometimes, tense and defensive. As if trying to convince herself rather than him of her deeds. He knew better than to push, he knew that she had gone through more than anyone would ever go through.

The way Ibiki and Inoichi look at her with the utmost respect can verify that. The way Kakashi and Rin and Obito have gone out of their way to greet her, to help her speaks volumes.

He takes a drink from his mug, studying the stars winking above them. “Hey Sakura,”

“Yes?” She sounds oh so weary. His very soul aches.

“Thank you, for everything.” He doesn’t dare look at her, barely hearing himself over the pounding of his heart. “You don’t talk much about what happened but I know, I can tell that it was horrible. And thank you for saving us, the world.”

She had lost everything, everyone. In that future that she had protected them from Sasuke died, Itachi died, he was dead. He could only imagine what the ruins of that world looked like. He could only imagine what Sakura had to do to survive.

Sakura’s fingers are cold, freezing as they brushes the back of his hand. Shisui fights a shiver, the trail of goosebumps, the thrill. “Oh, oh Shisui.” Her voice is heartbreaking and full of nothing but steel. “I would never allow anyone to endure that. You will never have to endure that, I made sure of it. Never. No one will. I promise.”

Her hand draws back as she brings her knees to her chest, eyes far away and breathes quick. And Shisui, he doesn’t know what comes over him as he scoots even closer and carefully wraps his arm around her strong shoulders, drawing her closer.

And. And Sakura, she allows it. She moves to his side, not quite leaning but touching.

“Are you happy here?” Shisui finds himself asking after long minutes of silence. Sakura’s breath evened out and she sits with her chin on her knees.

Her eye flits to him, weighing and heavy. She looks at him and Shisui cannot help but see the age, the ancientness that has taken root. He wants to pull out the misery within her, wants to hold her tight enough that she will never fall apart without somewhere there to catch the pieces.

He wants to love her, he wants her to let him love her.

“No.” Sakura whispers, as if her unhappiness in a world that does not know her, that has done nothing for her is such an awful, wretched thing. “I miss everyone.”

Shisui cannot say anything so he does what he does best; what he wants.

He stays with her, arm resting on her shoulders and slowly, Sakura allows herself to lean into his side.

Around them, the night settles and the crickets chirp. The heavens had nothing to do with Haruno Sakura, with their Savior, coming to them. No, Sakura is the catalyst of this, of this paradise they now all reside in.

If anything, she is the heavens themselves. And it is about time someone tells her that, shows her that.

.

.

.

Sakura sees them for the first time in the five months she has landed in this new future. Itachi invited her to meet his genin team. Itachi, the man who had once been a mass murderer, is now a mednin and a jounin sensei.

Shisui joins her because of course he does, he has been the one constant throughout this entire ordeal. The Uchihas are nothing like she thought they would be. The Uchihas are everything she hoped they would.

They are loving, friendly, welcoming, and thankful. Mikoto is nothing but heaven sent sunshine and cloud soft embraces, Fukago is nothing but a deep rumbling laugh and fond looks.

No one is the same, nothing is the same.

Shisui is there though, at her side, at her back. She trusts him, gods, she trusts him. Despite her better judgement, despite everything. Sakura trusts Shisui.

So, Shisui joins her as she takes to the roofs and to training field 7. She’s finally been cleared for the mission roster and given her jounin blues. Though, Sakura has yet to decide if she even would enjoy going on missions.

Maybe with Shisui.

But she does not think she has a taste for violence anymore, for killing. Maybe she'll spend her days with Kakashi's dogs and holed up in the libraries. Maybe she'll visit Gaara or Chojuro.

She had yet to meet Tsunade, who had been hunting for her since Minato (the bastard) had let it slip that Sakura was in possession of the rinnegan and the byakugan seal. Shisui is exceptionally good at playing discractor as Sakura flees to rock in a corner until he finds her. He's good at that, holding her, letting her breathe, allowing her to find solace within his arms and his space.

They step onto the training fields and Sakura freezes mid step to watch as Sasuke, Naruto, and Sai (oh, oh Sai. Sweet Sai, oh.) attack in perfect sync.

They’re fourteen if her math is correct.

They move smooth and swift, nonverbal communication as if they had been working like this for years. It's beautiful, really.

Something ugly claws at her heart, catching on an already scabbing part to rip open a new wound. Simply another reminder that Sakura is not needed. She never was.

It's laughable, really.

Shisui’s fingers massages the sides of her neck with his fingers, the spot where her skull and neck meet. “You’re tense.”

“They have beautiful teamwork.” She chokes out.

He looks at her, long and open, “We can go home, if you want.”

Shisui’s good at that t00, the open ended question, the way of making her not feel trapped. He's too perceptive for his own good, she has yet to tell him anything except what is on record. But, but. He knows. He knows of Kakashi, of Naruto, Sasuke, and Sai. It is both a relief and a terror. “No.” She manages, curling her hands. She is Haruno Sakura. She has faced the impossible her entire life. Ghosts are nothing compared to gods.

At least, that is what she tells herself.

“I’ll be fine.” Sakura glances up at him, licking her lips. He watches the movement before his eyes flit back up hers and he offers one of her favorite smiles. The one where his dimples are visible, where she can see the small chip of his front tooth and the way his top canin is a little crooked.

Itachi calls the spar minutes later, the boys slumping onto the ground and breathing heavily. Sakura offers a small smile as Itachi nears them, waving a hand in greeting.

“Ah, Sakura-chan.” He grins, then looks to Shisui, dry amusement clear in his tone, “Shisui.”

“You’ve trained them well,” Sakura praises, watching as Naruto (oh gods, Naruto with his big blue eyes and blonde, blonde hair) pulls a limp Sasuke (a Sasuke who laughs freely, who smiles, and is loved) onto his feet, Sai huffing a chuckle from the ground.

Itachi practically beams at the praise, “They are very talented. And you would like to meet them, yes?”

Shisui’s thumb traces the bumps of her spine and Sakura is reminded that she has forged herself from the ashes of her friends, that she is borne from war and steel. She can do this. Shisui is here and she can do this. “Yes, I would love to, Itachi.”

Shisui’s hand burns through her clothes as they follow Itachi, the boys immediately catching sight and freezing at the sight of them. Sakura will never admit it out loud that she has been avoiding any and all people from her past (present? future?).

One look at Ino, whole and happy and sassy, and Sakura had almost gone insane. And then Shikamaru and Chouji, all together, all smiling. Gods, Sakura had fallen to her knees at the sight. Such grief, such loneliness—

She’s better now. She is.

“Team 7.” Itachi says, “This Haruno Sakura, and you already know Shisui.”

Silence.

Sakura shifts under the wide eyed gazes of the boys, the men she loved (loves?) with her entire being. “It is a pleasure to meet you,”

Naruto recovers first because of course he does. And he smiles at her, he smiles at her and Sakura wants to claw at her skin and cry. Shisui intertwines their hands, as if sensing that urge.

“I’m Uzumaki Naruto!” He’s fourteen and he's alive and he’s happy. He isn’t out of the village, he’s here because he has a clan, he has a family. “Is it true that you’re the Savior?”

Sasuke smacks him in the back of the head with a scowl, “Be polite, dobe.” To Sakura he offers a bow, “It is pleasure to meet you, Haruno-san. I am Uchiha Sasuke.”

Sakura’s lips twitch despite herself. Never, not once, did Sasuke ever bow to anyone. He had always been arrogant, but here? Now? It's laughable, really.

She glances to Sai and he isn’t as pale as he once was, his cheeks are full of color, his eyes brimming with life. “I am Senju Sai, Haruno-san.”

And. Sakura pauses at that. Senju Sai, huh. Perhaps she'll have to face Tsunade sooner than later. The thought added to the dread filled pool in her stomach. But. But, she could do it. Maybe.

“It is very nice to meet you all,” She croaks and then offers a very brittle smile. “And Naruto-kun,” She fights a shiver at the honorific. “That information is S class, but find me when you make jounin, hm?” And for a moment she could pretend that everything was okay and she was teasing her Naruto. Just for a moment.

Much to her amusement, all three boys pout, looking to Itachi who shrugs, “You heard Sakura, now, let’s see formation Alpha but reverse.”

The boys groan and Sakura can’t help the smile, a smile with teeth.

She can feel Shisui’s eyes on her before she even turns to look at him. Her body is shaking, Sakura realizes blankly but Shisui still holds her sweating hands, squeezing ever so slightly. “Ready to go?”

Sakura swallows, staring up at him, studying him. And oh, she is so tempted to uncover her eye, to memorize his face. “Yes. Let’s… let's go home.”

.

.

.

He wakes to warmth pressed against his chest, warm breaths against his neck. Their legs are tangled, her arm thrown over his side and brushes against the bare skin of his back. Both of them are missing their clothes, Sakura preferred being able to feel the skin on him, the brush of flesh between them.

What they have, it is something deeper than any type of physical act. No, what they have… well, Shisui can not put it to words. There are no words. There will never be words.

It is rare for Sakura to sleep soundlessly and through the entire night. Shisui kisses her forehead, above her seal, on one of the many scars of her face. She doesn’t stir except to shift ever so slightly, hugging him closer.

And if Shisui’s heart melts, no one else is there to see the absolute brilliant smile on his lips.

“Sakura,” He murmurs because if she doesn’t get up soon, she’ll miss her lunch with Ibiki (who gets very grumpy when his time with Sakura is cut short), “Sakura.”

She grumbles, limbs tensing for a moment, a single breath before melting once more. “Shisui,” Her voice is rough with sleep, the sound swirls and dances around his bones. “G’mornin’.”

Shisui laughs, a soft push of air, as Sakura leans back to peer at him, both eyes uncovered as she studies him, the look like a physical caress. “Good morning.” He whispers, kissing her forehead once again.

“What time is it?” She murmurs, eyes drooping closed.

“You’ve got about an hour before Ibiki comes knocking.” Shisui chuckles.

Sakura snorts, pulling away to stretch her arms above her head, arching her back in the way that Shisui can admire every muscle, every scar, every part of her. “Then I better get up,”

“Or, you could always stay,” Shisui cajools, to which Sakura only laughs. The sound is beautiful and full and makes his heart beat a little faster.

“The last time I canceled on Ibiki was when I had to help Itachi with his and Genma’s wedding plans, and he sent little Terror Ino after me for a week.”

Shisui cracks an even wider grin, “Well, at least you got some nice clothes out of it.”

Laughing again, Sakura leans down to kiss him, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Go on,” Shisui shoos, making a little gesture with his hand. “Have fun, I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

She cups his face, thumbing the sharp of his cheek bone before leaning forward to kiss him again, "I love you." Then. "I am glad that my suffering brought me to you, that I landed here."

"I love you." He returns, barely a whisper as he brushes hair behind her ears. His heart beats for her, cracks and aches and swells. All for her. "There will never be a time that I will not love you. There will never be a time where I do not see you and see everything you are, everything you have done."

The sky is sunny and the spring beautiful as Sakura, the very heavens themselves, mouth splits into a brilliant, blinding smile.

(Sakura has crumbled and broken, she has fallen apart over and over. She has always known how to put herself together, until she couldn’t.

But Shisui, oh Shisui, he has always been readily available with glue and tape. He will always be there to hold her together with his bare hands, ready to bleed for her, with her.

She has given and given and given. He is willing to give everything back to her tenfold.

It is the very least she deserves, the very least the world can gift her. Shisui will always be willing to give more.)

[drxwsyni]

Fault in Honesty︱Yandere Chisaki Kai/Overhaul x f!Reader

Anonymous asked: “Hi! I love your work! Do you think you could do a scenario with yandere overhaul and fem. Reader where she tells him she hates him?”

a/n: Ngl I’ve been having some writers block lately so doing a good ol’ sfw (or at least in yandere standards) oneshot was very refreshing. Also the section in italics represents a flashback! Thanks for the request babes <3

Warnings: implied stockholm, captivity

1.9k Words

_____

If you could hazard a guess as to where exactly you went wrong, it would be the day you let the comfort of his security first outshine the red flags. To an outsider, they’d be unavoidably obvious. But for you, someone experiencing a side of Chisaki reserved only to make appearances in your presence, they became muted. Vibrant and glaring warnings were but a momentary afterthought, given no more than a few seconds of contemplation before you returned to focusing on the ideal in front of you.

The ideal is still present now, only it’s being held together by the constricting realities that overlooking those red flags have brought about.

Walls seemingly inescapable, corridors twisting and unending. Perpetually trapping you underground, without an inkling of an idea as to which door would lead you to salvation. All coupled with the pain shooting up your legs with each time your bare feet collided with the tile, a dress airy and doing little to shield you from the deep set chill running past your exposed skin.

You shivered, both from the discomfort of the cold, and from the anxieties riddling your system.

By some form of chance luck, your frantic searching lead you to a stairwell, from one door to another, and into an all too familiar room.

The setting was by far more comforting than the bleak hallways below you. Once dull and sterile surroundings faded, your focus favouring the warmth. You spent many an hour in Chisaki’s study mere months ago, keeping the young boss company without question. Sometimes you’d simply exist alongside him, the copious amounts of work keeping Chisaki from indulging himself in conversation with you. Those moments were regrettable, as you could never stay with him all day. So you would leave him to his devices sooner or later, returning home while he continued to manage his ‘business.’

You suppose he detested the fact that you would inevitably take a leave of absence more than you originally perceived. And while his first move to initiate a more domestic closeness with you was endearing at the time, it only served to muddle your thoughts with regret now.

•  •  •

Your hand in his, seated close enough to him that your knees were touching. The leather couch situated in the study was always your go-to spot when waiting for your lover to fulfill his duties as a leader for the day. He managed to do so before you left this time, much to your appreciation.

“Anything you could possibly need is already in place, angel. With you living here we’d be able to spend more time together. And…” Pausing, as if to gather his thoughts while absentmindedly squeezing your hand gently in his, Chisaki soon continued. “...It would be beneficial if I were able to monitor your health more closely.”

You regarded the man with a warm and loving smile, finding slight humour in his predictable ways. For one, your wellbeing was always at the top of his concerns. It felt like such a passive occurrence at this point, Chisaki keeping those interests in mind like it was second nature. And you supposed, with how he so clearly treated you on another level of appreciation compared to everyone else in his life, that the quality would only be expected in a man who ensures such a high level of diligence in everything he does.

Chisaki also had a tendency to rush things with you. So naturally, his offer wasn’t something you were entirely surprised to hear. But unfortunately for him, there still resided some resistance in you.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be moving in together? Don’t get me wrong, Kai. I’d love to spend more time with you. It’s just―”

“This would be good for you. It’s dangerous for you to be living on your own, so you understand why I’m worried about you, right?”

Although he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what Chisaki was referring to. The unavoidable fact of your quirklessness. He would never say that it made you weak, but you knew it was the root of his anxieties. You living alone was far more risky than he was willing to accept.

But you loved him. So, perhaps the change wasn’t something you should fear?

You let out a small sigh, still unsure, but resigning yourself for now. “...I suppose, if you think it would be best.”

In an act of tenderness, Chisaki took your hand that he was still holding, raising it to his lips. He planted a feathered kiss to the back of it, maintaining a gaze filled with adoration the whole time. Your heart fluttered at the gentle affection, feeling your face warm with a certain bashfulness.

He was pleased with your acceptance, albeit hesitant and largely unsure. “You’ll come around to the idea.”

And with the way Chisaki’s words and actions―not only now, but also in times before―left your better intuitions molding to match his, you thought you’d come around to it too.

•  •  •

The heavy wooden door behind you, a dark oak cut hand carved and lavish, opened in a swift motion. The abruptness of it earned a startled flinch from your body, you quickly turning around to view the culprit of the commotion in fear.

Like a deer in headlights, your whole being froze in place. Chisaki stood in the doorway, only he didn’t appear to be nearly as surprised as you.

If anything, he was calm.

His eyes trailed up and down your form, taking in your uneasy state. Slowly, he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s not good for your health for you to be up so late, my love.”

The dismissal of the situation sent a wave of frustration through you. Knowing he didn’t regret any of his actions, what he had put you through, and the reason why you were here―it was infuriating. The possessiveness, withholding your freedom like it wasn’t a necessity, because to him wasn’t. None of your misgivings resonated with him.

You regarded the composed leader, feeling your resistance begin to crumble from his mere presence. “Is this what you wanted?” Regrettably, your voice cracked midways through the question.

He almost looked disappointed, the fact of your apprehension being an unwanted outcome of the decisions he’d made for you. But he was nothing if not steadfast in his ways, a quality outshining the sorrow he felt for finding you so distressed. “All I’ve wanted is to ensure your health and safety. That’s what I’ve done, and I will not apologize for it.”

Another bit of your resolve faltered, your lower lip trembling as you fought to hold yourself together. “Even though I’m a prisoner?”

Chisaki let the words hang in the air for a moment, more so to let you process them instead, hoping you’d understand as much as he did that the statement couldn’t be farther from what you were to him. He moved across the room, taking his black dust mask off while he spoke, placing it on an end table. “I could hardly call you that. You live quite nicely―comfortable living quarters, balanced meals―everything you need and more to get by.”

“Everything except for my freedom, Kai. I mean...can’t you see how wrong this is?” In truth, you knew trying to reason with the man would get you nowhere. It wouldn’t change his mind, and it certainly wouldn’t help you in your now failed attempt to leave him. The thought of the uselessness of the whole thing wore you down, knowing putting up a fight would be for nothing in the end. You’d lost not from the moment he’d stepped into the room, but from the moment you agreed to be his all those months ago.

He faced you once again, mask and gloves removed, able to expose himself in such a way to you only. “It’s dangerous for someone with your connections to live outside of my compound―you know that. There are people who wouldn’t hesitate to use you as leverage against me.” He drew closer, an approach slow, as if trying to ease your nerves. “Tell me, have I ever hurt you?”

You inwardly cursed the man for knowing exactly what to say. His words were meditated, aiming only to lead you into compliance. The question was doing exactly that, because there was no other answer than the one he wanted to hear. The fact that no, he hadn’t. At least not physically. He truly did care for all of your needs. And even when it came to the mental anguish you went through, he always gave you space when you needed it. So really, you had no other choice but speaking that admittance.

Quietly, you did, “N-no, but―”

“So, you can’t deny that everything I do has your wellbeing in mind?”

As he took steps forward, you took some back. Soon enough you were hitting the front of his desk, unable to put any more distance between the two of you as he came closer.

“I can tell you understand that, angel. All I wish is for you to accept it.”

You shook your head, saltine tears falling down your cheeks. Confliction riddled your body and soul, part of you wanting to keep up those feeble forms of resistance, while the other part yearned to finally give in. It would be so much easier if you did, which was the worst part about it. Before you found yourself trapped by him, you truly did love Chisaki.

And somehow, even after all he’s done, those emotions never quite vanished.

“I don’t...I don’t want to be okay with this. Or be okay with you…” Your gaze fell, sniffling through your words. “I hate you―or at least, I’m supposed to hate you. But I fail at even doing that.”

You didn’t have to look up to know he was standing in front of you. Not when the uncharacteristic sound of a softness in his voice was in such a close proximity.

“That’s not a failure…”

Carefully, Chisaki cupped your face in his hands, prompting you to lift your head. Through a blurred vision you regarded his piercing amber eyes. Those set intently on yours, concerned but stern, matching his words to a T.

“You know this is what’s best for you. It’s just taking a while for that to sink in, but you’ll come around to it.” He delicately wiped away your tears as he spoke, the action soothing the torrent of discouragement inside of you. “Now, I’ll get you something to help you fall asleep, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Like always, nothing he did was a simple offer. His statements were final, and you were forced to comply whether you wished to do so or not. Only now, the notion of yearning for free will against his demands was unclear in your mind.

As it stood, and would continue to stand forever, agreeing with Chisaki was the option that had been growing on you as of late. Tonight’s events happened in a spur of the moment. In all honesty, you were unsure of yourself the moment you stepped foot outside your room. It always lingered in the back of your mind that your efforts wouldn’t get you anywhere. So, now that you were faced with that truth, resigning yourself to his whims wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.

You let him guide you back to your room. You accepted the medication he gave without a second thought.

And soon you fell asleep, sorrows replaced with the calm and comfort Chisaki provided.

[iwritethat]

Damian Wayne: Caught Out

A/N: Update! 🙌

>>>>——————————>

8 months and 13 days.

That's how long you had been dating Damian Wayne or Robin as you've come to understand, however this relationship was kept strictly under wraps meaning no one except Damian and yourself knew about it.

You intended to keep it that way in fear Batman would split you up, granted you'd known Damian for a few years after meeting in Gotham Academy at the age of 11 and remained friends up to the age of 16 - that's when he unexpectedly asked you out on a date. He'd also revealed that he was Robin when you were 15 and you had visited the Manor many times giving you the opportunity to meet Alfred, Bruce Wayne and Tim on some rare occasions.

Once you started dating, Damian thought it'd be best to keep it from his family as his 'brothers' could be very testing and having a girlfriend would definitely have negative repercussions in the form of mockery. So you agreed to go along with it, any visit to the manor was purely platonic and he used his role of Robin to sneak away and visit you during patrol. Dates would happen anywhere outside of the Manor or family interventions fortunately for you.

Usually a tap on on your window would signify his arrival, once you'd open it you received a sweet kiss from your boyfriend and hold normal conversation. If you were lucky he would come in and stay for a while, allowing you to remove his mask before you kissed him.

"Beloved, what are you -"  He questioned, your hand slipping through his hold as you reached for his domino mask.

"I want to see your eyes." Upon hearing your reason, he released a sigh and allowed you to do as you pleased. One hand lay on your waist and the other traced circles onto your wrist as your thumbs reached the edge of his make to removed it.

Damian held an expression of both confusion and amusement with a raised eyebrow since he didn't understand the point of your actions but trusted you none the less.

"Don't look at me like that Dami." You muttered and then pulled him in for a kiss which he happily returned and you could feel the smirk on his lips as you did so.

That was the basis of your relationship, no one knew. Though life is full of surprises so it couldn't all be perfect right?

It was a cold evening and unsurprisingly dark despite it only being 6pm, this was Gotham after all. Damian had been absent for over a week and you hadn't seen him in a while but  assumed he was on a case elsewhere, so when you unexpectedly ran into Robin you were delighted and pulled him into your embrace immediately.

"Hold on." Robin ordered wrapping arm around your waist and later grappled you to the nearest rooftop.

Soon after you found yourself pinned to a wall with your boyfriend's lips firmly on yours, pulling away he had a smirk plastered on his face.

"You miss me or something?" You smugly asked, already knowing his unwillingness to admit such feelings as your fingers tangled themselves in his hair.

"I suppose, beloved." He quickly confirmed before leaning in to kiss you again, you reciprocated again pulling him closer to you if that was even possible. A few minutes had passed before the thing you dreaded most come to pass...

"Ahem."

That interruption shattered your whole world, you felt Damian tense up under your touch and not in a good way, very reluctantly your boyfriend pulled away to meet the dark gaze of his father.

"Dark Knight." Damian acknowledged coldly, you were impressed how he kept his calm demeanour in front of the Batman.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Batman bellowed, classic deep voice used to add emphasis on his anger.

"Kissing my girlfriend, what does it look like?" Damian retorted as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, he certainly retained his standoffish attitude during his absence.

Nightwing appeared beside his mentor following the yell heard from the next rooftop over and came to inspect the commotion, immediately he realised the severity of the situation laid out before him and a blissful smile made its way onto his features.

"Aw, Robin has a girlfriend! He's all grown up, this is unbelievable. What is your name ma'am?" Nightwing politely inquired, apparently curious.

"(Y/n)." A short answer yes but you didn't trust yourself to say anymore in fear of faltering, and despite their intimidating presence you’d been putting up with Damian Wayne for almost 7 years.

"Well (y/n), you're going to have to meet the family sometime - how long has it been now?" The black and blue clad hero continued, admiring Damian's protective hold over you.

Your breath hitched and of course Damian noticed, Batman was going to kill you if he found out you'd been dating his sidekick for 8 months without his knowledge.

"Long enough for me to know that I love her."

Nightwing was beaming at his 'brother's' statement, Batman held a poker face so you were slightly concerned about his true feelings toward you. Damian turned his head to you for your reaction at his words, yes he called you beloved but you didn't think he meant it - this was Damian Wayne, son of a millionaire falling for you. Wow.

A genuine smile makes its way to your face and was most likely accompanied by a faint flush, you would've kissed him if not for the presence of his mentors which prevented you from doing many things at the moment.

"Does (y/n) know who you are?" Batman intervened, his hand on the bridge of his nose to further elaborate on his frustration.

Paleness overtook, you could not answer this question so gave a pleading look to your boyfriend since you didn't want to get him into trouble on account of revealing trade secrets.

Unsurprisingly, Damian shrugged this off and cut to the chase - of course.

"If you're asking if (y/n) knows my identity then the answer is yes." Robin spoke up, small smirk appearing on his features.

"Then we need to sort this matter privately." Batman breathed, to any sidekick of the Dark Knight 'privately' indicated a trip to the Batcave though you were completely oblivious to this hidden meaning.

"Oh oh, can I come?!" Nightwing chimed excitedly.

Batman sent a glare to Nightwing before jumping off of the building, Nightwing gave a mock salute and followed the actions of his mentor leaving Robin and a thoroughly confused you on the rooftop.

Damian took a few steps toward the area where his mentor had disappeared until he realised your expression, his lips forming into a smirk. Taking a few paces back he was able to intertwine his fingers with yours and carefully guide you to the ledge. Releasing a nervous laugh you stepped backwards, you hand still in his.

"Nah-ah, no way, nein, nope, non, not in a million years."

"Everything will be fine beloved, I will not let you get hurt." Robin assured, his tone softening at your behaviour and attempted to provide you with some comfort in the form of tracing circles onto your hand with his thumb in a soothing manner.

Reluctantly you retraced your steps back to your boyfriend's side allowing him to sweep you into his arms so you could wrap yours around his neck for extra security, he was surprisingly strong and made it look so easy. You cursed him quite loudly once he jumped off the roof and fortunately you both landed safely in a car, later discovered to be the Batmobile's backseat.

Releasing a sigh of relief you noticed you had captivated everyone's attention, Nightwing wearing an expression of amusement as his arm rested on the front seat turning to you and Batman remained unreadable when staring at you through the centre mirror.

Eyes widening you hesitantly removed yourself from Damian who observed your actions carefully as you slid into the seat next to him.

Unsurprisingly you were fairly embarrassed and eternally grateful when the Batmobile started moving at unfathomable speeds, you were unable to contain your excitement as Gotham's night lights blurred beside you.

"This is amazing! Okay, we should do this more often." You grinned, Nightwing taking a quick glance at you.

"I officially approve, (y/n) is great. Damian can you keep her?" He asked happily.

"I intend to Grays- Nightwing, as long as you don't scare her off..." Damian scowled at his 'brother' despite the internal pride brewing due to Grayson's approval.

.

Arriving at the Batcave was a momentous occasion for you, it was truly a site to behold and Damian had to resort to practically dragging you through to the main area because you found everything so fascinating.

"Beloved I understand this is new to you but -"

"Damian, have you seen this place though?!" You marvelled, taking in a variety of aspects in awe as you continued a stop-start walked, Robin by your side.

"Yes (y/n), I see it almost everyday." Damian retorted monotonously as if it were the most obvious thing in the world - which supposedly it was.

"But Damian, it's amazing! Look! Why didn't you show me this sooner? It's huge." You continued, leaving Robin quite amused at your bewilderment, like that of a kid in a candy store.

"Because Batman wouldn't allow it, speaking of..." Your boyfriend started, hoping you'd get the hint.

"Yeah, yeah Batman and all that, but are you seeing all of this? A helicopter, a motorcycle, batarangs, Batman and - Damian - Batman!" You began your observations full of wonder but upon facing Batman you instantly sought the assistance of your boyfriend - with the presence of the Dark Knight before you, the stammering occurred after the initial realisation and you instinctively clutched Damian's arm a little tighter. Damian initially smiled at the way you simply brushed off Batman to begin with but found it cute how you attempted to suppress your embarrassment.

.

"Miss (L/n), it's intriguing that you are dating my son and failed to mention this to me." Batman smiled during his statement and went to remove his cowl.

Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne's son. Bruce was Batman, obviously after Damian had revealed to you that he was in fact Robin you suspected his father of being Batman. After all, you'd need a lot of money to finance all of this, Robin is quite close to Batman and the Manor would provide easy access to the Batcave of course. It was kind of obvious now that you thought about it.

At this point, you were unsure how to begin and welcomed any distractions - fortunately Alfred made his way down the stairs bearing a tray of refreshments and eagerly took this opportunity.

"Hi Alfred!" You beamed, waving to the butler you'd come to be very fond of.

"Ah Miss (Y/n), I was wondering how long it would take for you to find your way here." The elderly butler acknowledged, a hint of happiness detected in his tone.

"Did you know these two were dating?" Bruce asked his loyal butler, gesturing to the teenagers before him.

"I had my suspicions Master Bruce." Alfred replied, handing a hot drink to Nightwing.

"How long?" Your boyfriend's father questioned again, this time in a less distressing tone.

"About 8 months sir." Awkwardly came from your lips, causing Nightwing to choke on his beverage and Bruce to raise an eyebrow. Damian smirking at their reactions, clearly you'd hidden your relationship very well.

"Well then... It's nice to finally see you two together. I am happy for you both." Bruce commented after a lengthy silence, Nightwing held a thumbs up to you both behind Batman allowing you to relax a little.

"Thank you father."

"Yes, thank you Mr Wayne." You echoed

"You can call me Bruce (y/n), you know that." Bruce genuinely smiled, with a nod from you, both Bruce and Nightwing left the cave accompanied by Alfred.

.

Damian and yourself remained in the Batcave, the atmosphere settling due to the acceptance given by Damian's family.

"That went... better than I thought..." You breathed, relief still evident.

"Agreed." Damian acknowledged quite content himself.

It was then you recalled the words your boyfriend had said earlier and decided now was a great time to call him up on them.

"So... you love me?"

"I thought that was obvious in the ways I show you affection beloved?" Damian retorted, slight bewilderment in his voice due to the fact you were actually questioning his feelings toward you.

"Yeah, but it's nice to hear those words sometimes because I love you too Damian." You justified wistfully, causing Damian to turn to you with wide eyes at your statement.

"I understand why you believe those words are 'nice to hear' now I've heard you say them to me (y/n)." You boyfriend smirked, pulling you close to him and carefully placed his lips on yours.

"Uh Bruce?! Is there a new Batgirl I didn't know about because Damian has taken quite a liking to her!" Tim yelled upon entering the Batcave and witnessing the scene before him.

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Chaser - Part Two

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader, Gang Leader!Din Djarin x Bartender!Reader

Summary: No one knows his name, and no one knows his face, but the man who leads one of the most powerful gangs in New York from behind an infamous mask is still feared throughout the city. You, on the other hand, are just a waitress at the club he owns, someone who’s only just barely dipped her toe into the treacherous water of New York’s underworld. But that doesn’t stop your boss from taking a liking to you, and if you weren’t so terrified of all that his attentions could mean for you, maybe you would notice that fear isn’t the only emotion your employer stirs up within you.

Your first week as a bartender passed in a blur of shouted orders and masked faces, but by the end of it you’d comfortably settled into a rhythm. You would show up, take your forty-five minute break at 1 am, and then work until 3:30. The music and the smoke had become normal for you, and your feet had stopped aching after your fifth day on the job despite the ungodly heels you still had to wear. All in all, you were content in your new routine; no amount of spilled drinks or sticky countertops could get your spirits down, especially not with the generous tips you’d started racking up.

You were surprised, however, when that first week passed with no other sign of the Boss. His right-hand-woman, Cara, was there most nights, sitting in the circle booth with a near-constant smile on her face. Despite her good humor, though, there was no denying the bulge of her muscles beneath the suits she liked to wear, and her smirks held the promise of a dangerous edge that was far from skin-deep. You were careful around her, making sure to avoid any blunders that could get you on her bad side, but she seemed more than content with the quality of your drinks.

It was only after your two days off at the end of that first week in your new position that you saw the Boss sitting with her once more, and when the time came, you felt more than saw his presence. The people sitting in the scattered dining tables kept glancing over their shoulders towards his table, speaking in hushed whispers with heads bent low towards one another. Quill, too, seemed to act differently; there was a tense line to his shoulders that you hadn’t noticed there before, and you only made it twenty minutes into your shift before your curiosity got the best of you.

“What’s going on?” you finally asked him, setting aside the glass you’d been polishing. “What has everyone so on-edge?”

The older man didn’t so much as glance in your direction as he poured a glass of wine so dark that it resembled blood, but the way his lips pressed tighter together told you that he’d heard.

“…The Hutts are back on their bullshit,” he eventually groused. “The Boss just got back from teaching ‘em a lesson.”

An icy jolt worked its way down your spine; the Hutts were perhaps the only crime syndicate that could rival the Mandalorians, and the history between the two gangs was far from friendly. Even civilians had heard of the territory wars back in the 90’s, before the Boss had risen to his current status. Unlike the Mandalorians, though, the Hutts couldn’t go much longer than a few months before testing their boundaries, usually to their detriment.

“Was anybody hurt?” you asked in a small voice, eyes cutting towards the smoke separating your gaze from the Boss’s table.

“A few; more of them than us,” Quill muttered. “Do yourself a favor and don’t say anything about it; the Boss has everything under control.”

You nodded distractedly, almost missing it when a drunken patron leaned against the bar and demanded another bourbon neat. You couldn’t deny the pang of worry you’d felt for the man who’d taken such an interest in you, as illogical as you knew it to be. The memory of his kindness and of his true, unfiltered voice had stuck with you ever since your meeting with him, and where you had once only felt fear towards the mobster, there was now a dark curiosity that seemed to encase his presence in your mind.

And so, when a waitress leaned over the bar about an hour later to tell you that Cara had ordered one of your long islands, a traitorous sliver of excitement creeped up your spine as you nodded and started mixing her drink. She’d had at least one of the alcoholic concoctions for every shift you worked, always making it a point to praise you for your skills after you’d deliver it to her table.

“Still the best damn long island I’ve ever had,” she’d smirk. “And I’ve had a lot of ‘em in my time.”

Now, after carefully placing a sugared lemon wedge on the lip of the glass, you made your way to her booth, your heartrate picking up when you made out the first flash of shiny plastic through the haze in the air. You felt the Boss’s eyes on you as you stepped up to Cara, and your cheeks heated up as you smiled between them and the other man at their table.

“There she is,” Cara grinned, her canines flashing in the low light.

“Hello, Cara,” you greeted her, setting the drink down in front of her. “How are you all this evening?”

“Better now,” she chuckled.

Your eyes flickered to the Boss as he tilted his head towards you, his gloved hands resting on the table in front of him.

“How have you been enjoying the bar?” he asked, and your fingers twitched as you shifted on your feet.

“I like it a lot, sir,” was your immediate reply. “I can’t thank you enough for the promotion.”

“Cara’s already thanked me plenty,” he chuckled. You could hear his smile in every syllable, and it made your own lips twitch as you lowered your gaze to the ground in front of you.

“I’m glad to hear-“

You were cut off when something slammed into you from behind, and had you not been able to catch yourself on the edge of the table, you would have face-planted onto the raised platform it was situated on. As you stumbled forward, though, you felt your left ankle roll in its high heel, and a pained gasp escaped your lips as you felt something in it pop.

Turning your head, you saw the same drunk man who’d ordered a bourbon neat from you earlier on the ground, having evidently tripped into you as he’d been fumbling his way to his table. He was half-laying, half-sitting in a small puddle of that very same drink, now, and his eyes were fighting to stay open as he slurred mumbled apologies up at you.

“So s’rry, ma’am,” he groaned, trying and failing to stand up. “Wasn’t lookin’ where I w’s goin’…”

The man sitting with the Boss stood up, adjusting his cufflinks before promptly grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much, don’t you?” he grunted, his lips curled downwards into a scowl. “Don’t you think it’d be wise to go home?”

The drunkard nodded, his eyes going glassy as the room span with the motion, and your head turned towards the Boss upon hearing him clear his throat.

“Gideon, make sure he finds his way out without assaulting any other members of my staff, please,” he ordered, and the drunkard visibly paled at the thin layer of ice in his tone.

“S-sir, I’m so sorry-“

“It’s…it’s ok,” you interrupted, not sure whether you were assuring the man who’d unwittingly pushed you or the Boss. “Honest mistake.”

Even still, Gideon kept one hand fisted the poor sap’s shirt as he all but dragged him towards the exit, and it was then that you noticed the swarm of eyes that had fallen upon you as the other patrons watched the scene unfold. Feeling distinctly like a bug under a microscope, you moved to straighten up, only to slump over and grip the table as you tried to put weight on your twisted ankle.

“Shit,“ you hissed from behind clenched teeth, glancing down to see that your foot was already starting to swell.

“Are you hurt?”

Upon hearing the worry in your employer’s tone, you glanced up to see him leaning towards you on his elbows.

“…I think I might have sprained my ankle,” you admitted sheepishly.

“You mean he sprained your ankle,” he corrected, starting to pull himself around to the edge of the booth. Your eyes widened as he approached you, and once again you tried to settle some of your weight onto your bad foot, though you gave up hope of walking away as searing pain shot through it once more.

“…C’mon,” he said after a beat, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

You dazedly felt him maneuver your arm around his shoulders, the dark blue satin of his suit brushing against your entire left side as his woodsy cologne filled your senses. His voice was loud in your ear as he instructed you to lean against him, and you clumsily complied, hobbling on one foot as the two of you slowly began trudging towards a hallway designated for employees only.

“Quill,” he called out as you passed the bar. “Bring a bag of ice to my office.”

You turned just in time to catch the way Quill’s eyes skipped between you and the Boss; puzzlingly, there was a note of suspicion in his gaze, though you couldn’t tell which one of you it was directed towards. It was gone in a flash, though, as his tanned, weathered hands hurried to finish the drink he’d been working on before following his employer’s order.

Once you’d left behind the thumping music of the main dining room, you started recognizing the halls leading to the same office you’d stood in a week previous, and you tried your hardest to focus on anything except the man who was now deeply in your personal space.

“You don’t have to help me,” you muttered lamely, feeling a stab of sheepish guilt from pulling the Boss away from his table.

“Well, something tells me you wouldn’t be able to walk on your own right now,” he grunted. You took in the way he had to hunch his shoulders for you to be able to get your arm around him, and you felt another pang of remorse for the crick that was no doubt starting to form in his neck.

“…Thank you.”

He nodded, his mask brushing against your shoulder as he did, and you fell into another tense silence as you turned the corner to his office. After fishing a ring of keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocking the door, he once more let you use him as a crutch until you were able to sink down onto his sofa. The black leather upholstery was cool against your legs as you settled down into it, and the Boss wordlessly turned to start gathering the throw pillows resting on the armchairs across the room.

“Here,” he said, stacking them on top of one another before gesturing towards your foot. “Elevate that for a while; it’s already starting to swell.”

You did as he instructed, leaning over to unbuckle your shoe and slip it off before settling your foot onto the pillows. Your back was pressed against the armrest behind you, and you let out a quiet huff of relief as your ankle momentarily stopped throbbing.

“I’m guessing it hurts?”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to reply before turning and marching over to his desk, and you watched in the large mirror as he pulled open a drawer and produced a bottle of pills.

“Can you take acetaminophen? Or I have ibuprofen, if you’d prefer.”

“Um… I’ll take the acetaminophen,” you replied. “Thank you.”

He brought over the bottle to you, pouring two capsules into your outstretched palm.

“…I don’t have any water for you to take those with,” he commented, sounding almost apologetic. “Need me to get you some?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him, popping the pills into your mouth and swallowing to prove your point. “But thank you.”

A small laugh crackled through his modulator as he went to place the painkillers back into his desk.

“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” he remarked. “I’m supposed to take care of my employees.”

He began to say something else, but it was then that Quill opened the door of the office with a small bag of ice in one hand and a rolled up length of bandage in the other.

“So, I’m guessing the last bourbon was one too many for him, huh?” he asked you, kneeling down beside your foot and setting the ice down onto it.

You jolted at the sudden cold temperature, your teeth clenching at the spark of pain it sent radiating upwards from your swollen flesh.

“I-I guess so,” you stammered, watching as he started to unravel the bandage.

“Hm.”

Without warning, the older man started poking gently at your ankle, keeping the ice pressed to it as he instructed you to try wiggling your toes. You complied despite the discomfort the movement caused, but you audibly yelped when he tried to guide you to move your foot.

“…Looks like a sprain,” he finally declared, though you would have been able to tell him that several minutes ago. “I’m gonna wrap it for you; make sure you stay off of it for the next few days or so.”

“But I have to-“

Your words dissolved into a pained groan when he started to wrap it, and you saw the Boss’s shoulders flinch at the sound.

“Don’t manhandle her, Quill,” he sighed brusquely, but the bartender didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

“She’ll be alright,” he assured him, looking up at you from behind his bushy eyebrows. “You’re tougher than you look, right?”

Despite the discomfort (and, yes, frustration that he wasn’t being gentler with your wound), you gave him a small smile and nodded.

“’Tis but a flesh wound,” you mumbled under your breath.

A soft laugh sounded from behind you, and you turned to watch your boss in the mirror.

“Monty Python, huh?”

“The one and only,” you confirmed.

When the bandage was secured tightly, Quill once more set the ice over your ankle before hauling himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Take the next few days off, kid,” he commanded you, holding up a hand to stop you before you could protest. “I think there might be some crutches in a supply closet somewhere; wait here ‘til I get back.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving you alone with the Boss once more. The heels of his shiny black shoes clicked against the concrete as he stalked over to one of the armchairs, and he lowered himself down into it with a sigh.

“Quill is an acquired taste,” he stated, drumming his fingers across one of the armrests. “But he means well.”

“I know,” you assured him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me since I started.”

The masked man tiled his head to the side, and you could imagine him arching an eyebrow at you from behind the T-shaped plane of black plastic.

“…Well, maybe a little grumpy, but still kind.”

“Grumpy,” he nodded. “An apt description.”

Awkward silence threatened to fill the space between you, and your mind raced as it searched for something to say.

You finally settled on, “Do you like owning this club?”, and he took a second to consider his answer.

“…It’s among the more benign parts of my job, I guess,” he replied after a moment. “But I don’t have much to do with running it. Quill is more of the owner than I am, even if my name is on the deed. Do you like working here?”

It was a loaded question, but the answer to it came easily enough.

“I do,” you answered him. “It took some getting used to, but it’s far from being the worst job I’ve ever had.”

“Is it the first job of yours that involves the mafia?”

Your eyes widened at his blunt line of questioning, and you gulped.

“I don’t know if mixing drinks and waiting tables counts as involvement with the mob,” you said carefully.

“Sure it does,” he insisted. “I’m sure you see at least a dozen arrestable offenses every day you come in to work.”

Your mind flashed to the lines of white powder and bags of pot you’d seen openly sprawled out on the tables of the various booths during your time as a waitress, and most of the people in the building, staff or otherwise, had a gun or some other weapon not-so-hidden somewhere on their person.

“…It doesn’t bother me as much as it did at first,” you said eventually. “And even then, it didn’t ‘bother’ so much as ‘surprise’.”

“Hm. And did you know what you were getting into when you took the job?”

You took in a shaky breath.

“I did. Did you, when you first started?”

In his initial moment of silence, you feared that the question had been too personal, but his shoulders hadn’t tensed in anger, nor had his body language shifted from the relaxed state it was in.

“…I did,” he echoed after a moment. “I started when I was young.”

“…I’m sorry,” you breathed. “That was a…pretty personal thing to ask-“

“It’s fine,” he waved you off, crossing one of his ankles over his knee. “It’s not like I hadn’t asked you personal questions first.”

The door opened again just a few moments after that, and Quill came bustling in with a pair of metal crutches tucked under his arm.

“Finally found the damn things,” he grunted. “Had to clean some blood offa them, but they should work just fine.”

You blinked slowly, trying to search for a sign on his face that he was joking, but there was none to be seen as he leaned them against the couch.

“…Thanks.”

“’Welcome,” he nodded. “You need help gettin’ to your car?”

“I… I don’t have a car,” you said, feeling your heart start to sink in realization. “I always take the subway.”

“Aw, hell,” the old man sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Well, I guess I can-“

“Go back and tend to the bar,” the Boss suddenly interrupted. “I can drive her in mine.”

At that, Quill finally turned to level a look at the masked man that showed the same suspicion you’d seen in his eyes earlier, and for the next few seconds, the men stared each other down, communicating in a silent language only discernable to themselves.

“…It’s Saturday night, Quill,” your employer eventually reasoned. “They need your help, especially when we’re already down one bartender.” He gestured to your bad foot, and you felt a prick of guilt seep into you as you thought about how busy the staff would be without your help.

“…Fine,” the older man huffed before turning and stalking towards the door once again as he grumbled under his breath. “Nobody goddamn listens to me anymore…”

After the door was closed, the Boss’s shoulders slumped a bit from where they’d been tensed during the stand-off, and you didn’t get the chance to ask any questions before he pulled himself to his feet.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?” you asked him. “I know you’re probably busy-“

“Like I said, Quill runs this place more than I do. Hell, Cara probably does, too.”

He held out one of his hands, its black leather glove shining, and you hesitated before taking it, letting him help you up onto your good foot. It was a precarious balancing act on your thin heel, and the Boss rushed to hand you the crutches before you could teeter backwards onto the sofa. Bending down, he picked up your discarded heel and buckled its strap around one of your crutches, leaving it to hang there as you tentatively used them to swing yourself forward.

The plastic dug into your underarms with every step, but you started to get the hang of them as your boss slowly started guiding you through the building, down unfamiliar hallways until you found yourself standing in a cold, cavernous parking garage.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” you commented, hearing your voice bounce across the high ceilings of the space.

“Technically, it’s supposed to be for the warehouse next door,” he informed you, leading you towards a mammoth-like black Cadillac parked close by. “But for some reason, they’ve always been too intimidated to tell me not to park here.”

You snorted, following him around to the passenger side of the vehicle.

“You? Intimidating? I can’t imagine.”

His shoulders shook softly with his laughter, and you leaned against the car as he stowed your crutches in the backseat. After he opened the passenger door for you, you wondered for a moment how you were going to hoist yourself into the tall front seat, but your worries fizzled away when he gestured for you to come closer to him.

“I’m gonna help you up; is that ok?”

He waited until you nodded before setting his hands on your hips and quickly pulling you upwards, and before you knew it you were comfortably nestled against the soft leather interior. You bit your lip as your cheeks, once again, heated up from how close he’d been, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the effortless strength he’d shown as he picked you up without so much as a grunt from the effort.

The driver’s door opened, but the Boss paused before getting in.

“I forgot to ask if you needed to get anything from your locker,” he spoke, and your eyes widened as you realized that you hadn’t even thought about it, either.

“Shit, I forgot, too,” you groaned, dreading having to take another trip back inside to retrieve your purse.

“It’s ok,” he assured you. “Just, uh…give me your combination and I’ll go get whatever you need. If you’re ok with that.”

“Are you sure you don’t-“

“I don’t mind at all. Now, which locker should I be looking for?”

You described which one was yours, giving him your combination before he nodded and fished out the same key ring as before.

“I’ll be right back,” he informed you. “Go ahead and crank the car, if you want. It gets a little chilly in here at night.”

After handing you the keys, he closed the car door and headed back inside, leaving you to trail your eyes up and down the lean length of his body before he disappeared from sight. His broad shoulders tapered down into a trim waist, and there was no denying that he had exquisite taste in suits as the dark blue material of his outfit hugged his figure; not for the first time, you wondered if the face beneath his mask was just as attractive as the rest of him.

“Get ahold of yourself,” you muttered, shaking your head before jamming the key into the ignition. “None of those thoughts now, thank you very much.”

As soon as the engine turned over, you jolted as loud music suddenly started pouring through the speakers. Frantically turning down the volume, you let out a huff of laughter, shaking your head to dispel your startled shock. The familiar tune of Africa by Toto was playing from a CD he’d apparently been listening to the last time he was in the car, and you smiled, both at his choice in music and the fact that he still used CD’s.

The song was almost over by the time he rejoined you, your old, worn purse clutched in one hand as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, I forgot I’d left the radio on; sorry about that,” he apologized, depositing your bag into your lap.

“No, it’s fine,” you assured him. “I happen to love this song.”

He hummed, throwing the car (though, really, it felt more like a tank) into reverse before accelerating out of the parking lot.

“Good taste,” he praised. “But feel free to play something else if you want.”

Letting your curiosity get the best of you, you flicked through the CD, watching as several classics from the 80’s showed up on the screen’s display.

“Never would’ve pegged you as an 80’s fan,” you chuckled.

“Why? Cuz of the music we play in the club?”

You nodded, eventually settling on Jump by Van Halen, making sure to turn the sound down so you could talk to one another without having to shout over it.

“That was Cara’s idea,” he continued. “She’s the one who made the playlist that we-“

He cut himself off, breaking at the first red light you came to before turning to you slowly.

“…I’ve just realized that I have no idea where you live,” he admitted sheepishly, and you laughed as you, too, recognized that he’d begun driving without first asking you for directions.

“It’s ok,” you assured him. “Luckily, you’re already heading in the right direction. I live in Mott Haven, off East 138th.”

A high-pitched sound came from behind his mask, and it took you a second to realize that he’d just whistled.

“That’s a bit of a ways from here,” he commented, but you couldn’t feel guilty in time before he added, “Not that I mind, just… It must be tough to commute on the subway every night from here to there.”

You shrugged, watching the lights of the city whiz by past you after the light turned green.

“You get used to it after a while,” you noted. “And I kind of like walking through the city at night. It’s peaceful, in its own way.”

“And dangerous in others.”

You smirked, fishing through your purse until your fingers closed around your taser, lifting it up so your boss could see.

“That’s why I keep this guy around,” you smiled, watching as he turned his head towards you so he could see what you were brandishing.

“Good idea,” he nodded, approval evident in his voice. An uncertainty seemed to come over him, though, as he turned back to the road, restlessly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Is, uh…he the only guy you keep around?” he finally asked, and it took your brain a short second to load the meaning of his question. Your eyes widened, and you cleared your throat before answering.

“Not for lack of trying, but yeah,” you conceded. “Well, him and my cat.”

The Boss hummed, turning his blinker on with deft fingers as he navigated from one lane to the next.

“A cat, huh? What’s his name?”

You smiled, thinking about the little mongrel waiting for you at home.

“Gato,” you answered, hearing him laugh softly in response.

“Your cat’s name is Cat?”

“Well, ‘cat’ in Spanish,” you grinned. “He was already named that when I got him; the family who used to live down the hall from me had to get rid of him, and their daughter guilt-tripped me into taking him in. I hadn’t even wanted a cat in the first place, but…”

“Here you are.”

“Here I am,” you agreed. “Do you speak Spanish?”

There was wry humor in his voice when he replied.

“Enough to know what ‘gato’ means.”

From there, you navigated him to your neighborhood until, eventually, he pulled up to your large, rent-controlled apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” you sighed, opening your door before slinging your purse over your shoulder. “Thank you again for the ride; I’m sorry for any inconvenience I caused.”

“Stop apologizing,” he chided you gently. Hurriedly, he got out and walked over to your side of the car, pulling your crutches out of the backseat before helping you down onto the sidewalk, his hands once again finding your hips. “I volunteered, remember? Couldn’t just abandon Cara’s favorite bartender.”

You smiled, tilting your head up to look at where you approximated his eyes were behind the mask.

“Still. I really appreciate it, Boss,” you intoned. “Thank you.”

He nodded, turning to look between you and your building.

“You, uh…need any help getting to your apartment?”

You shook your head.

“Nah, that’s ok,” you promised. “I can just ride the elevator up.”

With one last smile, you turned and began hobbling into your building.

“Have a good night, Boss,” you called over your shoulder.

You heard a quiet, “you, too,” just before the front door closed behind you, leaving your employer standing outside, staring through the glass doors to the lobby even after you left his line of sight.

“…Remember what Quill said,” he eventually muttered to himself, turning back to climb into his car. “Remember what happened last time.”

Once he was in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that the leather squeaked against his gloves, he bowed his head, closing his eyes as images of them started floating through his mind.

“Remember what happened last time, Din.”

[twinklebysecretlights]

face mask

1.     Are Face Masks a fashion item?

Face masks, in this day and age, have become an absolute necessity. They are now as much in demand as basic everyday essentials like food and sanitary products. Keeping in mind the very sobering issue of the fast spread of corona virus, it is, undoubtedly, of utmost importance to not use the same mask regularly.In fact, it is recommended by doctors to change it every day. This brings forth the problem of mass producing and then recycling tons of face masks, which is neither very practical nor environmental friendly.

 With the introduction of reusable masks, that complication has been resolved. These reusable masks not only help the environment but also reduce the money spent on them, both by the seller and the consumer. The other major advantage of these reusable masks is the facts that people don’t have to change them every day.This allows themto focus on the aesthetics and designs of the masks.

 Over the last few months, designing face masks has become a major trend.New and more creative kinds of masks are being brought into the market every day. No one likes to wear a surgical mask with their very carefully thought out outfit. It is, to put it simply, both irritating and disappointing.

 Designers and Marketers have been producing and advertising beautiful and ingenious masks.They can be worn in coordination with everyday clothes as well as embellished and adorned masks to be worn on special occasion. Disney themed face masks, patterned face masks and even solid colored face masks are all very popular among both kids and adults. The main reason for this is that life cannot stop because of this virus. We must learn to live with it and enjoy our happy times and occasions while we have the opportunity to do so, and making sure that we are doing so safely.

 These face masks allow the perfect solution to this. Now, you can both prevent the spread of the virus and enjoy with your loved ones! Also you can buy them online and also on ebay, and in many cartoon designs and colors as well.

 2.     Face Masks for Children:

If you have children, then you know how hard it is to stop them from going out to play or to not indulge them with a treat every now and then.  But with the Global pandemic, it has become even harder to keep kids safe. It is not possible to pause childhood, or to keep children trapped inside homes at all times. It is detrimental for both their mental and physical growth.

 Children need freedom and interactions with kids their age. It is foundational for their development but parents also need to make sure that their children are safe and that they do not endanger themselves or their families. How they should go about that is the main question.Children are prone to take off their masks as soon as they find their parents even a little distracted.

 Even on errands or on a trip to grocery store, for which you cannot leave your kid behind, you need to make sure your kids have their masks on at all times. Children have a habit of touching everything. They also lick their hand or touch their face, which is a definite way for them to contract the virus. Even if you make them wear a mask, it is not a for sure guarantee that they won’t touch their face of take the mask off altogether.

 There is a very simple solution for this, which is to buy kids face masks that the kids actually love. Designers and businesses have started designing masks that attract kids, with their bright colors and illustrations of the most popular cartoons and characters, like toy story, Barbie and much more and the best aspect of these face masks is that they come with a filter. Because of this, kids are excited to wear their masks and tend not to take them off or touch them too much as they are afraid of ruining them.

 3.     3 Reasons to buy a designer face mask:

It is a fact that Kids like pretty things.They are generally very attracted to bright colors. And if they fall in love with a cartoon, well, then you need to prepare yourself to see that cartoon everywhere, from bed sheets to mugs, clothes to bags.They will want that carton to be in every aspect of their life. It may take some time for them to grow out of this phase and then they might fall in love with some other character and the cycle will keep on repeating even after they become young adults.

 If you’re a smart parent then you know you can take advantage of this obsession and make them do their homework or chores. All you need to tell them is that you’ll buy them their favorite toy or the bag with their favorite character, or even a character doll, and they’ll rush to do the chore or try their best at school.

 If you have been keeping in touch with civilization, then you know about the trend of designer face masks. Here are a few reasons why you should definitely invest in one for your kid:

·         It will keep your kids safe: Face masks are a definite necessity if you want to keep your kids safe during this pandemic.This is because it hinders the germs from getting in contact with the mouth.

·         They are pretty:As a parent, making sure your kid is dressed well, is one of the most demanding tasks. Coordinating an outfit is an entire chore in itself and then if you make them wear the monotonous face masks, the effort will be wasted. In that case, these designer masks are a definite must, as they are available in multiple colors and designs and will actually match the outfit!

·         Kids won’t take them off: Kids have a tendency to take their masks off if it makes them even slightly uncomfortable. This is very dangerous if they are in public. Buying them a cartoon face mask which they like is a sure shot way of stopping them from doing so.

·         They can be bought online: One major plus point is that you won’t have to go out and buy these masks from the store. You can simply order or ebay face masks. These cloth face masks are for sale on many outlets.

   4.     Difficulties in making children wear face masks:

Kids are very pure and generally unaware of the negativities around them.  They tend to not realize the seriousness of the situations that may have adults quaking in their boots, which is what makes them so special. Children have the ability to face difficult things with simplicity and innocence and a general straightforward approach to life. As opposed to adults who complicate every aspect of life. This is their most endearing quality of children.

 One such issue is the Corona Virus, which has been proliferating with lightning speed, and spreading fear and sorrow in its path. It does not spare anyone, targeting people irrespective of their age. One precaution that everyone has been recommended to take is to wear a face mask and kids are no exception to this rule. Though they generally don’t take it very somberly and put themselves and their loved ones at risk by exposing themselves to the virus.

 They do this by taking the mask off because they find it restricting or they feel uncomfortable or awkward wearing it. Kids generally will not wear something that they are not used to or do not like. During the initial few months of the pandemic, there were only the surgical face masks available or masks that were monotonous in color, which children loathed and generally did not keep on.

 Now-a-days, Designer face masks have been in vogue for the very reason that they attract children and hence lower the chances of them taking it off. These cloth face masks are very comfortable and have movie or animated character and designs illustrated on them. They not only add to the aesthetic value but also allow children to have fun with their appearance while at the same time, remaining safe and healthy. Kids face masks for both boys and girls are available in different colors and patterns now.

 Investing in these designer face masks for kids is definitely a good and intelligent decision and will save you a lot of money. Children are also less likely to throw them away or forget them in some public space. Furthermore, They are reusable so you won’t have to buy them in bulks.

 5. Face masks as creative outlets:

Everyone wants to look good. It’s a fact of life. People develop their individual styles through clothes and makeup, coordinating colors and given preferences to some, while ignoring other colors. These choices of appearances are a form of expression and everyone wants full control over what they are presenting.

In the last year or so, another addition has been made to the clothing that we have to wear and that is the face mask. It is a compulsory item that everyone needs to wear in public or even in private gatherings. Imagine a beautiful painting, with lots of color and trees, flowers, a captivating landscape and then in the middle of it is an empty circle. Wouldn’t the painting look incomplete, if not outright awkward?

This is exactly what it’s like to wear those simple blur and green face masks, which belong more in a hospital than in public. They bring down the entire aesthetic value of the person’s appearance and are very difficult to fashionably pull off.  

A good way of solving this problem is through the reusable face masks that can be designed according to your preference and choice. This gives the wearer full freedom and creative ground to explore. They can express themselves more openly through them and not feel like these masks are ruining their outfit.

These cloth face masks have filters, which provide double protection and also are pleasing to the eyes. Just like people experiment with their makeup, now they have the ability to experiment with their face masks, with brands showcasing ingenious designs and color palates.

Cartoon face masks are also available for kids, with animated illustrations on them. Boys face masks usually have popular animations like toy story and cars characters on them, whereas girls face masks have Barbie and Disney characters on them.

[gildedpin]

dark dye

(Or: THK has a bad trauma/pain day. Many of us have been there, I think.)

So uh. I was trying to keep a rough sequence for all of these but that didn't quite work. so two things:

1. This is set somewhat later in the "post-everything" timeline I'm considering, not like... right after they settle in. They've all had some time to get used to each other.

2. THK and Ghost get names! They chose these names. They are in fact Hive names like Hornet's, because of Hornet. Because she's the family they choose, the sister they respect and admire!

I couldn't find any English names I liked though, so I grabbed partial scientific names.

Ghost is Polybia (after a kind of wasp that establishes a nest as part of a group) and THK is Abispa (after a kind of large solitary wasp, but that's just because… it sounds vaguely like a setting-appropriate name and also I think once they're not Isolated they're still pretty quiet and don't mind being alone as long as they can choose to go to someone else).

also shoutout to the Hollow Knight Stans Only discord for taking a look before I posted this!

Alt Link

Warnings for: canon-typical body horror, mild emetophobia, trauma

*

It was a bad morning. Abispa had context for this now.

There were good mornings. Mornings when they woke easily, and their body moved readily under their own power.

This was a bad morning. Their body was stiff, and their joints were almost too heavy to lift. Their side ached, the shell throbbed whenever they tried to move. Nestled tightly in their blankets, the weight was no longer a comfort. It grew oppressive, holding them down in their nightmares. They kept sliding back.

Shell going soft, soft and fragile. Rotting. Splitting. They grab at their torso but the chains  -- weren't there. Their hand clamped over their midsection, and the scars seared, like fire, like -- the light blazing in Hornet's eyes, stained orange, like the light glinting off of the tip of her needle, aimed at the heart of them, and all they can do is throw themself  -- into the wall of what used to be an elevator, now their room, now their --  fate. No. No. Not  them  , not, no- 

But there is Polybia. Chains tight around their small body. And only a faint glimmer of light in their eyes, as if distant, but for them to show even that much, soon their shell, too, will go soft. Soft and fragile. And then they will rot.

When Abispa finally clawed their way out of their room, the first thing they did was check Polybia's. Their sibling had prepared an elaborate nest, a little suite, really: claiming the openings of three stag tunnels and carving out holes large enough to crawl through in the walls between them. Spaces for sleeping, for activity, and for storage.

Abispa knocked beside each one. No answer.

They swept back the curtains. Peered in to search among the cushions and trinkets.

Polybia wasn't there.

No! No-  Abispa's claws tangled in the final curtain. They nearly tore it off. Where was Polybia? Where was their small sibling? Where? Where?

Somewhere else. They forced their fingers open. Polybia still wandered often, and they could defend themself it they had to. Of course, they were only wandering. Perhaps they had gone to visit-

It was a bad morning. Abispa knew where Polybia had gone. Abispa was meant to have gone, too. They had both planned to visit Sheo and the Nailsmith that morning, and Polybia had no doubt gone on ahead. So they were fine. No doubt. Except that, as the day went on and Abispa never arrived, Polybia would worry. Abispa knew this.

Just as much, they knew they had no chance of following after. They were barely able to make the jump over their room, to land before the threshold to Hornet's.

They couldn't be in their own room, not now, not after all but fighting their way out of it. They couldn't go out. They could have waited for their sibling's return in the central platform, and they likely would, but they just wanted to see Hornet. She would certainly know Polybia's whereabouts. They were with Sheo, no doubt. No doubt. But Hornet would know, would be able to confirm this.

They had to stop and gather themself before they knocked. Hornet drew back the certain over the entrance soon after. "Yes?"

Hornet was there. She was there. They were not alone. They hadn't understood the extent of their own worry - almost terror - until relief flooded them. They could hardly stand it, such relief. They could hardly stand. They were going to be sick. That was a real possibility. They braced their hand on the wall.

Hornet said, "If you're looking for Polybia, they left some time ago. You can still join them, I'm sure."

Abispa caught the curtain with one hand, and pulled it just a little wider.

She looked them over once. She made no secret of it. They watched her gaze linger on their hand supporting them, the weak sloping of their shoulders.

She eased back into the tunnel. "Alright. Come in."

They should have gone back to the central platform. Instead, they crawled into Hornet's room after her, and tucked themself against one wall, careful of the tapestry hanging above them. She sat back down at her work: bundles of silk, some soaking in vats of dye, some hanging on a rack for drying. One bundle waited on a mat before her, there to catch the excess dye. It would wait a little longer. They still had her attention.

She asked, "Did you need something?"

They shook their head. Nothing she hadn't already given, at least.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

A nod, this time, and then they let their head fall back against the wall, resting on their horns.

"You may stay, then. Although I'm afraid I won't be very good company."

They nodded again. They weren't even sure if they wanted company. Just presence.

Hornet worked in silence. All of her movements were practiced, rhythmic. She leaned in as she worked her silk: wringing it, stretching it out to dry. They leaned forward, too, watching intently. She was so precise always, but they were not sure they had ever seen her be so delicate. When a batch was ready, she pulled it from the rack and spooled it. This was the only sound, the rush of winding silk. Gentle. Mesmerizing.

It lulled them, after their poor sleep. The room blurred. They caught their mask in their hand, and-

Their head cracked against the low ceiling. Their mask pulsed from the blow, and they doubled over into their lap, grasping at their own face. Their chest heaved. The ache had been so close to settling into a low burn, easy to ignore, but now their own shell stabbed them again and again. The dream was fading already, but there was something - something. Chains again. Singing. Her singing, the voice that blazed.

"Abispa!"

They looked up to find Hornet's mask by theirs. Her hand brushed the shell, just skirting the edges of the crack in it. It seemed no worse than before. She stepped back, but her chin tipped up, her gaze staying fixed on them.

"I am sorry. You fell asleep, but perhaps I should have roused you."

They did not affirm or reject the idea. They settled back on the wall again, heavily. They collapsed, really. She took them in again. Always assessing, their sister. Always making choices.

She said, "Wait here."

They watched her as she left. Always, she assessed them. They wondered when she would find them wanting. When she would decide they were too much of a burden, and did not deserve to shelter here.

They tucked their head to their chest, and tried to focus on breathing. Tried to. Their mind worked against them. It tugged at the frayed edges of their last nightmare, half-remembered. The singing. Her voice, blazing.

They did not often dream of her. They dreamed of symptoms, or events. Real and unreal.

The quarantined city, the panicked pounding at the gates, filtered through their sense of the world. Arriving at Sheo's home to find only puddles of orange and fragments of carapace. Wet snap of breaking shell, thud of their arm onto the vault's floor before it melted into void. Polybia embracing the Hollow Knight's fate, knowing the chains, bearing the weight of the seals.

But her voice. They remembered her voice now. Singing. Screaming. The sound of her rage carving its way through their throat.

Their hand found their mask again. A single claw worried the crack.

"Be careful. You'll worsen it."

They were unaware of Hornet's return until she was right in front of them. They ducked their head, and quickly pressed their hand flat over their lap.

"You needn't be sorry. Here."

She set down a lumpy package of silk on the floor between them. Then she sat down behind it, and cut through the wrappings. A kettle of tea, which had been bound carefully to prevent spilling, and a cup and a bowl, which had been cushioned for her jump from the elevator.

They stared at her as she poured, but her actions didn't really register until she offered them a bowl of tea. They took it, and stared into its depths.

"Mossbloom," she said. "You enjoy it particularly, yes?"

They were still, at first. Then they looked up at her, and tilted their head.

"Yes. I remember."

To answer her question, they drained half of the bowl in one long draught. She nodded, and undid her mask to set it aside. She took only a sip of her own, before standing again. She gathered cushions from a pile in the corner, below her hammock. She arranged these next to them.

"You should lie down. You do not have to sleep, but rest."

Their side still ached. This was true. Sitting stiff and hunched over was not helping. They took her advice, and there was some improvement at once - there was the echo of pain that somehow meant relief.

Hornet slid their bowl into easy reach, and then sat cross-legged, with her own tea held loosely over her lap. She took another sip, and closed her eyes. Then she set her cup down, and resumed her work. She did poorly without something to busy her hands.

They drank tea. They leaned on cushions in their sister's room. They lounged, in fact.

They lounged. The room was cool and dark and quiet. Their finger tapped on the stone, matching the rhythm of Hornet's work, until they caught themself. But they always started again, not even realizing they had until they made themself stop. Finally, they made a fist, and pressed it to the floor.

They thought: the Hollow Knight, lounging. Drinking tea and having family.  Thinking. This was everything that should not be.

Perhaps it wasn't.

Her blazing voice rang, remembered. She had shown them things. Things they wanted. Once she had heard them, one single thought stirring the void, it had been easy for her. She had so little else to do, and the mind of a wyrmspawn was such a straightforward tool, easily melted and reforged and dulled.

Their hand shook. They uncurled it and reached out for their bowl. They took a sip of tea. It was bitter. Thin.

She had never shown them anything like this. She had taken some pleasure in overwhelming them. Everything was sweet, new, sickening.

The infection smothered in the prison of their body, freedom for them, at last, and glory fit for the finest knight - all of it unraveled into visions of Hallownest as it truly was. A celebratory feast rotted into bright bile in their mouth. A caress from Father's claws, his welcoming arms, became her burning embrace.

But more than their mere torment, it was the acknowledgment she delighted in. When they thrashed in their bindings. When they wept tears like tar. And when their body was, finally, more her possession than their own, mere trembling was sometimes enough.

They felt inescapably at her whims, until it overflowed and poured out of them, their body giving out and giving up and burning burning burning and they clawed at their mask and they didn't expect to be able to reach, so when their hand connected it cut into the shell.

"Abispa-"

The Hollow Knight did not understand.

"Abispa?" More urgently.

They looked up at - Hornet. Sister.

Hornet, who was calling to them, softly. Calling their name. They had a name.

She had never have conjured a name for them. She had never conjured a sister. No tea, no cushions, no cool or dark or quiet.

They held out their hand. It was still shaking, but Hornet took it between both of hers, squeezing their palm. This couldn't have been a dream. It was infinitely better than anything anyone, included themself, could have thought to desire. The Radiance couldn't have plucked from them what they'd never imagined.

When Hornet again reached the point where she was ready to spool her silk, she paused. She placed the spool on the floor in front of them. They stared at it.

She asked, "Will you help me?"

They gulped down the rest of their tea. They nodded.

"Turn this, please. I will hold the silk so that it winds."

It was simple work, just enough to keep them occupied. They spun their hand, and it was clear that Hornet was letting them set the pace now, slower than she would have gone. But if she was impatient, she kept it hidden even without her mask. She adjusted the position of the thread occasionally, guiding it up or down according to the thickness of the spool. They adjusted their grip when they needed, and she insisted that they pause sometimes to stretch their hand.

"Just so," she said, when they were done and she examined their work. "Would you like to begin the next?"

They nodded quickly, and she prepared it for them. They were halfway through when a rapid knocking echoed from down the tunnel. Hornet didn't move, just called, "You may come in, Polybia."

She was unconcerned. If it wasn't Polybia, then whoever it was would find they had bitten off more than they could swallow, or else the siblings would have a problem that keeping the intruder out of one room wouldn't have solved.

The soft rush of cloak and shadow approaching resolved any concerns. Polybia hopped down into the room a moment later, and made one last dash up to Abispa's side.

Abispa lowered their head, and Polybia lifted theirs. They both bumped their masks together.

Hornet asked, "Welcome back. How did your visit go?"

Polybia fished out a scrap of silk paper from their cloak in response. The surface was covered in aimless lines and swirls, color rambling thoughtlessly over color.

"Very distinctive," Hornet said approvingly.

They nodded, but their own art didn't hold their interest for long. When Abispa leaned in to look, Polybia bumped their masks again, inquiring.

Abispa sank in on themself. Their hand shifted to hold their side. Polybia pressed their mask to Abispa's once more, and lifted their hand to hold it beside the crack. Abispa withdrew enough to nod.

Hornet stood up. "I will bring more tea for you. I did not know you'd be back so soon."

She hadn't even finished speaking before Polybia perked up. They patted Abispa's arm and spun away to snatch up the kettle. It was nearly as large as their body, but they set off back to the elevator with no evident struggle. Their siblings had no time to protest. It seemed they would bring their own tea.

Hornet watched them go, then laughed softly and sat back down. "And to think, I once thought myself quick. They've taught me better."

Abispa stared at her, and then shook their head earnestly.

She laughed again. "It's alright. I am glad they proved themself my match." She gave them a level look, and then added, "I am glad you were here to assist me today."

They heard her. They felt. They felt inescapably. But.

They didn't want to escape. Their chest was tight, and there was fluid pressing around their eyeholes like they were about to weep, and they never wanted to stop feeling like this. How to articulate this feeling? What to call it? They didn't know. They just wished to keep it.

And after a few moments of silence - of sitting in the cool and dark and quiet with their sister, while their sibling rattling dishes below echoed up faintly -  nothing came along to take it. Nothing burned. Their side, faintly. But nothing burned it all away, nothing tore it from their grasp. They were not hanging back in the black vault.

This was no dream. For the first time, it occurred to them: they could keep this.

They sat up, and reached out to Hornet. Her gaze flicked up to them quickly, and she patted their knuckles.

A loud clatter announced Polybia's return to the entrance. They emerged a moment later with a new tray, and on it: the kettle, their own cup, thankfully intact, and the small jar of honey Hornet kept.

"So that's what you were after," she observed. "You could have asked."

They set the tray down in the triangle they completed, and tilted their head at her.

"Of course I would have allowed it. It is to share. As long as no one uses the whole jar at once," she said thoughtfully, "there will be no trouble. Do you mean to use the whole jar, Polybia?"

They shook their head.

Hornet's chelicerae twitched up, a rare spidery smile. "I thought not."

Polybia poured themself some tea, and sweetened it to their liking.

Hornet took a sip of her own forgotten tea. She swallowed the now-cold drink, and couldn't stop herself from pulling a face. She had two knowing gazes on her immediately.

"Yes, yes," she said. She downed the rest of it in one draught, and poured herself more. She stirred in one spoonful of honey as an incentive. "I will not forget again. Alright?"

They both nodded. She pushed the kettle over to Abispa, who poured some for themself as well. They ignored the honey entirely. They would rather savor the bitterness.

Polybia finished quickly their tea quickly. They stood up, and walked over to stand beside Abispa. Polybia traced along the scars in their sibling's shell, and held their gaze. Abispa shook their head, dismissing Polybia's concerns.

Polybia still stared. Abispa shook their head again, and set their hand between Polybia's horns. Their thumb traced up and down the outer curve, until Polybia was satisfied enough to relax.

The smaller sibling reclaimed their cup, and poured themself more tea. They topped off Abispa's while they had the kettle, and added another generous portion of honey to their own. Then they climbed onto Abispa's lap.

They all drank in silence, until Hornet finished her tea. She grabbed both the spool they had completed and the partial one. Polybia's gaze snapped to her, but she said, "I know. I only have a question. It is about the project I have in mind. Abispa?"

They jolted. Abispa set their bowl down and straightened suddenly, at attention. Polybia steadied themselves, and crossed their arms. She set the silk down in front of Abispa, and held up a hand, a pacifying gesture for both of them.

She told Abispa, "I only want to know which color you prefer."

They held her gaze, and then looked down at the silk. There was a deep, elegant red and a blue like lumafly-lit stone. They thought, and then tapped the blue.

"Thank you," she said. "That will do."

Both siblings tilted their heads at her.

"You have expressed a fondness for tapestries like these." She gestured above their head, at the decoration on the wall behind them. "And I have been weaving more, as of late. thought I would make one for you. This will be the central color."

Abispa stared at her. They could do nothing else. They had no respond ready; they had too much in their head at once to pick out any one sentiment to express. Finally, and with great deliberation, they plucked Polybia from their lap. They moved the kettle aside, then the jar of honey. They slid into the space where the dishes had been, and bent so their mask rested just above her face.

She stretched up to meet them, and when she accepted their invitation, they wrapped their arm around her. They crushed her close, for just a moment, and then let her back down.

"It's no trouble! You needn't-" Her chelicerae worked furiously, and she pressed a hand over them to hide it, speaking into her shell. "It's no trouble. Truly."

Their chest shook silently, the shape of a laugh, and they tapped between her horns.

She cleared her throat, but the sound gave way to her own laughter. She shook her head helplessly, and told Polybia. "You'll have one, too. If you would like, of course."

They nodded enthusiastically.

"Good." She folded her arms under her cloak. "Now. Since you've both decided that my room is a common area for the evening, you may assist me."

She gestured to the unfinished spool. "Abispa, you know what to do. Please inform Polybia. I will prepare more silk."

Polybia wasn't inclined to complain about more art, after they'd ended their session with Sheo early, and Abispa was happy to teach them. Hornet gathered up the pieces of her own work as her siblings sat down to theirs. They carried on, until Polybia was visibly nodding off.

That night, it was the memory of whispering silk that carried Abispa into their own long, dreamless sleep.

[b4civility]

August,7

fanfic based on the “teenage love triangle” on Folklore, “Betty”, “August” and “Cardigan”. Still releasing new chapters, stay tooned! 

[NO WARNINGS] 

summary: Betty doesn’t realize she is touching James the first time she does so. James doesn’t realize she is everything he wants the first time he paints her sink red. Alisson doesn’t realize she wasn’t part of the plan. August slipped away like a bottle of wine, as quick as it could,staining everything it reaches.

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Chapter 1: Betty 

Whenever I have to pack, my head gets cloudy. Always seems like I got everything I need, except that the Object That I Take For Granted But Actually Use Everyday stays behind, like a bath sponge or a coffee pot. I know this will happen, but get a bit of a headache every time trying to fight it. All the boxes in mu checklist are checked, but this anxious feeling still buzzes inside my head. 

‘Check under the bed to see if there’s something there’, mom says. 

I check. There is, but nothing that belongs to me. 

I am moving from a house of girls to another house of girls, but at least I get to have the unspoken individuality of my belongings, the entitlement to my schedule and to have “ I would rather not talk about it” or “I want to keep it to myself” as a legitimate answer this time around. My sisters are pretty sad about it- Skyler says she will miss my closet the most. “ So I am supposed to buy my own earrings now? How much do they cost? Do you try them on at the store? Is it ok if I get them wet by accident or will they be totally ruined?” she shoots at me as I finish packing my jewelry. “ Did you not care to not spill water on my earrings when you wore them?”, I ask, but she just looks away and plays with the ones that are in her ear, that are, too, mine. They are the silver with some dark green balls at the end. I stole them from a fancy boutique when I was 14, igniting my addiction to this accessory. I stole a couple more until the guilt finally kicked in,and then became an expert on finding cheap and not that bad ones at Aliexpress. I’ll just let her have it, looks better with her short hair than with my long one. Even though we have the same kind of curls, mine weren’t as defined as hers when I had short hair. A little bit shorter than the earrings, makes her look so edgy. She loves it. 

Eliza, in the other hand, despites my wardrobe, but worships my baking skills. One Sunday or the other we bake together, she makes sour doo biscuits and I bake a cake. This is our stack for the week, and then we try a different recipe for the dessert that day. We have a nice dynamic in the kitchen by now-she hates making cake but loves eating mine and I feel the same way about her biscuits, ans since both of us have a sweet tooth, baking is taken very seriously under this roof. 

The four of us get in the car, I get the backseat since Eliza is our official DJ (not that we gave her the title, rather she took it),plus, mom likes her by her side. Never have I ever sat behind the wheels when the entire family was in the car, for some reason mom would always get cautious about it when I asked if I could drive in these situations, even though I have been each and everyone’s chauffeur at some point. 

Tomorrow, at this very hour, I would be waking up to none of them. The closest thing to not being a sister I ever had was before I was seven, when Skyler wasn’t born yet, the bedroom was all mine and dad only had one volleyball player in our backyard. The closest thing I ever got to not being a daughter when he left. I was 12, Skyler was 5 and mom was in no condition to deal with her and our loss at the same time. Grandma was around a lot for the next 2 years. I couldn’t say the same about our mother, even up to this date. 

So I was reading her body expression, her smile at what my sister was saying about the music she chose, her thin neck, blurred by some hair strands that got out of her pony tale and eventually felt on her shoulders covered by her green cardigan, and how easily breakable her peacefulness appeared. Not because of my departure,no, she has been looking like this everyday since that last day. I don’t believe the other two ever notices that, not when they got their hands full with the colossal mess they make to get their older sister’s attention. It does work, I’m even moving houses because of it;college is just a social-acceptable excuse. 

Three hours later we have completed our journey from Mendax to Verum, the college town just 20 minutes away from campus. Five other girls were to live with me, none that I have met yet, but their facebook page tells me I got another Political Science major in the house, two English majors, a biology southmore and soon-to-be-graduated journalist. I sort of hoped I was going to be the first one to arrive so I could get my stuff in place first, not have all the stubbornness that run through my family’s DNA thrown at them as a first impression and possibly bake a Homecoming/Welcome/If My Words Fail Me At Least I Have This Going For Me cake. Plus, I own Eliza this last/ first moment, so I’d ask for her help. 

 The house was unapologetically pink. The pastel tone suited the wood-revested building very well, so much it felt like Barbie Dream House: College edition. The family house energy of it, the immense porch space, the spacious interior corridors,two livingrooms and the hugh gress space in the backyard were the opposite of what you would expect of a college girls’ residency, yet everything you wish they all looked like. Besides, this was a very prospect location for an off campus party, so I think I got the upper hand with this one. 

“ You are in a Barbie movie scenario for your entire graduation. I’m so jealous I can’t barely put it into words” Skyler said, staring at it, blinking as if she was waiting for it to disappear the next time she opened her eyes. “ Yeah,I will be sitting at the porch waiting to see if Ken shows up anytime soon,too.” I answered as I stood next to her, holding boxes. “Yeah, be sure to look very carefully for him at the massive Homecoming barbecue you guys are going to be having in this abnormous big backyard of yours”.So it was that obvious.” But don’t get attached to the first cutie you see, ok? Someone better could be just around the corner... ”. I don’t even want to imagine how her college years are going to be like. Probably a little cooler than mine; she always knows how to make a fun moment even funnier. Is it legal to bring your underaged sibling to a uni party? 

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in mind whenever I get more-than-two-dates invested in someone here”

Did Skyler really thought that my next romance would just fall into my backyard, like that?  

Chapter 2: James 

The sound of the wheels rolling on the concrete always get people looking, even when you are far from them. Anyone in top of a skateboard becomes a model in a suburban street, whose streets turn into a red carpet filled with paparazzi. I try to say something like “good morning” or “hello” to whoever I am passing by in an attempt to make my politeness overcome the annoyance of the loud noise, and convince myself that it works. Somehow, I often end up in a situation where it would be better not to be seen: whether is when I am riding my board and I get loud or in places I shouldn’t be attempting to land a trick at, or when I am pointing my camera at someone, trying to get a picture without them noticing. As if it isn’t happening for the hundredth time, I awkwardly pause, try to wave at them so I don’t come out as a stalker and gesticulating an apology all at once. People generally frown and move some place else, as a anyone in their right mind would. But only my headphones come with me for the ride when I know I will be taking The Pink House road. Two years ago I was riding by for the fourth time in the same week - ok, that was pretty stalker-y - getting shots of the house, the thing that struck me at first, and then the feature that actually grabbed my attention: the girls. There were four college girls living there, all who seemed so bubbly,so full of life, so enjoyable to the eye, so hot. By that time I had the count in my head, and one of them was missing. Didn’t mind much, got some rather good photos of Claire, the only one that I(oddly,but actually) knew. We made out at a uni party that I had sneaked in to the year before. As soon as I looked forward, A bloody face jumped in front of me,screaming, scaring me enough so that I felt in the concrete, scratched an elbow and hurting my feet. 

“THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T WEAR PROTECTION PADS!!!!! AND ALSO WHEN YOU ACT LIKE A CREEP FUCK,BASTARD!” 

As I pointed my head to the sky, the bloody shadow took away the mask, to reveal the fourth girl missing. “I-I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to.. I was just… The house, I-”

“Oh God ,it’s a creepy kid”, she said, throwing a hand to help me get up. “ So just because you are a cute teenager you think you can spy on stranger’s house like that?!?”- she said I was cute- “Yo, it’s no stalker”- kinda was- “just a random kid with a camera. Partially broken camera, you might wanna pick that piece up”. That was the day I met Inez. We got quite acquainted since that day, and photographing a place that you are allowed in got boring after the first two times so we just became friends.

I searched for her, but instead saw a brown girl istead. A new girl. Someone I was not ready to see. I stopped breathing the second she raised her head and I could see her almond eyes better, the spark on her cheeks reflecting the sun. The next thing I knew I had my face on the concrete, with the same elbow scratched, again. 

“Shit, are you ok? You're bleeding” she (yes, she!) said to me.

“I-I’m cool, I’m cool… you know,just...whatever, happens all the time and shit...” . My mouth doesn’t know how to work when my brain is in complete shock with the view, apparently. 

“You should at least wash it, your elbow could get infected, come on inside” she said, as she held my hand and arm very softly. You could see she was trying not to touch the injury much, but I swear I wasn’t feeling my entire body. 

Chapter 3: Betty 

“I suppose we should have a first aid kit here, somewhere…”- he’s painting my sink in red as the water runs in the wound. What a way to start. “Eliza, Skyler, help me; you go look if you find anything in the bathroom and you, keep at the kitchen cabinets”.

“It’s on the upper shelf, actually”, he answers.

It was.What the fuck?

“So you live here now?!?!” I hear a voice from behind that isn’t my mother’s. It’s the biology major,even though she is blonder than her facebook pictures.

“I-I-I just… arrived…. I’m sorry he… I was just...” Was I ever going to come up with the right sequence of words to explain that I, a girl she never met, had got into her house with a bleeding,also strange boy and two teenagers running wild looking through her stuff? The chances are beyond unlikely,at its best. 

“Not you, I was expecting you- I mean  him”, she arched her eyebrows.

“Inez ! long time no see, girl!”, he replies with a sort of laughing, trying to lighten up the mood. I wasn't understanding one bit of what was going on.

“ You couldn’t wait for the party so you just brought it right in yourself, huh? Look at the mess you made in my kitchen! You know, I am leaving here next year so you better make a good impression of yourself for the other girls if you want to keep falling in our doorstep and getting aid” 

“I don’t think I’m their first option but I can make it work, never smile at someone and didn’t get a smile back” he says softly, kind of taking advantage of it, as he smiles at Inez, and she tries to hold it, but smiles back. I smile a little bit too, but still- what the fuck is happening?!?! 

“ You believe that your white teeth will get you anywhere, don’t you?”

“It got me aid the first time I ever felt in your doorstep. Also got you letting me teach you how to skateboard,which was super cool” he started sounding a little bit more teenager-y. How old was he? 

“ I always wanted to skate, you just happened to have a skateboard”. The air in the room was decrisealing chaotic. What he did worked. 

“Oh, like we were the only two people here, I am so sorry; hi, I’m Inez, welcome home,Beatrice!” she turns to me, shaking my hand, with a relaxed smile on. 

“Thank you, you can call me Betty” He really softened the mood, the words even came out of my mouth normally. 

“Ok, sure. I was meant to be here earlier but I had a salon appointment. But you met the house mascot already,so that’s one thing out of the list”- she points at this skater, sitting on the sink- “ This is James, he’s around more than he should. Do you need help? with the boxes?” And then I remembered of my sisters, running loose around the house and my mom, probably on the car outside. 

“ My sisters and I got everything by the porch already, there aren’t many”

“Fine, I will just wrap up this skater’s arm in a band-Aid and then I’ll show you your room. Clem is your roommate. You are enrolled in political science too, right?”

“Yeah”

“Nice, I think you two will be quite a match then. James, get your board rolling outta here, you are done, you can stop scarring my new roomate. 

“ Thanks, ‘Nez” he hopped out of the sink. “ It was never my intention to scare you. Nice meeting you, Betty” he gives me a quiet smile, looking into my eyes just for a second before looking at the ground. He ran a little bit down the hallway, got on the skateboard and went out of sight. He had this boyish posture, stubborn, unaware of his own size. His broad shoulders moved along with his waist as he strolled away. It was nice meeting you,too,James.

[mercurymetals]

someone to feed, someone to bleed

I admit, I planned to work through the requests in order, but when I saw this ask I just had to sit down and write it. That's some yummy ideas you've got there, anon. Took some liberties, but hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence and death. Lots of blood. Power play dynamics. Borderline psychological horror. Actually, probably straight up horror as well. Have fun!

Blood. The smell of it is thick, almost oppressive as it fills your nostrils. You never thought you'd call this process familiar, and yet that's exactly what it has become to you. Ordinary. Routinely, even.

The heavy tang of iron, pools of red blooming beneath you, exposed flesh and torn up arteries - these things should scare you. They should horrify you.

And they did, once.

The first time these very sights and smells penetrated your senses, the shock was enough to nearly make you faint. Your knees gave out under you and you crumbled down to the ground. Nausea and helpless panic overwhelmed your senses, causing your whole body to shake violently. You gasped in breath after uneven breath, each punctuated by a pathetic whimper at the back of your throat.

You don't know why you were chosen. You don't know what about that display could have intrigued him. You don't know why he cut down everyone that night except for you.

All you remember after the massacre is the way he lifted your chin with the tip of his blade, forcing you to look up at him. There was a sadistic glint in his eyes as he watched you, and even then you could tell each of your cries and quivers pleased him. He smiled slowly, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

"Yes. You'll do," he had said, and thus your fate was decided.

It took you weeks, to get used to your new duties. You wanted to refuse his demands, but fear compelled you to obey.

Your first kill left you changed. To this day, you are convinced it hurt you more than it hurt your victim. As the days passed, vivid images of faces twisted in agony burned themselves into your mind. When you managed to fall asleep, you'd get nightmares, and when you woke up in a cold sweat, they wouldn't leave you. Memories flashed before your eyes minute by slow minute, demanding your attention. Demanding you answer for your crimes.

But that was then. You have surpassed that version of yourself.

Now, you grip the blade steadily, watching with trained patience while the woman before you writhes, her hands desperately clawing at the mask on her face. You hear her shriek out pleas, but the words don't even register in your mind. She groans as the tendrils dig deep into her brain, her struggles growing weaker, until finally she lays still on the floor of the chamber.

You carefully remove the mask, placing it back on its pedestal with a performative reverence, and then go back to watching her. You know the process can take anywhere from a few seconds to a minute, and this is the most dangerous part of your task. But if you time things right, everything should proceed smoothly.

Priest. That is your title. The one and only high priest, ordained with the honour to serve a god among men, a life form so far evolved your petty human brain could never hope to comprehend it. Yet you know your hands are soaked with death, your heart speaks only of sin, and repentance is not a relief you can grant to anyone, least of all yourself.

You've come to terms with that, though. You've come to accept that the only thing that matters in your life any more is servitude.

You must have been chosen for a reason, after all. There must be something special about you. You are not like the humans whose lives you assist in taking. You are more than just a meal waiting to happen. And you are helping them, too. By continuing to do this dreadful job, you're sparing someone else from having to do it in your place. That has to count for something, doesn't it?

But as the seconds tick by, the woman remains perfectly still. You frown, and wait, and wait, and she does not stir.

Have you done something wrong? You're sure you saw those tendrils pierce her head. Should you keep waiting? No, out of the question. You feel your master's expectant gaze on your back, and you know you don't have the luxury of making him wait any longer. You crouch down and reach out to check the victim's pulse, wondering if you took the mask off too early.

And that's exactly when she strikes. With an inhuman screech she throws herself at you, slamming you to the ground. You feel her clawed fingers dig into the skin of your bared arms. You thrust your knife towards her, but she easily slaps your hand aside, knocking it out of your grasp.

She opens her mouth wide, her fangs ready to tear your face open--

You hear a scream, but it's not your own. Her weight vanishes off you, and a sick crunch resounds in the chamber. You sit up in time to see her crumple to the ground beside you once more. Kars, your master, is standing over the two of you, but your eyes remain glued to the woman.

Part of her torso and abdomen are missing, her flesh and insides melting off her like liquid. She spasms violently on the floor of the chamber, her body buckling as if overcome by a seizure. You've seen so many horrors play out before your eyes, but still you grimace in disgust. You know well that Kars could have easily finished her in one strike, but he chose not to, and now you are forced to watch her die a slow death for a second time.

This time when she grows still, you are certain she is done for. But it's not until the harrowing scene comes to an end that the gravity of the situation hits you.

You've never messed up on this scale before. When you first started out, you were expected to learn fast, and even then Kars had hardly been tolerant of even the smallest mistakes. He made you do things over and over until you got them right, your abhorrent duties a punishment of their own right.

But now... You don't even know how you could possibly salvage this. The silence between you and your master is stark, and it's all you can do to shift yourself to your knees before him.

You hear him sigh. "Not only do I have to do your job for you, but you've made such a mess of my meal." He sounds sincerely disappointed, and you find yourself upset for it. He caused the mess by your side, but still you feel accountable for inconveniencing him. That he was the one who forced you to do these things in the first place seems trivial - he's displeased with you, and that's entirely your fault.

"I have allowed you to participate in something of such importance," Kars continues. "I have given you training, a place by my side. You! A mere human. And still you fail me." He steps closer, causing your body to twitch reflexively. You dare not look up at him. "Well, I suppose that's to be expected. What should I do with you, I wonder?"

Your breathing is still uncomfortably fast, and you find yourself at a loss. You have overcome the you who snivelled at the thought of taking a life. You fought past your repulsion for blood and gore. You have steeled yourself to perform your duties swiftly and efficiently. You have, by all accounts, embraced death.

But with his unnerving glare boring into the back of your head, you feel utterly hopeless. Your master is the only one left who can stir any emotion out of you, but the only thing you feel towards him is a mind-numbing fear.

"I-- I apologise," you stutter. "Please, a-allow me to get you another meal..."

Kars scoffs. "Is that your answer? You're looking to run away from me?"

You shake your head fervently. "No, I... I'm sorry." You don't know what else to say. You want to beg his forgiveness, but you are afraid you're only going to make things worse.

"Hmm."

You hate that noise. That relaxed hum he makes whenever he's debating on some terrible decision. You stay silent, knowing he is enjoying dragging this out, letting you ferment over the fact he's contemplating your fate. Your life is but a tiny thread weaved around his finger, and he could make the decision to snap it in an instant.

You hear him shift. "Your hand."

Confused, you lift your head and peek up. Kars' arm is outstretched towards you, his large palm open. You hesitate, but slowly raise your hand and place it in his.

The second you do, his fingers clasp around it and he drags you upwards in one smooth, effortless motion. You yelp, suddenly finding yourself almost face-to-face with your master. You're standing on your tip toes, trying to relieve the pressure from him holding you up, but still you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

Kars is holding you close enough that your bare chest presses against his. The sensation is oddly intimate. The outfit you have been donned with is scarce, made to match his - most of your body is out on display, save for the linen skirt around your waist and the ornaments around your wrists and neck. Chains obscured by gold, as you've come to think of them.

But it is not his physicality that catches you off guard. He's towered over you from the start - you're well aware of his greatness. It is his face, where you never dared to steal more than a glance, that momentarily stuns you.

His thick eyelashes, the smudge of purple on his eyelids, his still-smiling lips, and that dark hair framing his sharp features. It's embarrassing how much it overwhelms you for a moment, being this close to it all. He's so... lovely to look at.

You soon snap out of it however when you realise the look in his eyes is one you have seen before. Back on that fateful night when he found you, and through a blur of tears you saw it then as you see it now - wanton cruelty.

You open your mouth to say something, plead with him, but his other hand snaps shut around your throat, silencing your attempts before they could even begin.

"Not a word,” Kars says, observing you with smug content.

You try to gasp for air. Your lungs contract painfully, but to no avail. You can't breathe. You can’t breathe! You can't breathe!

Your free hand wraps around his wrist, but it does you no good. You claw at his skin, but he doesn't let up, keeping your airways tightly sealed. Your lungs are burning, and pressure rises in your head like water against a dam. Soon your vision of Kars becomes blurry and distorted, a muddled disarray of purple and tan. Black spots join the fray as they start to cut into your sight, threatening to sever your consciousness any second.

Then the pain starts to feel distant, and your awareness of your own body becomes muted. It's almost like you're falling asleep. It's... a strangely peaceful way to go, you think distantly. If this is how you can escape your wicked existence, then maybe it's not all so bad.

But the moment Kars lets go, you instinctively gulp in several large breaths, and your vision winks back in place. You're dizzy, the pressure in your mind worryingly high, and then the pain hits you. Your chest seizes, and your heart thuds so fiercely you wonder if it's about to give out anyway.

The only reason you're still up and not splayed out on the floor is because Kars is still holding you. And, to your alarm, he reaches for your neck a second time. You squirm in an attempt to get away, hysterical at the thought he's about to do that to you all over again.

Kars grasps your throat, but not hard enough to block your airways. Instead, you feel a strange sensation of something dipping under your skin.

You want to protest, but all your damaged voice manages is a croak. You feel a kind of pull, your blood seeping out of you and straight into his fingers. As your rapidly pumping heart continues to work overtime in an attempt to get oxygen to your brain, it inadvertently feeds Kars instead. The hand that had been stealing your air supply seconds ago is now stealing your very life force from inside of you.

You don't feel good. Dazedly you cling onto his arm, wishing you could do something to alter your fate. Surely even death would be kinder at this point.

But maybe that's precisely why your master has left you alive.

You don't know how long it takes, but finally you feel his fingers pull out of your throat. You're not even allowed a moment of comfort as he immediately drops you to the ground, and your head crashes painfully against the stone floor of the chamber.

You lie there motionlessly, feeling exhausted, sickened and used. Closing your eyes makes it worse, so you keep them open. The image of the woman right next to you steadily comes into focus. You become aware of the wetness against your cheek, and wonder if it's her blood or liquefied flesh you're lying in. You don't care. More than anything, you'd like to drift off to sleep. Better your nightmares than this reality.

When you hear Kars speak, you force away your own desires and concentrate on his words. "I expect this place to be cleaned up by the time I come back."

You hear his retreating footsteps, and the relief you feel is enough to make you want to cry. The chamber doors creak open, and there's a few seconds of silence. You wait with baited breath.

"Don't disappoint me a second time, my precious priest."

The doors close with a resounding thud.

You lie for some time. Eventually, your vision returns to normal and the world stops swaying. You still feel feverish and weak, but you make yourself sit up. You turn your gaze to the corpse of the woman again, taking in her severed form, her face twisted in a death mask of horror.

Maybe you and her aren't so different, after all.

[kensboytoy]

Pulled Back from the Ledge

Title: Pulled Back From The Ledge Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia Characters: Present Mic/Hizashi Yamada, Reader Ratings: Mature

Notes:

WARNING: This fic has a depiction of mental illness and a suicide attempt. It has a happy ending but this was an emotional piece I started one day when I was ready to take my own life. I wrote this as a piece for myself to heal so please keep that in mind! If you are in this state of mind, PLEASE remember that people are there for you. You are loved. 

[Read on AO3 or Keep Reading below!]

You had been living with this illness for so long that you couldn’t really remember who you were before it. It had to have been easier than this. People probably liked you more before you pushed everyone away. It was an unfortunate defense mechanism of your depression: get everyone out of your life and isolate yourself. Things would be easier when you were alone. You’d be in control of this and no one would come looking for you.

The wind softly stung your exposed arms with the coldness of the night air. Goosebumps ran along your body and you were surprised that you could feel anything with how numb you were inside. Only pinpricks for a moment before the emptiness of static filled your stomach and sunk your heart again. The moon was full as it hung above you, almost watching in anticipation of your next move.

Standing on the edge of the rooftop you came to have lunch on back when you could stand to be outside, you peered down at the empty parking lot four stories below. This height would be enough to kill you on impact. You hoped. Despite your intense need to die, you never really did plan too much ahead. You left the vagueness in the back of your mind as an array of different options left up to the day you would inevitably end your own life. There was no certain tie to this place that you needed to have your guts peeled off the pavement. No symbolic message it would hold when they found your body.

The pain was just too much. It had swallowed you whole and spit you back up a few times so that you could escape back to your mediocre life time and time again. Back to the daily grind where your emotions were ground down into ashes. You had no motivation. No spark for life. Every day was a challenge to even choose to get up instead of rolling back over to sleep. To avoid being awake was a luxury that the world wouldn’t let you have.

So, you wanted to sleep forever.

You’d like to think of it as sleep. You weren’t really sure what came after stepping off a tall building. Probably pain. That was something you desperately wanted to avoid at all costs. Easier that way to keep not feeling anything.

Except now there were tears rolling down your cheeks. Red hot as they burned your eyes trying to escape. You let them, making no move to wipe them away. It didn’t matter if they blurred your vision, your target was just a step away no matter what.

Couldn’t back down now. The voice in your head that usually kept you from the last stage of your plan was nowhere around. Not a peep from your conscience - had that given up on you too?

Frustrated, you grabbed the sides of your head to silence all the chatter, all the thousands of voices telling you that you were worthless. That you deserved everything - every ounce of pain, all the isolation. This was all you knew now. You already committed to this, no use in beating yourself up. Close your eyes and think of something nice. Maybe one vacation you always dreamt of taking but never did. Perhaps that old movie you once had on repeat when it was a comfort to you when you were younger. Anything pleasant to finish your life off with.

Your body began to step closer to the edge as you racked your brain for any semblance of comfort. The tears began to stop and yet you still could not see the world around you. Everything was a blur as you moved to take the final step, your arms falling loosely to your sides. You waited to feel the embrace of the wind taking you down to your grave like the only comforting hug you would get now.

However, your plan was shortly lived as a horribly loud shout pulled you out of your robotic movements.

“HEEEEEEEY LISTENER!” the voice shrieked, causing you to step back in shock.

You immediately covered your ears and cowered from the noise, the force of it knocking the wind from your lungs. Before you could even recover, you felt two hands grab you by the collar and pull you further away from your grave. You were placed in a firm headlock preventing you from moving, your eyes blinking back the tears to see what the hell had interrupted you.

“You sleepwalkin’ or what? Good thing you got the best alarm in the world to come wake you up!”

Confused, you looked up at the beaming figure. Holy shit. A Pro Hero?! What the hell were they doing here? You gawked as you stared at the gaudy leather outfit, enraptured by the heavy speakers he wore around his neck. His hair alone was enough to distract you from the current situation at hand, along with curious eyes now scanning your face from behind his stylish frames.

“Eh? C’mon, kid. I know I’m easy on the eyes, but you don’t gotta stare so much!” he joked with a toothy smile.

“Uhm,” you tried to speak but the movement felt like sandpaper on your lungs. Your head was still swirling as you tried your best to stop your brain from rattling around from that loud voice. Even his speaking volume was loud enough to pull you from the depths of your inner monologue.

“I know, not every day you’d get to see the face of the best DJ in the world!! It’s a very lucky thing, dear listener. You got your own private concert!”

As he continued to humbly brag about himself, he pulled you further and further away from danger. You felt his grip on you start to slack when he felt comfortable enough that you couldn’t book it off the edge anymore. Slowly, he pulled you up and dusted off your jacket, beaming down at you.

“Are you… Present Mic?” you asked dumbly, causing him to bring his hands up to pose dramatically at your realization.

“Of course, little listener! I knew my gaze would burn a fire into your soul so you’d know who I am! Kinda took a while though...”

The man pouted at the last bit, pursing his lips together so you couldn’t exactly hear what he was saying. Damn Heroes always muttering to themselves. You let out an exasperated sigh when you finally looked back up at him.

“Why… why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out there fighting villains?”

Mic looked at you carefully. You were in rough shape - hair disheveled, bags under your eyes from the sleepless nights, your lips were chapped and shriveled, and it was very clear that you were not mentally stable enough to be left alone. In short: you looked like hell twice over.

“Eh? Fighting villains, hm? I mean, it looks like you were out here doin’ just that.”

You looked puzzled at that. What on Earth was he saying? You opened your mouth to voice your confusion before he continued on.

“You were battlin’ something fierce tonight, huh? A whole gang of villains swarming around you, I bet.” He casually walked around you, kicking his legs around so that he spun every time you two made eye contact. Finally, he lowered his shades and grinned again. “So I thought you needed some back-up, kid! Can’t go fighting so many bad guys alone.”

Slowly, you began to understand. This man - no, this hero wasn’t belittling you. Wasn’t mocking you for trying to hurl yourself off the roof. The embarrassment of getting caught was starting to wash away the more he spoke to you like an equal. You weren’t a Pro Hero, nowhere close to one, but he was talking to you like you were important.

“I don’t think those bad guys were as tough as the ones you fight, Mic,” came your weak muttering.

At that, he placed a firm hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. It had never hit you how badly you needed someone’s warmth until then. You felt your eyes sting with tears as the hero’s spiral eyes bore into you with such care.

“Listener, those are the worst kind of villains we face. They get up all in your frequency and jam it - sometimes it’s hard to listen to a different tune.” Gingerly, he lifted your chin so you could look at him. “It’s okay, alright? You luckily have the loudest voice in all of Japan right here ta help ya out!”

Your mask began to crack.

Whether it was just from the sheer kindness of his words or your adrenaline wearing away from your little stunt, you simply collapsed into the heaviest cry you had ever let out. The heaviness from your body felt like it had up-heaved and fallen at your feet. As your nerves shook your body while the tears overflowed, you fell to your knees and wept. You clutched the sides of your head, letting out pained cries as you let the sadness and relief run through you.

Mic had not flinched. He hadn’t been disgusted or judgmental as he watched you spill your metaphorical guts out with this cry - it was a far better option than what you had planned. The Pro Hero watched in a rare moment of silence, waiting patiently until he saw an opening. When you bent over and let the snot and tears fall onto the ground, you felt his hand firmly on your back, rubbing circles as you cried.

His warmth was nothing you could have imagined. Even with just his fingertips exposed and against you, your cold husk of a body felt the heat radiate to your core. Slowly, you stopped full on sobbing and instead made little whimpers as you tried to regain a steady breath.

That was when he enveloped you in his arms, pulling you to his chest so that you could focus on his steady heartbeat. Mic knew the importance of having any calm after the storm. You had just fought your own demons. The DJ was fully aware that you needed comfort above a lecture.

“It’s okay, kid. I gotcha now,” he managed to speak softly and yet his voice was everything. A light. Hope. “You’re safe. You’re stuck with me now, ya dig? So go ahead and let it all out.”

You took him up on that. It hit you in waves, coming just as soon as you greedily gulped for air since your nasal passages were blocked up. Your body would shake as you sobbed softly into the chest of the hero. Mic never faltered for a moment. He continued to rub at your back as he held you there. You were safe.

Eventually, after what seemed like a painful eternity, you couldn’t cry anymore. It felt like all the water from your body had escaped from your eyes. Everything was painful and rough physically, but emotionally? At least you were feeling something. Your conscience was back and berating you, filling you with a different kind of noise. The self-loathing kind of noise.

Mic must have seen the expression on your face as you winced because he had you gently get to your feet before he swung an arm over your shoulders. He gave you a toothy smile as if he were proud of you for all that embarrassing mess.

“You know what I do after a good cry, listener? Tons and tons of konbini food!” he cheered.

You looked at him skeptically for a moment. Had he just admitted that he cries too? Well, duh, he was human. Humans do have emotions, even when they graduate to being a Pro Hero.

“C’mon. Let’s pick out some stuff to binge ourselves on, yeah? I think you deserve it after that tough battle.”

You didn’t know what to say. Why was he still here? The danger of killing yourself was gone. Shouldn’t he have captured you and brought you to a hospital or something? Why was he wasting time and now wanting to get snacks?

As you pondered, he led you off the roof and down to the streets. He made sure to keep an arm on your shoulder or his hand on you at all cost. To make sure you couldn’t try anything else, you assumed. The warmth of another person had felt amazing and much needed after that. You had tried your best to regain any semblance of looking less like a wreck than you did before you entered the store. Mic saw your fussing and gently pulled an old bandana from one of his pockets.

“Here, listener. Old thing’s all beat up but it makes an okay hankie!”

Shyly, you thanked him and wiped your face to clear up all the dried tears and sweat. He waited patiently before you were ready, his grin back on his face as he shoved you inside the store. The harsh sting of the fluorescent lights hit you almost as hard as that shout had to save you. You recoiled and pressed yourself against his arm, face in his jacket as you groaned.

That was when he handed you something more special than just a beat up bandana. The triangle shades were now between his two fingers as he offered them to you gently. You were floored. That was a staple of his costume! Could you really take them-

Your stare eventually landed at his beautiful spiral eyes. Green - wait, red? - no, definitely green with a twinkling curiosity of you. He shot you a wink and gestured for you to take the sunglasses.

“U-um, are you-”

Mic tutted softly before he slipped them on you himself. He pulled away and looked at you proudly.

“Hey, hey! Not half bad, listener,” the hero complimented. “Though, I think they go with my style more, yeah? You can use ‘em in here so your eyes don’t fry.”

He squinted at the lights above you two, wrinkling his nose.

“I swear, they blast these things up to eleven when it’s as dark as night outside.” Mic laughed and shook his head, amused at the sight of you in his shades. “Anyways, listener! Snacktime! I’m quite hungry myself from my patrol earlier - I think I’m cravin’ somethin’ salty.”

You walked with him through the aisles, watching as he scooped a basket up from the front before knocking bags of chips and other salty snacks one by one into it. Amused at his penchant for salty things, you found yourself glancing at a few bags of chips yourself. You didn’t have time to look over the bags before a gloved hand reached out and added them to the basket.

“Th-that’s too many,” you whined. “You don’t-”

“Aw yeah! Drink time!” he managed to cut you off as you two approached the cooler of cute beverages.

Mic grabbed a coffee, two energy drinks, and a couple things of black tea. You wondered if that was just a daily amount of caffeine to power the overactive man or was it enough to kill a normal person? The thought made you chuckle to yourself. Present Mic watched from the corner of his eye at that small victory, his lips tugging into a grin.

You two made your selections and he swiped up a few sweets and some premade meals before he checked out with the heavy basket of junk. The cashier gawked at the sight of the hero and a seemingly average person now wearing his shades, Mic chatting him up and laying on his usual schtick of everyone being his fanclub. Eventually, everything was bagged up and you two were out the door.

“Ah, Mic,” you piped up, taking off the glasses now that you two were in the comfort of darkness. “Um, thank you. For all of this. I…”

Mic carefully took his glasses and slipped them on before he placed two bags into your hands. You looked at the contents, perplexed that it was a bunch of the premade meals he had bought.

“I know it’s gonna be hard tryin’ to get back to normal. I know I never wanted to cook for myself when I felt like crap. So those should last ya about a week. Maybe less if you wanna indulge a bit.”

You paused, staring up at him in disbelief. If you had any tears left, you knew they’d be welling up in your eyes.

“Why… why are you doing all this? You saved me from hurling myself off a building, dragged me to get snacks, let me borrow your glasses, and now this? Surely you have better things to do.”

That was when you saw Present Mic’s smile falter only for a moment before you felt the warm embrace of him again.

“Listener, I know you probably can’t hear reason over all those voices on your wavelength, but people care. I saw a person in distress tonight - someone so hurt by everything that they wanted to take their own life. You know how relieved I was that I saw you head up there tonight? I knew that buildin’ was closed. That you weren’t going up there for something fun. You looked like you were just goin’ through the motions…”

His words started to sink in. Present Mic could see it on your face that you weren’t in your right mind. If he hadn’t seen you when he did…

“You looked like you needed a friend,” he continued, his smile back on his face as he looked at you. “Sometimes, when we’re like that, we just want someone to come in and knock some sense into us. Luckily, it didn’t take much with ya! I think you really just needed some time to jam out those shitty feelings.”

You blushed, the embarrassment on your face again as you looked away. However, he caught your head gently with his fingers so he knew his words would register with you. You couldn’t toss this aside as fake sentiment if he poured his heart into them.

“Y-you’re a hero,” you blurted out. “You just wanna be friends to save me. Th-that’s all this is!”

Mic blinked in surprise. Then, a soft laugh.

“Listener, if I wanted to save you, I woulda taken you down to the hospital in that headlock earlier and dropped you off. While, yeah, I technically saved you, this ain’t what that’s solely about! I want you to save yourself. To make the biggest and hardest steps right now.”

You looked at him quizzically.

“C’mon. Let’s go to the park and eat so I can explain.”

The walk to the park was short enough distance-wise, a few minutes perhaps. What felt like it taking an eternity was the fact that your head was riddled with thoughts again. They bubbled up and consumed you. Making you think that at any moment Mic would turn against you and throw you into a psych ward so they would deal with you instead.

But that never happened. Instead, the Pro Hero hopped onto a park bench and sat on the thin edge of the backing of it. He let his thick boots rest against the actual seat before he hastily dug into the bag to fish out his chips. With one hand, he popped the bag open and watched all the chips fall into his lap.

Damnit, so much for looking cool. He laughed it off and gathered the chips into a pile so he could munch on them.

You slowly took a seat next to him and reached for a drink. All the crying had left your body parched and your body was begging for hydration. Once you popped the lid, you greedily gulped down the beverage in a matter of seconds. When you reached for another, Mic gently grabbed your hand and looked at you more sternly than you imagined the goofy hero to do.

“Hey, hey. Slower, listener. You’re gonna get wicked sick if you keep going at that pace. Actually enjoy the taste, yeah?”

You nodded and apologized around the lip of the bottle before taking a few sips instead of big gulps. Mic smiled at that and dug into his greasy guilty pleasure. Eventually, you found yourself reaching for a piece of roll cake and nibbling on it with the sweetness skyrocketing your tastebuds. Maybe it was from the lack of feeding yourself lately or maybe it was just a damn good piece of cake. Whichever it was, your eyes lit up immediately.

Eating the treat made you feel more relaxed. You let your emotions fade away to just enjoy something for once. To melt away in the layers of cake and frosting was finally a small bliss you could allow yourself. It may have sounded stupid to anyone else but to others who shared a pain similar to you, you knew anything could be a small victory against your illness.

Mic knew this too.

The man who had been claimed to be made of sunshine knew all too well what it was like to celebrate these victories. So, he urged you on with another slice while he casually consumed his coffee. You didn’t refuse it and soon enough found yourself digging into the second piece. The sweetness of the purple yam was even better than the last. A small, happy grunt left your lips as you chowed down. It felt nice to be content for once.

“Purple yam is the way to your heart, huh?” Mic laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his wide smile. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Next time?” you said, pausing your consumption to give him another perplexed look.

“Well duh! Next time we meet up so you can give me a status report.”

You lowered your cake and frowned at him, one eyebrow raised as you looked expectantly for an explanation. Mic tossed back the rest of his drink with a satisfied ‘ah!’ and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Y’know, we heroes don’t expect anything when we save people. Comes with the job and government pays us fair.” He shrugged, letting his head loll back so he could examine the stars above. “But that doesn’t mean that we just let people go scott-free. You caused quite a big stir, listener - most folks would toss you to the police or a hospital, y’know.”

Present Mic finally leaned forward so he could look at you properly.

“Friends check up on friends. This was your loud wake-up call, kid! That people care. I’m people!” He patted the front of his jacket with both hands. “My condition for letting you go back to your bed tonight and not immediately to a place with blinding bright lights an’ people jabbin’ you with all sorts of medical equipment is that you gotta make a promise. No more doin’ stupid shit!”

The bluntness surprised you. Coming from a man who had just comforted you profusely, the statement was a small slap in the face. You looked at the cake sitting idly in your lap while you processed the words.

“So. I check up on you every week, yeah? You tell me all the small steps you made - it can be anything from getting into therapy to just waking up and taking a shower when all you wanted to do was sleep for longer. Small laps are better than none, ya hear?” Mic gingerly placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “This is a battle that will last your entire life, listener. I might not always be around to pull you from that ledge. So you gotta make those steps so you can be the Hero that pulls yourself away. The Hero that wakes up every morning, looks in the mirror, and yells ‘I got this!’ That’s all I want from this whole thing.”

Oh. Oh, so you could cry more at this. The last of your tears rolled down your cheeks at the pep talk this Pro Hero was giving you. He understood. He was giving you a chance. It would have been easier to just send you away somewhere instead of sitting in a park in the middle of the night, buying you meals, and just talking to you like a person. Mic was here. Someone was there for you and the monsters in your head suddenly felt a bit less terrifying.

Thin fingers brushed away the tears, kind eyes from behind the shades offering you safety. A smile, a genuine smile graced your face and, once again, you were wrapped in a tight hug. It lingered for awhile before you finally pulled away to finish your cake with the warmth and comfort resting in your soul.

“Hey, lemme see your phone real quick,” Mic interrupted as he held out his hand.

You fished in your pocket for the device and handed it over knowing that it was better not to ask questions at this point. Mic clearly was headstrong and capable of convincing you to follow along with his plan. He began to type in something and then pull away for a quick selfie. You blushed when he handed it back, the new contact put in. Lots of obnoxious emojis followed his name, of course. You rolled your eyes and laughed. Mic held up his phone and rocked it back and forth, signalling for you to text him. With a few clicks, you sent him an image of some meme of a cat with teary eyes and a bunch of hearts. You heard him snort as he saved your number to his phone.

“There. You got my number. I’ll send you some contacts I know to get started with gettin’ real help,” he beamed. “You text me when you feel like those voices are getting bad again, okay?”

A small nod.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For all this.”

“Of course! Anything for my favorite listener!”

That made you blush again, the warmth feeling wonderful on your cheeks. You two shared a laugh and continued eating junk food to your heart’s content. Mic regaled you with a story of how he can’t eat spicy chips anymore otherwise he breathes fire. You told him about the time you believed for an entire year that onigiri were jelly donuts.

The two of you swapped stories and you felt the last of the monsters holding you back slip away into hibernation. You had a friend who was going to check up on you even if you tried to hide from the world. To pull you off that ledge when you really needed it. His loud voice was already chasing away the monsters and planting seeds of self-worth into your head. The love that radiated from the man was more powerful than any Quirk.

Present Mic was your number one hero.

[thethrillof]

start of a weird bug tank au hollow knight/undertale crossover thing b/c i am embracing self indulgence! fuck it!

warning for the hollow knight being an absolute wreck and death-related stuff

Do not think.

It fails. The situation is beyond anything it has encountered, has heard of, was warned of.

Do not speak.

It cannot. If it tried, it would choke on meticulous lifetime habit and Her infection. The last words it has heard, shaking its tiny body, meant nothing.

Do not feel.

It does. Terror. Confusion. Terror increasing, in that the confusion does not belong solely to it and that is horribly new.

Do not hope.

That is simple enough. It knows not what could be hoped for, here.

The Hollow Knight drips infection across the strange white cloth beneath it, legs curled stiffly to avoid pressing against the glass wall of its prison.

The holes eaten away in its chest, stomach, and arm are no longer agonizing. Another creature had taken care of that.  Perhaps several. They had been moved between multiple hands. The details were lost in the haze of Her rage; all but the hands each being more than the length of its body. It had nearly fallen. It had tried to fall. Do not feel, do not feel, do not feel.

It is so tired.

She is not enraged. She is not screaming. She is waiting behind its eyes, panic stabbing through its body in a burning rhythm.

She directs its head without care. Face aimed to the side, it can see more than a white blur from above, a pink stripe along the floor outside. A creature, waiting across an abyss.

She unfurls its body. Her chanting direction of slaughter, unceasing for years, is now silent.

The distant creature lies still.

It recalls an impression of what must have been eyes, golden brown, staring into the clear cell intensely.

The creature is not watching now. Quiet. Sleeping.

Its body moves. It resists now that it has space to do so, leaving its single arm uselessly resting against the branch in the center of the cell.

…When had the other been lost?

Do not think. It gives Her purchase.

The stump that is left flares with a memory of its shape, and She grasps the branch, begins to drag its body upward. The Temple contained them both for too long. An echo of Her rage, newly building, blinds and deafens it back to submission. A chance for true freedom is here. She will succeed and it will break, again and again, as it has done before.

It is so tired.

It.

It wants.

It wants everything

to 

stop.

Do not hope.

When it can see through its own eyes once more, the giant creature is within arm’s reach.

^

Frisk wakes up with a tiny white face right in front of theirs.

It’s just luck that they don’t slam their head into the wall when they fling it back, away from something way too close so suddenly.

They stare at each other across the length of their pillow, unmoving, as Frisk starts getting their bearings back. The stickbug, the one they got from the monsters on the side of one of the mountains. It got out. Somehow.

They ask how the heck it did that.

Which, of course, does nothing.

Carefully lifting their head and resting it on their hand, their eyes slide back to the jar on the windowsill. The napkin they’d secured with the rubber band had a hole ripped all the way through, as if their stickbug had jumped straight up and out. And maybe it did. It must’ve taken some pretty big jumps to get all the way from there to the desk to their bed, unless it climbed down and back up. A quick glance at the floor shows that Mom’s pie is there, though a bug-sized bite or several probably wouldn’t be something they can see.

The stickbug sways, twitches, pitches forward, so fast they barely notice. It’s tiny, so it doesn’t have far to fall, even if it did to the blanket, and it doesn’t. It rests face-first against the side of the pillow instead, almost like it’s still standing.

Do bugs breathe? They gotta, since Mom said not to close them in the jar. The stickbug is entirely still when they get in real close, holding their own breath to see if it’ll move. When it doesn’t, they gingerly nudge it into the palm of one hand, where it curls its one upper leg against itself. Arm, maybe. They don’t know too much bug stuff, except that bees don’t sting unless you’re mean first. And that it’s not actually a stickbug. Real ones actually look like sticks. This one looks like it’s made of black wires. Wirebug just sounds weird.

Toriel is the one who knows the bug stuff. They showed the stickbug off to her first, asked her to help it, ‘cause it was bleeding all over. They never actually asked what she thought it was. Didn’t have time.

She’s the one who got the jar and let them decorate it. And she’s the one who told them, very gently, that she didn’t think the stickbug would make it overnight. Her healing magic helped, but it’s not made for fixing bugs. “Bugs rarely live long lives, my child,” she said. “It will be pleased with whatever you give it.” They think she might’ve been lying, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

It looks like it started bleeding again after they fell asleep. The orangeness is dripping down its face, uncomfortably warm where it runs down the finger that its head’s propped to rest against. Mom healed that before, they’re almost absolutely sure.

They could put it back in the jar. Leave it. To maybe get better?

Or maybe not. Maybe leave it to die.

Alone.

Frisk’s fingers curl around the stickbug a little more. They’re still pretty sleepy. It’s nowhere near dawn, still sometime after Toriel went to bed. They shift and settle their back against the wall.

It’s just a bug, but it’s still alive now. Even if it won’t be for long. Even if it can’t see, or doesn’t know what’s happening. It might--after all, Muffet’s spiders were smarter than the ones that they’d met on the Surface before. Maybe they hadn’t been paying enough attention.

They sit up better, even though they’re sleepy, shifting their hands to let the stickbug stretch out over both their palms if it wants.

They’d never died alone, of course, but even the company of somebody (or somebodies) trying to kill them somehow seems like a less awful thought. That’s terrifying, though they can’t explain why, even to themselves. Any death sucks (though getting ate is probably the worst).

Mommy! Daddy!

No. They push those thoughts off. That wasn’t alone. He was, they weren’t, game over.

It was almost like dying alone, down in the Lab. Before they got to talk the the Amalgamates in the right way. It was just cold, dark, unsettling, voices dancing around their ears and coming from their own mouth, sometimes. It was terrible.

It was cold. The echoes of air and distant Amalgamates were awful, otherworldly music.

It was cold.

It’s cold.

It’s so cold--

Until it isn’t.

Sunlight scalds their face and circles wheel around their head and they press their hands over their eyes, snarling. Frisk was busy remembering!

Something is above them. It’d be blocking out the light if it had shadow but it is the light, so they get even angrier at it. Her. HER. HER, SHE, THE RADIANCE brands into their brain.

They snap at the Radiance to get away from them.

“Little creature,” she roars sings hums laughs. “Greater beasts have tried to order me away.”

The light ripples underwater. There���s no water.  Her words pump toxin through their skin.

They move their head, cracking their eyes open. The world’s clouds and light and just a bit of stone under their back. They’re lying down. They shouldn’t be.

“Little creature. I wonder your purpose.” She does not. Certainty of a goddess that knows all, unshaken as earth scorched to nothing.

(The thought of a lie does not come to them. Fortunately, this doesn’t matter.)

Moving is painful. The sun beats down on them in waves, hot as fire, sharp as spears, and they have had enough of that.

They are not alone.

“Little creature.” She reminds them of meeting Papyrus, but that’s an insult to him. Overwhelming, alarming. Nothing to hide behind here. Undyne, bellows of justice, cutting through. Asgore, the whispers and rumors, the coffins, the warmth.

None of their sadness. None of the pain. Liar, liar, liar. They want their dagger.

“I am here. Listening. Speak. Stand. Allow me closer.” Burnt sugar sweet. A warm last breath. Love broken, love lost.  

The heat presses down harder.

They remember climbing a mountain. They remember finding a home.

Hissing words that Toriel would ground them a month for, grasping without sight, knowing what they want is right there, right next to them on the stone. A head that’s not a head, a shell, a mask, a face, a little white face with orange eyes that they blindly claw at, spilling the nasty goop to leave the space behind. It’s not a little face, it’s a mask longer than either of their arms, and after they’re done it’s held defiantly against their chest.

She screeches.

They screech back.

“You reach for that empty thing!” Her words vibrate through their teeth. “That lie! That wyrm-born abomination! You know nothing! Not where it comes from, not the shattering of my light! You will release it. You, creature, fragile, pathetic, little CREATURE. Listen! LISTEN. Do not turn your back. Nothing again. LITTLE CREATURE. COME HERE. YOU WILL RELEASE ME. YOU WILL KILL IT. YOU WILL END WHAT REMAINS OF HIM.”

The mask they hold is so, so, so cold, it bites into their skin worse with the orange burning.

A child braces for pain.

A child grits teeth.

Fought a God made of every SOUL of every monster they ever met, built of l-o-v-e, full of LOVE, stars and colors screaming and whirling and ripping them to bits. They died and died and died and refused. Hopes and Dreams and Determination, all swirling and ripping gracelessly out of their chest.

They tell her: no!

They tell her: My name’s Frisk!

They tell her: I don’t care!

They tell her: This stickbug is MINE! They’re mine! Not yours!

They are a Fallen Child even if not The Fallen Child, and they lost their fear the first time they tripped into fire, were consumed and shattered by it, and they prove this by twisting, sliding, leaping off the stone to plummet into the dark under her horrible terrible beautiful screaming--

They land with a jolt in their bed, foggy gray light filtering in through the window.

Blinking afterimages of gold circles from their eyes, they adjust their neck and look at the stickbug still in their fingers. Their stickbug, they think with a shadow of anger that’s already fading with wakefulness.

Their stickbug sits up, staring at them with deep black eyes.

Frisk gives it a tired grin.

Look, they whisper. Survived the night after all.

[peanutsandbitterstep]

Compass Heading

Summary: A GBF Soulmate AU. Everyone has arrows on their body that point them to their soulmates. Nehan has one on each arm.

The first moment of clarity in months and it comes from curing the sickness of a fellow slave. The precise measurements of ingredients, combined into medicine that would break a fever. The Magasin are more than pleased that they’ll be getting more value out of him than they paid for.

“This is the one you were talking about?” the Chief Pharmaceutical Officer asks, hand on one hip, surveying Nehan.

“You said you could use all the help you could get,” his master says. “He doesn’t look it, but he’s got a brain in there.”

“Hn. Well, some of the others are going out for supplies. Have him join them. He can’t get into too much trouble like that.”

With a wave of dismissal, the chief gets back to work.

Nehan is sent out with an overseer and some other members of the pharmaceutical team. He doesn’t resent the change in duties. Focusing on remembering plant shapes and habitats means that his mind doesn’t have space to dwell on images of blood and decaying bodies.

He practically becomes part of the medical division and formally does once the epidemic passes.

“You’re turning out more useful than we thought. Keep this up and maybe you’ll actually be something,” his master says.

The promotion would be beneficial, but it’s still the clarity that he chases, until he no longer needs to be actively focused on work to keep the memories at bay. And without the memories comes a lack of feeling that persists, even when he poisons someone and watches him die.

It’s not the death that’s notable or even the killing. He’s seen and done plenty of that already. But this was less of a professional hit and more of along the lines of experimentation of a new poison. The death is messy and drawn out over the course of a few hours, but he can’t muster up anything other than intellectual curiosity.

“Looks like we’ll need to get back to the drawing board,” the chief says, once it’s all over. “Good work everyone.”

A candy is passed to each of them as they file out of the room.

“For me?” Nehan questions, even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“Of course. You’re part of the family too,” the chief says casually, as a few associates trail in to deal with the body.

Family.

The word digs under his skin and sticks, like a splinter he’d once had to spend fifteen minutes locating and pulling out. He sneaks out that night and holds his arm up against the sky, studying how the arrow lines up with the constellations. It’s the first time he’s been able to look at it since the day he’d lost his home.

There are people with nowhere else to go, there in the Magasin. Fellow slaves who make the family their home, and even find their soulmate among the others.

Nehan’s home may be gone, but there’s still one family member he has left.

At the moment, the arrow on his right arm points northeast. Toward another island, maybe even another skydom.

Sudden rage bubbles up from his chest, to his throat, and he wants to shout, ‘Come on! You know how to find me. Come and try to finish me off like you did everyone else!’

He has no illusions about overpowering Xing. The prodigy, hope of the Karm Clan. But he’s gotten better at firing a gun and has enough knowledge about poisons that they could at least go down together.

But Xing doesn’t come. Instead, a guard comes to check on him and make sure he isn’t trying anything stupid.

Some of the others might not know where they came from, but not him. Nehan knows who his family is and why they’re no longer with him.

‘I’m going to see you again,’ he thinks. ‘And when I do, I’ll be ready.’

Years pass and he learns as much as he can. Medicine and drugs, how to coax a sickened organ back to health as well as shut it down. His memory does not fail and his emotions stay out of the way. The family places more and more trust in him and he becomes busier with all the extra responsibilities.

Responsibilities that include research for the drug they’re developing, titled Project Serenity. If they get this right, they’ll get enough power to retake their territories.

Which brings him to the island.

“Nehan!”

“Hello, Mugen. How have you been?”

The lone inhabitant of the island had not been much help when it came to research. As it turns out, someone who can’t be poisoned doesn’t need to consider anything except taste when it comes to ingesting plants. There are other reasons to let him tag along, though.

Mugen tells him about all the changes that have happened since he was away (it rained and he caught a frog), and Nehan tells a heavily edited version of his most recent trip to Auguste.

He’s struggling to convey the idea of a sea when he hears the growl of a timber wolf. Right hand reaching for his gun, he searches the direction it came from.

It’s Mugen who reacts first, punching the first wolf that leaps at him. Nehan picks off two more. Out of the corner of his eye, there’s a blur and he moves just enough that the wolf’s teeth close on his jacket sleeve instead of his right forearm.

He’s aware of Mugen shouting his name, but he’s too busy gutting the monster to respond. It’s silent when he looks up again. Mugen must have taken care of the rest of the pack.

A shadow looms over him and he flinches, raising his gun. It’s only Mugen though, concern on his face as he reaches out.

“I’m all right,” Nehan says, showing Mugen his torn sleeve and unmarked skin. “See? No blood.”

Mugen studies Nehan’s arm, carefully holding back his strength as he turns it over. “Nehan have too.”

“What?” Following his gaze, Nehan sees what he’s referring to. “Oh, the soulmate arrow.”

“Soul...mate?”

“A soulmate is…a person whose life is intertwined with yours.” Scrambling to explain the concept more simply, Nehan says, “It’s two people who are very important to each other. The arrow shows where the other person is.”

“Like Nehan?” Mugen holds out his left arm and, sure enough, the arrow is pointing directly at Nehan.

Swallowing, Nehan says, “No, not like me. Look, my arrow doesn’t point to you.”

What he leaves out is that it would be the arrow on his left arm that would determine whether he and Mugen are soulmates. He hasn’t checked that arrow in a long time and he isn’t going to check now.

He doesn’t want Mugen to get tangled up in his problems.

Pulling his arm out of Mugen’s hold and stepping back, he says, “I’m sure whoever your soulmate is will be a wonderful person.”

“Nehan wonderful,” Mugen insists and Nehan laughs before he can stop himself.

“Thank you for saying so. We should keep going.”

This idiot. If the Magasin or any of the other families were to find out about him, this child with an adult body and inborn power lurking right under his skin was just going to be used. Like Xing.

Time hasn’t tempered his rage or desire for vengeance, but it has given him perspective. The Karm Clan had reaped what they sowed. Their fate had been to die at the hands of their own weapon, to pay for their crimes with their lives in the most ironic way.

And maybe that’s why Nehan is still alive. There are more than enough people who hold a grudge against him, more than enough who would deserve to take revenge.

Perhaps they will. But not before Nehan makes Xing answer for his crimes.

Another two years and Serenity Heaven is created and distributed, repositioning the Magasin in the crime world. With Nehan’s work and the Chief Pharmaceutical Officer’s death, Nehan’s position as the successor is cemented.

The most authority he will ever have. And he needs to act now because the Magasin is falling.

Alliances between the other families and poorly thought out strategies, including but not limited to his former master killing his soulmate in a feat of remarkable cunning and absolute stupidity.

Amazing how soulmates in rival families tended to bring out both the best and worst in each other. He’d seen soulmates provoke each other to anger with a meaningful look or well-placed word, as well as inspire the acquirement of new skills.

“That bastard knew what he was doing when he bought the restaurant!” his former master had ranted. “He did it just to spite me!”

And he was probably right. Because they were equally petty and had a tendency to modify their business dealings so the other person’s job would be more difficult. But with him dead, his family had made taking down the Magasin their biggest priority, and Nehan wasn’t going to wait for everything to collapse.

He supposes he shouldn’t be so critical. After all, his plans are going to upend the entire skydom.

Because Xing, as it turns out, is an Eternal. Seox, as he calls himself now. Surrounded by the most powerful skyfarers, armed with talents that he has honed to perfection.

He could have found Nehan anytime he wanted, but he hadn’t. Does he think he can run from fate?

Some people think fate is something that can be defied, but look. Here Nehan is, without his clan or home, but there’s still a mask still on his face, he has poison in one pocket, and Trancensia is in the other. It was always going to turn out like this.

The moon is just beginning to rise as he walks toward the port. He has a promise to keep to Mugen and then he’s headed to the Enforcers. He’s done waiting for someone who clearly isn’t coming. The stars will show him where he is and his arrows will guide him to where he needs to be. And then all of this will be over.

A/N: Thanks to my friend who proofread this and my other friends who listened to me complain! I hope you enjoyed reading this.

[fadingcoast]

Death Of The Lie  ||  Chapter 18: Closure

AUTHORS: @fandom-and-feminism​​ & @fadingcoast​

Summary: Odin and his daughter Hela are the perfect conquerors of the universe. The nine realms fall one after the other into their clutch. After Odin takes a second wife and has a son with her, he doesn’t need Hela anymore. Hela abandons her father and ends up marrying Laufey, a sworn enemy of the Aesir people. Not long after, she becomes pregnant with Laufey’s child. Odin cannot let that son be born, but against all odds, the boy survives. Odin is forced to bring him back to Asgard to be raised as his own until he could make further use of him. The half-Jotun-half-Aesir boy grows up to look and act a lot like his mother, which disturbs Odin, and makes him treat the boy horribly. Odin’s lies are deep and complex, but one day the boy will find out the truth about everything he is.

PAIRING: None RATING: Teen

MASTERLIST

Feedback is always appreciated and reblogs are encouraged!!

Chapter 18: Closure

Erik.

Loki’s heart dropped like a ball of ice into his stomach. He was so preoccupied with the wedding reception and the ring that he had completely forgotten that Erik would probably be here. Frozen in place, he couldn’t make his muscles move to turn around. He heard Erik let out a breathy laugh and clear his throat but he still couldn’t move.

“I just… I saw the… are you…” Erik clearly couldn’t find his words either, tripping over every other syllable until he trailed off with a frustrated sigh. Finally Loki was able to turn around slowly, his eyes trailing up from the crystal floor and over Erik’s formal Vanir attire until he met his dark amber eyes. “Hi.”

Loki blinked a few times before he could answer. He suddenly felt self conscious of his helmet and took it off, making it disappear, and ran his fingers through his short hair to smooth it out. “Hi,” he managed to say, just loud enough for Erik to hear him.

Sigyn broke the tension and ran to Erik for a hug, nearly knocking him down. “It’s so great to see you!”

“You too,” Erik replied, not bothering with masking his contempt, still staring into Loki’s eyes. “So, ah, you two getting married?”

Sigyn glanced over her shoulder at Loki and back up at Erik. “Yes,” she said slowly, carefully, forcing a smile. “We’ve gotten really close and my father figured there really couldn’t be any better of an arrangement. It won’t be for some time, but… yes.”

The fake smile on Erik’s face as he cast his eyes to the floor made Loki’s chest ache. Centuries had passed since he had last seen Erik but still he felt a longing he couldn’t describe.

“You look well,” Erik said, hands clenched at his side. “Strong. The short hair works for you.” You’ve changed, Loki could practically hear him saying, the true meaning behind his words. You’ve moved on.

Loki took a step closer to Erik, then two. “You look good too,” he somewhat managed to put out in a steady voice.

His former lover had grown as well, nearly as tall as himself, with twice the musculature. Truly a man now, and a Prince, not my tadpole anymore, Loki realized. Yet he was still just as handsome as the last night they had spent together all those years ago. Loki wanted to say more, so many words he had kept to himself for too long, and they were buzzing under his skin like insects. But he couldn’t afford to open himself up to those feelings again, not when it took so long to shut himself away from them.

“Erik, I -”

“There you are!”

A bright and cheery voice broke through the awkward silence and Princess Finja, Erik’s wife, came through the door from the throne room, smiling wide with her hand resting on the curve of her belly. Erik’s face lost its color but he straightened his spine and plastered on a grin as his wife came out to stand next to him. Quickly Loki stood up straight and collected himself as Finja recognized him and stared. He wished he could melt through the floor when she gathered her skirts and curtsied as low as she could.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted Loki, and did the same for Sigyn. “It’s an honor to have you both here. It was a pity you couldn’t come to our wedding celebration, but in another year or so we may have a naming ceremony to invite you to, if Erik ever makes up his mind about it.” Finja stroked her stomach affectionately but cut her eyes sharply at Erik, who had turned an almost sickly gray color.

“Of course,” Sigyn piped up, sparing Loki the need to respond. “A new baby, how exciting!”

A baby, Loki pondered. Poor Erik must have put duty over desire, or she forced him. He shuddered inwardly at the thought of the latter. Or the baby carries someone else’s genes…

“Your Majesties, shall we come back to the party? The King and Queen were looking for you before I found you.” Finja’s sweet smile never wavered as she took Sigyn by the arm and led her through the door, leaving Loki and Erik staring at one another in tense silence. It was Loki who moved first, his hands clenched and his heart racing. He started toward the door and Erik instinctively put his arm behind him, just barely grazing Loki’s back, and Loki’s stride faltered from the slight contact.

“Loki…” “It’s okay, Erik, you don’t have to explain yourself.” Loki turned to face him, but his eyes didn’t meet Erik’s. “It’s been a long time-”

“A long time and yet you can’t look at me?” Erik’s voice was laced with sadness as he took a step in front of Loki. “I guess I should-”

“Please, Erik, don’t.” Loki took a deep breath and held it before looking at Erik. “It has been a long time. We both have lives now and-” He tripped over his words, not sure of exactly what he wanted to say.

Erik nodded and forced a small smile. “Sigyn, huh? At least you got to choose a good one. She will surely make you happy.”

Loki felt his heart sink at the implications of his words. Erik didn’t have the benefit of a choice. He lowered his voice for discretion. “And- are you happy?”

“It could be worse.” Erik shrugged his shoulders. “Finja and I have come to an understanding. We know what is expected of us.” Loki knew this very well: the obligations and duties of nobility was what tore them apart in the first place. “But we’re not blind or stupid. We mostly keep out of each other’s hair. She keeps my secrets and I keep hers. Play the happy couple in public.”

“So the baby-?” Loki asked tentatively.

Erik shook his head. “Not mine, except in name and status. I think I’ve touched that woman twice since we got married. Didn’t particularly enjoy it.”

Loki gulped hard. “And who do you - enjoy?”

Erik was surprised by the question, and noticed how Loki was holding his breath. He took a moment to decide how to answer that. “His name is Wilhelm,” he finally said. “He’s my squire now. Clever, discreet, very good with his mouth…”

“I didn’t need to know that!” Loki covered his face with one hand and carefully peeked through his fingers to check that no one else was listening.

Erik laughed, successfully lowering the tension. “He kind of reminds me of you, you know?” He took a deep breath and lowered his head, fidgeting with his fingers. “He’s smart and kind and funny… He makes me happy. Makes me forget I’m living a lie.”

The knot in Loki’s stomach loosened a bit. At least he’s happy. His head swam with memories and made up scenarios, so many things Loki had tried too hard to bury. They had been so happy, once, Loki thought he’d never be happy again when Erik left.

But I am. Sort of.

Despite the pain that caused him to freeze half of Alfheim castle, despite believing nothing could ever be as good as what he had with Erik, his heart had mended. He had been able to explore love and pleasure and lust, and heartbreak. And now he was engaged. Against all odds and expectations, he was the one engaged, to a princess, a great woman, a great friend.

“I’m- I guess, I’m-”

Erik smiled. “We had our time. As short as it was meant to be. I- I like to think I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Is that why you stopped writing?”

Erik nodded. “It just hurt too much. I needed a break from all the hurt. A break from my own head imagining we could be together again.”

Loki gave him a bittersweet smile. He knew the feeling all too well. A momentary pang of jealousy for the couple he had come to celebrate ran through him as he heard their joyful laughter spread through the throne room - at least they would never have to worry about choosing between love and duty, as clearly they had found both in their match.

Sigyn, reappearing on the window frame, made Loki realize that his lot wasn’t so bad after all.

“My prince, you should come back inside now. The newlyweds need Asgard’s blessing.” Sigyn smiled while she spoke, but her eyes denoted the urgency.

“Yes,” Loki said straightening up. “Of course. Will be right there.”

In a tiny flash of green, Loki made his helmet reappear. He took a deep breath and turned to Erik, words failing him once more.

“I have found my measure of happiness with what I have, Loki.” Erik was the one to speak. “I know you will find yours too. There are great things coming for you.” There was a veiled goodbye in his words, an unspoken but clear finality. They would not see each other again after this.

Slowly Loki nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He held Erik’s gaze and reached to grasp his forearm. “Same for you, my friend.”

.-

The few days away from Asgard were a balm to Loki’s soul. A reminder of a life that waited for him outside the borders of his own realm, a place that no matter what, he could never bring himself to call home. Home was somewhere else.

Loki knew he had to be worthy of that home, of the responsibilities that home would demand of him in the future. He decided quite quickly and easily that he would do whatever it took to live up to those responsibilities.

His days became a blur of weapons and magic training, royal education and diplomatic meetings. Odin still requested him to attend dignitary audiences. Unlike Thor, who was quick to demand respect without earning it, and threatening with violence, Loki used his abilities and his brain to read people, and learned how to make himself indispensable to the crown. His silvertongue had been well known within Asgard, but the knowledge spread wider, increased by his insistence to accompany Asgard’s High Chancellor on dignitary duties, reasoning that a hands-on learning process was much more effective and useful. Not only was Loki able to outmaneuver dignitaries and nobles in such a way that they didn’t even know it happened, which directly opposed Odin’s normal show of power in an effort to intimidate, but it was Loki who knew when and how such men and women were trying to trick them and was the first to make it known.

It was also a very clever way to set himself apart from his brother. Thor’s approach to things was always to hit first and ask questions later. Many realms made the mistake of assuming Loki, just as his father and brother did, would come boasting Asgard’s military strength and power. Most of the diplomats were pleasantly surprised, as they could hold a civil conversation with the younger prince. But at the same time many of them grew weary of him, spreading rumors of mind control and dark magic, refusing to audience with the second, lesser prince. Loki was at least grateful that Odin failed to make a big deal of it. As long as Loki's abilities were useful, he would ignore them, and decided Loki was the best representative to deal with affairs in his name.

Whatever time that wasn’t dedicated to combat training or royal duties, Loki spent at the library. Soon, he gave up trying to convince Odin of expanding their collection, and seeing the books curator wouldn’t go against Odin’s orders, Loki took advantage of his newly found freedom. He had already learned to conceal himself from Heimdall, and his next step was to track hidden and forgotten portals in and out of Asgard. This allowed him to smuggle not only books, but several curious contraptions, including a device that recorded and reproduced music. His chambers were too small to store all this new found treasures, so he magicked himself a private room in the library, filling it up with all his findings. He used it to study, read, learn and write.

But the room had yet another purpose: it became his hideout. No one knew about it, not even his mother. Whenever he wasn’t in the mood for family dinners, he was secreted away in his little corner of the world, writing letters to Sigyn, deep in the pages of a book or poring over some new music he had found. It became his haven from the pressures of castle life and allowed him to pretend the kingdom wasn’t heading toward ruin.

Because Thor was in no rush of learning or growing. He was comfortably following his father’s steps, replicating his ways. Proud and hot headed, the elder Prince liked to muscle his way out of problems and would rarely think before acting, especially when he was provoked or teased. Many a meeting was spent with Loki trying to put out a few fires, both figuratively and at times literally. Thor lacked the wisdom of age and experience it took to know when and how to act like a King, and lacked the will to learn how to.

But time wasn’t something that the kingdom was afforded, for the Allfather was steadily growing ever older, weaker by the year. Odinsleeps came more frequently and began to last longer, leaving the kingdom vulnerable even with the Queen and her sons to protect the realm. It was clear that Odin’s rivals and enemies began to take notice when ambassadors and dignitaries paid their visits to the King. No one outside of the castle saw it but Odin became convinced the other realms were mobilizing against him.

Asgard needed to make a statement.

It wasn’t long before Thor’s coronation was announced, and Loki was already coming up with a plan. He didn’t want the throne for himself, but there had to be a better choice than Thor. If Odin wasn’t able to see how bad a king and ruler Thor would be, Loki would take matters in his own hands and make the whole of the nine realms aware of his negligence.

<< Chapter 17  –  Chapter 19 >>

.-

@igotloki @xalgaliareptx  @christy-winchester @silverhart93 @claiming-loyalty-to-loki @honeybournehippy @unseelie1963 @mischievousbellerina @manager-of-mischief @angryowlet @thelittlestlittlecutiepie @moonlightprime 

[proudtoehaver]

Bid My Blood to Run - A Culmets fic

Can also be read on AO3 if that’s your preference.

Coming back to life is filled with difficulties and hardship, and sometimes the ones who are the closet to you are the ones who hurt you most.

The light in the cabin’s living room is dim and apart from the faint hum of the electronics of the ship there is not a sound to be heard. Sitting on the couch, trying to focus on his padd and the poem on its screen, Hugh can’t help but notice the difference between now and before.

Before he would have had music running in the background as he read, perhaps a cup of coffee on the table beside him that he slowly nipped. But he was a different man then.

Now sounds grate on his ears, lights always seem too bright, too strong, and often causes him headaches. Food tastes differently than he remembers it.

Even reading is not the same.

‘Pristine’ dr Pollard called him, but Hugh Culber feels anything but pristine. He feels worn out, tired, off balance. Nothing is like it was, he isn’t like he was, but everyone expects him to be.

Even Paul.

Especially Paul.

When he looks at the man who have been his partner in every way for so many years, he sees the light of hope in his eyes. Hope of a second chance, hope of return to normal. It makes him want to scream, shake him until he realizes how wrong everything inside Hugh is, to bring Paul’s carefully created castle in the sky crashing down. But there is part of him that cannot bring himself to crush those hopes, to destroy that delicate illusion. However much he feels he has changed, he still loves Paul with all his heart and he never could stand hurting him.

The lines of the poem on the screen dance in front of his eyes, even with the light setting on its lowest focusing on the digital letter requires more focus than his eyes are capable of. Or maybe his brain. Maybe all of this is in his head?

‘Of course, it’s all in your head, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.'

Did someone tell him that once? Or did he read it somewhere?

The swish of the door opening breaks his train of thought. Then the light is turned up, the sudden brightness like needles in his brain.

“Hugh, darling. Why are you sitting in the dark? What do you want for dinner? I’m starving.”

Maybe it’s the pain from the sudden brightness; maybe it’s the cheerfulness in Pauls’ voice, so discordant with his own mood; maybe it’s the normalcy of everything except him; maybe his patience and endurance has simply run out? But in that moment Hugh can feel his temper flare and his self-control begin to slip away between his fingers.

He gets to his feet. Better leave before he says something he shouldn’t.

“Nothing, I’m going for a walk,” he says, his voice taunt and strained.

“Come on, you need to eat.”

He should go. Just say nothing and leave. Nothing good can come by staying. He knows that, but he tired. Tired of running, from Paul, everyone, himself. Tired of hiding, of ignoring and pretending, pretending that everything is fine, when he’s as far from fine as he can be. Just tired.

“Do I?” he snaps. “Do we know that I do?”

“You’re only human, Hugh.”

“Am I? Do we know that? Do you, I, any of us, have the faintest idea concerning me?”

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

And with that the fragile threads on his temper snaps.

“No, of course you don’t. You don’t understand, you don’t want to understand. You want to pretend that nothing ever happened, that it’s all normal. I died Paul. I died! And yet here I am. Good as new, better. Except, am I? Is this,” he gestures with his hands to his body, “Even really me?”  

His voice keeps rising as he speaks until it’s a shout.

The look of pain on Paul’s face. Of shock. He can’t bear it, the pain of seeing it, knowing that he is the one inflicting it, stabs him deeper than the pain of the bright lights. But still his anger burns.  

“Who am I? How am I? Have you asked me that? Have you stopped to ask me how I am? Ever? Just once?”

Paul’s face is a mask of pure anguish, the look of torment pushing Hugh into moving. Away. He can’t stay here. He brings only grief and pain now.

The padd, the poem on its screen forgotten, falls numbly from his fingers, the sound of it crashing to the floor, deafening in the silent room. And then he’s gone, out the door. Far, far away. Where he can cause no more despair.

Later he’ll wonder why no one stopped him. He must have looked a sight, blindly stumbling through the ship’s corridors.

But then, people are very good at not seeing what they don’t want to, ignore what’s right in front of them when it is most convenient. Returning from the dead showed him that.

When he’s once again capable of sensing anything but his own pain and misery he finds himself in the ship’s green house. Once the location of Paul’s mushroom garden it has since the decommission of the spore drive been converted into a more generic garden. Though fungi still have room here, so have many other types of flora, from a hundred different worlds, to be studied by the botanists and other scientists on board. Some of them from planets with very low lighting.

It is to that part of the room that Hugh makes his way to. He sits down on the edge of one of the plant boxes, the leaves of the bush behind him unnoticed brushing him across the shoulder. Letting his eyes traces the outline of the bioluminescent fern in the opposing box he tries his best to forget stricken look in Paul’s eyes.

Slowly the form of the fern begins to blur and Hugh can feel hot tears and they slide down his cheek. Slipping down onto the floor he presses his forehead against his knees and hugs his arms around his legs.

How long he sits like this he doesn’t know. Vaguely he hears people pass through the room behind him, but none comes near, and hidden as he is by the plant boxes and flora no one sees him. In the end his tears run out as tears always do, leaving him with a raw throat and an aching chest, and the haunting memory of his fight with Paul. A fight that leaves him feeling even less himself.

His anger had never been a loud thing, but cold, deep and immovable. Paul had once said that Hugh reminded him of a mountain chain when he got angry, that no matter how much the world might batter at him he would stand there, never budging an inch, once he got riled up. Nor would he yell, his voice would get cold and very precise instead. So yet another thing about him has changed, another facet that shapes him into a different form, a different Hugh Culber.

Steps closing on him startles him, makes him look up.

Paul is crouching down next to him, his eyes red rimmed and puffy. The sight feels like a slap.

“Hugh.”

Words rush through Hugh’s brain and he tries to sort through them, find the proper ones to apologize, but Paul interrupts him before he can start.

“Please, let me say what I came here to say before you begin?”

Hugh nods.

“I’m sorry. You were right. I’ve been so desperate to have everything, to have us, back to normal, that I’ve been neglecting you. Overlooking how... bad you looked. I’m sorry, Hugh. I should have asked sooner, I should have asked you a million times, but I am asking now. How are you?”

Something inside Hugh Culber breaks, a silent scream that tears itself loose somewhere inside and rips trough his veins. Almost blindly he reaches for Paul who takes his hand and pulls him close.

Hugh buries his face in Paul’s shoulder, clutching at his shirt, like a drowning man grasping for anything that will keep him afloat, while Paul’s hands gently caressing his back, rocking them back and forth.

“Tell me what you need of me,” Paul says softly, his lips right next to Hugh’s ear. “I’m sorry I’ve been so callous with you, you deserve so much better. But I’m asking you now. Let me help you.”

Slowly Hugh pulls back until he can look at Paul.

“Not really the place for that conversation.”

Paul stands, pulling Hugh to his feet as well.

“Come.”

They walk back to their cabin side, by side, Paul never once letting go of Hugh’s hand.

The light flares up bright when they step into the cabin.

“Shall I dim it?” Paul asks.

“Please.”

Paul pulls him down to sit beside him on the couch. He takes Hugh’s hands in both of his, cradling them.

“Talk to me, I’m listening. How are you?”

Hugh takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how I am. Everything feels odd, off. Lights are too bright, sounds too loud. The food taste strange, not like I’m used to.”

“The lights, it hurts doesn’t it? That’s why you keep it turned down.”

“Sometimes. A lot of the time.”

A flash of chagrin, there and gone again almost too quickly for Hugh to notice it, passes across Paul’s face, but whatever he’s thinking he keeps to himself.

“Everything is so- Upside down. I’m certain of nothing, everything feels like its slipping away from me. I've never been a religious man, but I died and now I’m here again, and I remember everything that happened to me in between the two.”

“You could say that yours were a bit of a special case. The circumstance regarding your- your death would not apply to most cases.”

Hugh chuckles.

“You were always the one that argued that some part of us, that something that made us uniquely us, survived in some form, Paul. Now you have evidence that you were right. That if I am really me as I appear to be, then your idea was true. To some extended at least. Are you just going to ignore that?”

Paul looks away from him.

“This doesn’t feel like something that should be pried at and picked apart,” he says.

“Paul, I’ve never known you to be afraid of the truth.”

Running his hands across his face Paul purses his lips, looking back at Hugh again.

“Losing you, Hugh? It nearly destroyed me. When I came out of the network, we were in too much danger for me to think much, but once I had time to do it? I still don’t know how I got out of bed in the morning, how I managed to go about my day without you.”

As Paul speaks, Hugh sees his own fear reflected in his partner’s eyes. That this gift is too good to be true, that Hugh is not who he appears to be, that he’s an imposter, who somehow has Hugh Culber’s memories, his feelings and who now wears his skin, but who is not him.

“Paul.”

Hugh cups the back of Paul’s head, leaning forward until their foreheads touches.

“We’ve both been running, haven’t we?” Paul says. “And from the same thing.”

“Yes, but I, we, can’t keep ignoring the elephant in the room,” Hugh adds. “It’s not going away.”

“Expect this isn’t something that can be proven if all the test that have been run so far is not enough. Dr Pollard ran every single conceivable test and analysis. You are Hugh Culber."

“Then why don’t I feel like it half the time?”

“You died. You... survived it. That would leave a mark, a deep trauma, on anyone. Someone who experience deep trauma often doesn’t feel like themselves afterwards.”

Ask Ash Tyler.

The words hang between them, but neither of them says them.

“But how does this explain my sensory issues? According to Pollard I’m perfect. But if I am, why does everything feel so strange?”

Hugh sees the look in Paul’s eyes shift, they’re no longer looking at him but at some far-off point, the look he always gets when he’s chasing one of his ideas. Then a wide smile breaks across his face as he practically leaps of the couch and turns to face Hugh.

“Yes, you are,” he says. “They made you perfect.”

“I don’t follow.”

Paul reaches out and takes his hands in his own.

“Hugh, what is human DNA?” Before Hugh can answer, Paul goes on. “It’s information storage in biological form. More important to your case, it’s the blueprint for the body. What do you do when you build something you’ve never build before and all you have is a blueprint in your hand and the building materials?”

Hugh slowly shakes his head, still not following.

“You follow that instruction to the letter to make sure you get it right. Don’t you see, that was what the Jah’Sepp did. They rebuild your body, using the instructions in your DNA, but they – May – had no experience doing that, so rather than make a mess of it they followed those instruction to the letter.”

Paul pulls him to his feet and grabs him by the shoulders, laughing.

“They made you, your senses, of a human of twenty, younger even. But senses deteriorate with age...”

And right then and there Hugh catches up to Paul’s train of thought.

“So all that I remember is different because those were the senses of a forty-five year old man. The light feels too bright because it is according to how I remember it.”

“Your brain is trying to reconcile new sensory input with old memories...”

“...and it doesn’t add up, causing everything to feel so strange and unbalanced.”

Hugh finds himself laughing too, giddy with relief. Dizzy, he sits back down on the couch, pulling Paul down with him so he straddles his thighs. Paul rests his hands on his shoulders, rubbing them lightly, while Hugh keeps his on the small of Paul’s back.

“I should have thought of that. I’m a doctor, why didn’t I?”

“You’ve... have a lot to deal with.”

“There is that,” Hugh acknowledges.

Of all of it his sensory issues might have been the least of them, at least looking from the outside, but they certainly felt like the ones who loomed the largest. Perhaps the solidity of them made them feel that way, the way they tied themselves to the physical world and with how they made him feel less like the man he was.

He lets go of Paul’s back with one hand and holds it up in front of himself, studying it.

“I’ll get used to it, eventually I suppose. New memories overlying old ones.”

“Yes. But-” Paul breaks off abruptly, as if he’d said more than he intended.

Hugh looks at him, sees him study Hugh’s hand too, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Paul says, too quickly and with a smile that Hugh can tell isn’t genuine.

“Tell me. Paul, you were never anything less than honest with me before. It was what made it work, made us work. Don’t change that now.”

Paul takes his hand in his own, cradling it between his palms, nodding slowly.

“I’m not sure it should cause you headaches,” he says. “Even if your eyes are sharper, more receptive to light, your brain should be able to handle it. That’s been remade too. I’m sorry, I thought I had an answer.”

Hugh pulls his hand out of Paul’s and presses a finger to Paul’s lips, silencing him.

“That’s not what I want of you. That’s not what I look to you for.”

Paul pulls back a little.

“What do you want?”

“For you to hear me, see me.”

“I do.” Paul takes his hand again and presses a kiss against the knuckles. “I do.”

“And to let me find my own answers. I’m not talking about practical problems here, you know that. This isn’t something you can solve for me, Paul.”

He knows this might be the hardest thing he’s ever asked of Paul. Paul have always been the man who found the answers, the one with a thousand questions who would stop at nothing and let nothing get in his way, who would move the stars and bend space to find the answers to them. Hugh knows that ask him to stop doing that, to not try chase down the answers to Hugh’s problems, is asking him to go against who he fundamentally is and that it might create a rift between them that cannot be healed. Yet another reason he has kept his silence till now.

“I understand.”

“Do you, Paul? Do you really?”

“I think so, yes. You need to... reclaim not just your body but your life. You need to find your own way home. I will be here for you, always, but I know I can’t find that path for you. I’ll try to keep my peace, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Paul wraps his arms around Hugh’s shoulders and Hugh buries his face in Paul’s chest his mind occupied with the point Paul had brought up. Even if the conflict between sensory input and sensory memories is part of the cause of his feeling of alienation from his body, it does not explain why bright lights gives him headaches, why loud noises sometimes hurt. Recreated neural pathways should be able to manage the new information overload, even if that overload conflicts with his memory.

But if there isn’t a physical cause, then it has to be mental or emotional. Something that makes light and sound feel wrong, dangerous.

Dangerous.

Of course.

“Conditioned response,” he says, his voice muffled against Paul’s chest.

Paul pushes him back enough that he can look down on his face.

“Sorry?”

“Conditioned response. That’s what’s causing it.”

“Conditioned from what?”

“My time in the network. Paul, I spend... I’m not sure if time works the same in there as it does out here, but quite a bit of time there. And in there, bright light, sounds above a whisper, it meant pain unless I got away. I didn’t understand what the Jah’Sepp were, or what they were doing, I just knew it hurt me, and that light and sound heralded it. That would, could, have cause a conditioned response, that ties light and sound-”

“-to pain.”

“Yes.”

He looks up at Paul.

“Turn up the light.”

“Hugh, that isn’t-”

“Turn them up.”

Paul makes to protest again and Hugh grabs him by the hips, dislodging him, pushing him off him so he can stand.

“Computer-”

“Hugh, stop.”

Hugh turns back to face Paul.

“My body, my rules. I’m not there anymore.”

“But it’ll still hurt you.”

“Because my head still thinks I’m there and I need to stop.”

“Turning up the light will do nothing to change that. All it’ll do is hurt you.”

Hugh takes two steps back, away from Paul.

“Computer, turn the lights up. Full strength.”

The pain is instant, as is the panic that he’s ignored so hard he didn’t even know it was there till now. The need to move, run, something. Anything.

Reflexively he closes his eyes, covering them with his hand.

I’m not there. I’m on the Discovery, the real Discovery. I’m home. I’m home.

The words ring hollow in his head and even through closed eyes the light is still too bright and painful.

“Computer, lights down, 80 percent,” he hears Paul say. Then a hand touches his shoulder and guides him back to the couch.

Paul says nothing more after they sit down, but puts his arm around Hugh’s shoulder and holds him close.

“I thought- I know it doesn’t work like that, I just hoped...” Hugh finally says.

“I know. Hugh... You need help. Help I can’t give you.”

“I know. I just don’t know if I should be talking to a psychiatrist or a priest. So much of this feels out of the domain of a therapist.”

“And so much of it is certainly outside the area of expertise of any priest. Unless you find someone who’s both.”

“That might be the answer.”

“Whatever you choose, wherever your path takes you, I’ll be right here beside you. I promise you that.” Paul gently touches Hugh’s jaw, turning his head so they’re face to face. “No more running away from each other, for either of us.”

In the quiet, dimly lit cabin, putting his hand over Paul’s, Hugh latches on to that promise, holding it in his heart as a lifeline, a promise, that he will find his way back home.

[archiveddvrpg]

Congratulations, HONEY! You’ve been accepted for the role of PARIS with a faceclaim change to Luke Pasqualino. Admin Jen: I had high expectations for Priam as he’s such a nuanced, multi-faceted character but you exceeded them by leaps and bounds, Honey! You captured all the concepts that I was hoping to see someone explore and unravel such as his identity, search for purpose and moral ambiguity and you added all these little details that built off of that but also made the characterization wholly yours. My favorite one was the detail regarding his knack for fixing up cars and the backstory you built off of that in terms of his family’s corporation. I can honestly keep going for hours because there was just too much to love about your app. It’s left me absolutely thrilled to see how you’ll develop him on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | Honey

Age | 22

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | I’m a final year college student who’s doing a short film as my final project, which might take up some time. But I’m taking less classes this semester so that kind of evens out the workload a little. I’d place my activity level at about a 6 (maybe even 7 if I’m feeling particularly inspired) out of 10.

Timezone | GMT +8

Current/Past RP Accounts | apcstasies.tumblr.com

In Character

Character | PARIS ; Priam Taravella (FC: Luke Pasqualino)

What drew you to this character?

The fact that everything about Priam is manufactured, a carefully curated collection of personality traits and mannerisms that he can turn on and off at will whenever it suits his purpose. By all intents and purposes – be it business or personal – Priam is a self-made man. But even though his perfectly-crafted veneer is his greatest strength, paradoxically, it is also his biggest weakness. There is a void inside him, a hollow point that eats away at him. It is a slow decay, but it consumes nonetheless. Personally, I feel that this emptiness he feels is a lack of human connection, and for all his ambition and apparent desire to rise to power, what he truly seeks is a sense of belonging. Priam wants so badly to be seen, but ironically the way he makes himself visible is by putting on a mask.

I feel like he probably struggles a lot with his upbringing and his resentment towards his parents. On the one hand, he’s very aware that as far as childhoods go, his isn’t terrible. He grew up extremely privileged and never wanted for anything (besides his parents’ affection, but that’s besides the point). Sure, it sucked that his parents were distant and that he’s had all these expectations placed on his shoulders from such a young age, but Priam is very aware of the fact that there are many people who would give anything to trade lives with him. He was deeply unhappy with his life growing up, and when he was younger he had been more inclined to complain about how much he hated his life, as children are wont to do, but then everyone around him constantly reminded him how lucky he was and so he learned to bury his discontentment. He carried his unhappiness inside him like a cancer, letting it fester until he was sick with it.

I also find his potential struggles with self-identity to be a compelling part of his character. At what point does the mask become the man? When does the line between the part he plays and his true self start to blur? Does he ever catch himself in the middle of a moment and think–– am I still pretending, or is this truly the man that I have become?

+ Bonus: I just find it amusing that he’s named Priam.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character?

TENDER LIKE A BRUISE

Love is an abstract concept that Priam can’t quite grasp and it shows. Still, there is a part of Priam that believes in love. Perhaps it is because he’s never had it that he wants it this badly, or perhaps it is the way he’s heard Julianna speak of love. Romantics talk about all-encompassing love, the kind of love that consumes you until you can think of nothing else except your dearly beloved and being with them. Priam is no stranger to being consumed, except it is poison that fills his veins and a monster within that eats at him inside out. As a teen, he’d thought that he could fill the void inside of him with love, only he never quite understood what love meant. He’d confused love with lust and, sleeping with girls, and boys, and girls and boys, but even if it kept the hunger at bay for a little while, the emptiness alwayscrept back in. Whether Priam realises it or not, he wants Juliana to be the one who might finally be able to carve a home in his ribs. Maybe they’re not in love, but when he’s with her, something in his chest settles, and maybe, maybe, maybe, that will be enough.

WE MUST BE KILLERS

Priam’s never had much of an appetite for violence, but if there’s anything he’s learned from his parents, it’s that the means are always justified by the ends. And if that’s the case, then what’s a little bit of spilt blood in the grand scheme of things? But just because he can understand the necessity for violence doesn’t mean he’s any more willing to be an active participant. He’s a hypocrite and a coward; he may not ever be the one pulling the trigger, but he is the one who looks away and lets it happen. It makes the ugly parts of the job easier to stomach, soothes his conscience some. But things are changing, tensions are rising, to remain passive is to bare your neck your enemy and pray they won’t tear your throat out. Priam is a survivor, and if it comes down to killing someone or being killed, he knows which side of the line he wants to fall on. He’s a liar, he’s manipulative, he’s ruthless –– he’s never been a killer, but perhaps it’s time to change that.

SHIFTING IN THE LIGHT

Despite being neck-deep in the corruption of Verona, he likes to think that he has some morals, or at least a sort of ethical code that he follows. People like him are the worst, criminals who refuse to acknowledge themselves as such. For Priam, part of the reason is pride, but fear is a factor as well, even if he won’t admit it. He had been the one to go to Cosimo, and the man has always treated him as something of a son, but sometimes he does wonder if he’s sold his soul to the devil and it’s days like those that he can’t bear to look himself in the eyes. But Priam can’t run from the person he’s become forever. One day he’s going to look in the mirror and not recognise himself, and he’ll wonder if maybe the mask is stuck, or if he’s just become the mask. He’s grown into a man, hardly recognisable as the little boy he used to be, and only time will tell whether that’s a good or bad change.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character?

Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve killed off one of my characters : )))

(That means yes, please feel free to kill Priam.)

In Depth

In-Character Interview:

• What is your favourite place in Verona?

“My favourite place?” Priam echoes. The slight twist of his lips hints at amusement, but it is the sort of indulgent humour one might direct at a particularly precocious two-year-old. It’s an expression that borders on condescension, but the reporter is either oblivious to it or doesn’t much care, continuing to watch him with expectant eyes. Over the years Priam has found that people are usually too enamoured by his pretty face to really notice the ugly parts of him that lurk underneath the surface, and it feels like a challenge, almost –– sometimes he toes the line just to see how much he can get away with by virtue of being young and beautiful.

“You’re standing in it,” he finally answers, the words accompanied by a vague sweeping gesture of his hand, inviting the reporter to take a proper look at the garage they’re currently in. This is the first time anyone other than him has been in there, and a part of Priam tingles with the wrongness of a stranger in a space that had before this been only for him. Still, it’s a small sacrifice he has to make. People love to be reminded that the rich are regular people with regular hobbies behind the glamour of wealth, and if Priam throws them a bone now, it’ll keep them from digger further into other truths he’d rather not divulge. “I apologise for the mess, by the way,” he adds, allowing a sheepishness he doesn’t actually feel to seep into his voice, “I probably should have cleaned up a little, but it slipped my mind. Don’t usually let people in here, y’know?” Hook, line, and sinker, Priam thinks, watching the man flush slightly at the implication that he’s the exception.

• What does your typical day look like?

“A lot of paperwork,” he answers with a laugh, and then, “No, really. I left Taravella Corporation because I got tired of sitting around in an office all day. Albeit it was a very nice office, but I’ve always been more of a hands-on kind of guy.” He pauses to pick up a wrench from his worktable, pretending not to notice the double entendre, or the way the reporter’s gaze catches on his fingers as they wrap around the shaft of the wrench.

“I traded aerospace for automotive, thinking with a smaller company I’d get to be more involved with the actual manufacturing process, but I still spend most of my day signing papers.” He looks up from the car then, sharing a wry smile with the reporter before adding, almost cheekily, “Except now I get to do it in a smaller office.” Despite the reporter being the only other person in the room, Priam lowers his voice anyway, letting the reduced volume provide the illusion of candour. “Some might say it’s a downgrade, but it’s nice to have a space that finally feels like it’s mine. It sounds silly, but back at T-Corp, I always felt like I was just messing around in my old man’s chair.”

“Anyway,” he says, talking normally once more, “After work I like to grab some drinks with my friends, maybe dinner with my fiancée if I end early enough. I’m really not all that different from other guys in their twenties.” If other guys his age routinely met up with members of one of Verona’s most well-known mobs, of course, but he decides to leave that last bit off the record.

• What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“I accidentally wore mismatched socks to work once,” he deadpans, and then more seriously, “I suppose it depends on how one defines ‘mistake’, but to me, a mistake is something you wish you could undo.” He ducks under the open hood even as he continues to talk despite previously having made it a point to make eye contact whenever he answered a question, knowing that the reporter will interpret it as him feeling more comfortable being honest when he’s not actually looking at the person he’s talking to.

“For a while, I had wondered if leaving the family business had been a mistake,” he admits, sounding genuine even as he lies through his teeth. Priam had never been more sure of anything, determined to forge his own path to the top without the burden of his family’s legacy weighing him down. “But that worked out pretty well for me, I’d say, so no regrets there.”

• What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“Picture this––” he starts, “You’re five years old and your father brings you to work.” It’s perhaps his earliest memory of his father. Before that, the man had been a mere spectre in Priam’s life, the bogeyman that his nannies had used to keep him in line. Your father wouldn’t want you to use that word, or keep your voice down, your father’s resting in his office. That day at Taravella Corporation’s main office had been the first time they’d spent more than half an hour in the same room. Back then, Priam had thought it had been some sort of a father-son bonding experience, but he knows better now.

“He showed me around, brought me to all the different departments before he took me to his personal office. There, he said to me: this will all be yours someday.” On some nights, he can still hear his father’s voice, still remembers grappling with the realisation that he’s not so much a son as he is the heir to an empire he never asked for. It’s not a happy memory, but he recounts the tale with a carefully calculated smile that’s just this side of sheepish and a half-shrug, proud and self-deprecating all at once, “That’s quite a lot to ask of a young boy, don’t you think?”

• What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

War. It’s such an ugly word, but there’s hardly any point debating the reporter’s choice of words when it’s the truth. Priam is under no illusions –– while the interview might have been disguised as a spread on one of Verona’s most successful young entrepreneurs, this one question is the true crux of it all. But he wouldn’t be such an invaluable piece on the Capulets’ chessboard if he hadn’t been well-versed in the art of lies and half-truths, and that ability is sure to serve him well now.

“If you think that I have anything profound to say just because I’m engaged to Juliana, then I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” He places his wrench back down, walking away from the open hood of the car to lean against the passenger side door instead, allowing the reporter an unobstructed view of him. His stance is carefully neutral, arms at his side, nothing in his posture to suggest that he has anything to hide. “I’m a businessman, I make and sell cars,” he starts, but knows that there’s no way he can get away with not commenting on the issue at all. “That being said, my family has always been close to the Capulets, so. Whatever Cosimo and Juliana are doing, I trust that they’re doing the right thing.”

“Speaking of my fiancée––” Priam straightens up suddenly, his tone returning to it’s earlier light-heartedness as his lips pull into a grin. “I’m supposed to meet her for lunch today, and I should probably wash off all this grease before I do that. I assume we’re done here?” It’s phrased as a question, but combined with the slight raise of a single eyebrow, it’s clear that it’s a dismissal more than anything else. The reporter’s smart enough to catch on, nodding in agreement as he thanks Priam for his time.

Extras:

Taravella Corporation is an aerospace engineering company, mostly dealing with the manufacturing of commercial planes, but they have the occasional military contract as well as an R&D department that’s looking into space travel

After leaving T-Corp, Priam went and set up Argentum, an automotive engineering company that produces some of the most innovative luxury cars in the world

In his youth, Priam had a brief stint with street racing. It had been an attempt to distract himself from the gnawing emptiness inside of him, and for a while it worked. Now, occasionally he’ll drive over the speed limit, but he’s not nearly as reckless anymore

Really good at poker but we’ll probably never actually get to see this in a thread (besides maybe a passing mention) because I have no idea how to play poker despite having been taught multiple times

Sexy and he knows it !

I wish I could end this app on a more coherent and/or profound note but it’s 4 in the morning and I just want to write a fake ass hoe whose entire existence can be boiled down to: was unloved as a child and now has no idea how basic human emotions work

He tries though, really

[othercat2]

Writing Update

Little, tiny bits of writing got done this week, but not enough to actually post. I had errands to run and also it’s hot outside now. Very, very hot.

Most of what I wrote was fan fic, but there was on original fic prompt that I worked on, but could not complete. (It just wasn’t coming out right.) I may have to re-write some of the fan fic I wrote because things weren’t coming out very well there either.

Since the laptop is being a little wonky, I finally got around to updating my portable drive. I’m going to try to update every week or so. (I need a new laptop. I really, really need a new laptop. Or even a used laptop that was slightly younger than the one I got.)

Tiny snippets of what I’ve been working on:

Safety Dance

The “intervention team” takes four of the ground transports used by the resource recovery teams. The transports are black vaguely RV shaped vehicles. They are armored, somewhat amphibious, and have guns. Twenty five people can fit pretty comfortably in each of the four transports, each of which has its own tiny kitchen, infirmary area, a restroom with multiple stalls, and communal showering, in addition to bunks, holds and a pantry for food and an armory.

You’re very impressed and spend a lot of time exploring the transports while everything is being packed away and stored! You ask the transport crew members a lot of questions. This helps distract you from where you’re going. You are really, really not thrilled about going back to Lafayette, even if it’s important, even if you’ll be helping other people who were still stuck there.

You sit at one of the tables in the dining area and watch the miles blur by, chin resting on your crossed hands. The transports are faster than a car, and you’ll be at the Lafayette city limits two hours faster. Dave comes over to sit next to you. “Can you believe we actually walked all this way?” he asks you. “And we’re going back in the blink of an eye, practically.”

“Yeah,” you say, sitting up to look at him. You want to keep the uneasiness out of your voice, but Dave sees right through you.

He puts one of his hands over yours. “You okay?” he asks.

“Nervous,” you say. “Maybe scared.”

“You? Scared?” Dave asks in a scoffing tone.

“It’s more likely than you think,” you say solemnly.

(glaciers melting in the dead of night)

Once she has his agreement to feed himself and drink, Meenah sends for new restraints. Dirk struggles, but she hobbles him with ankle cuff with chain that has just enough play between them that Dirk can walk easily. Next, she buckles padded leather mitts around his hands. They are bright fuchsia and his expression when he finally gets a look at them makes her laugh. “They’re to keep you from clawing yourself up,” she says. “Your nails are weakass and flat, but the mitts will do just as well to keep you from doing any other dumbass thing.” She chains his wrists together, with the chain behind his back, and linked to the chain hobbling his ankles, so he can’t lift his arms, or get the chain over his head.

“What next, a gimp mask?” he asks. “I said I was going to cooperate.”

“You said you were going to eat,” Meenah says. “Not that you were going to obey me.” She reaches out to stroke his cheek and he jerks away from her.

“Consume, obey, submit,” Dirk says in a harsh, cracked tone. His eyes are bright with a defiant glare.

Meenah pushes him back on the sack chair and settles down beside him. “Hush,” she says, cupping her hand against his cheek. “I get it, you hate me, you’re angry as fuck.”  She strokes his cheek, brushes her fingers through his hair. A shiver runs through him, and he goes still.  “So I’m going to respect that by not letting you run around free and unrestrained in my coddamn quarters until I have your obedience.”  

“You’ll have a long wait,” Dirk says, his voice shaking a little.

Hives more likely to be there than not

Dola is kind of mad at you when you get to her, and also confused. Dola is always kind of mad at you so that's not a big deal. "I assure you that the location of all wiggler hives are listed and carefully monitored. There aren't any 'hives that weren't there before but it's mostly plausible that they should have been there.'" She frowns at you. "Is this some kind of joke based on the assumption Psii hasn't sent me podcasts of Troll Welcome to Nightvale?"

"Dola, just look," you say. "I swear they'll be there, right where there wasn't anything before according to the drones, but it'll be all archived like it was."

Dola’s mouth thins into a straight line, but she looks in the records, like you asked her. “I don’t suppose you have any other information about these anomalous wigglers?”

You list off last names and lusii. She is not happy about the names, and she also isn’t pleased about a few of the lusii. “The lusii should be dead,” you tell her, which she also isn’t happy about, except for the seagoat and the spider.

“They haven’t been used as lusii for sweeps,” she says.

“Well, the Serket sprat had a giant spider and the Makara sprat had a seagoat. Special circumstances.”

“Like living in hives that more likely to have been built where they are than not?” Dola asks in what you’re pretty sure is a rhetorical fashion.