#he needs like two more postcards to encompass his shoulders

[teahermitcomics]

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[fairy-princette]

i gave your name as my emergency phone call

AO3 link | 1 2 3 4 5 (you are here) 6

Stan receives a postcard from his twin brother - who he’s not seen in a decade - asking for his help. But like with everything else in his life, he runs into some trouble on his way there

5. loosen my cuffs

Stanley groaned at the pain in his arm, pushing himself up in the snow with his good arm. A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see Henry bracing its legs and bowing its head as it prepared to run him through.

“Stop!”

A small dot of white light appeared on the stag’s head. Stan was frozen but from the corner of his eye he could see his brother standing, brandishing what appeared to be a plastic gun, aimed directly at Henry’s head.

Ford walked in a slow semi-circle until he was between Stan and the deer, never taking his eyes off it.

“We’ve talked about this before Henry; even if you have claimed this part of the forest you can’t be expecting strangers to follow arbitrary rules you’ve never told them, and you certainly can not try to kill them when they fail to do so.” Ford adjusted his grip on the strange gun. “Now, from where I’m standing we’re outside of your territory and any claim you have, so if you don’t leave us be right now you will sorely regret it.”

Stan flicked his eyes between them as they stared each other down until the deer tilted its head towards Ford and let out a low huff, retreating back into the trees and galloping away. As soon as it was out of sight Ford spun around to crouch in the snow in front of Stan.

“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, it’s just my shoulder.” Stan let out another groan as he pulled himself into a seated position, leaning back against the tree. He gingerly poked at his left shoulder and let out a sharp hiss. “Yep, definitely dislocated. Gimme your shoulder a second.” Ford leaned forward curiously as Stan braced his hand against the other’s shoulder. With a sharp jerk he threw his body to the side, popping his arm back in the socket with another loud crunch.

“Sweet Moses Stanley! You didn’t need to do that - we could have gone to the hospital!”

“I’ve done this before, it’ll be fine. Besides, no insurance.” Stan climbed to his feet, careful to favour his left arm, and brushed the snow off him. Ford stood up next to him and began leading them back to the cabin.

“If you’re sure,” he said, giving Stan a concerned once over.

“Very. It’s not like this is worse than having all your fingers broken.” At Ford’s shocked look he quickly began to backpedal. “Not that getting your fingers broken is that bad! Especially when compared to being stabbed in the gut!” Ford looked even more panicked. “I mean, not that either of those have happened to me! Actually, what I’m more interested in is knowing when you started carrying around a gun?” Stan looked down at the weapon, which Ford had casually shoved in a pocket, unsubtly changing the subject.

Ford gave him one last concerned look. “I haven’t - it’s a LIDAR scanner I was using the other day. It shoots beams of light at objects and measures the time taken for it to be reflected back, which is then used to calculate their distance from your location.”

Stan blinked for a moment. “Say that again, but pretend you’re talking to someone who’s not finished high school.”

“It’s a fancy measuring tape. Look,” Ford held up the not-gun to show a small screen on the side, “Henry was stood two metres from us.” Ford paused for moment, realising his mistake. “That’s roughly six point five feet.”

Stan blinked again. “You threatened off a mutant deer that was about to rip us a part with a measuring tape?”

“I might not be as good at it as you are Ma, but you’re not the only people in this family that can lie, Stanley.”

———

Ford slumped down at the kitchen table between Stan and Fiddleford. The former had his arm in a makeshift sling made from a spare scarf and a snow-filled plastic bag encompassed by a tea towel pressed into his shoulder, while the latter was surrounded by freshly-annotated blueprints and calculations. The engineer had made a solid start in working on how to deconstruct the portal, but they were no closer to permanently hiding the schematics from Bill or freeing Ford from his control; as long as Bill had access to his mind he would be able to find his memories of the contents of the journal and use his body to re-build it.

“Okay, so,” Stanley groaned slightly as he repositioned himself at the table, “From where I’m sitting our biggest problem is Bill getting in your head, right?” Ford nodded mutely. “And he can do that ‘cause of your deal - so what exactly was it you agreed to?”

“I gave him free access to my mind while I am not conscious, and in return he would give me knowledge and assist in my research.”

“And is he?”

“Not since I decided to destroy the portal, no.”

“I don’t see why you can’t just tell him to fuck off then.”“Stanley, he’s an inter dimensional being of unlimited power, I can’t just tell him to fuck off.”

Stan crossed his arms petulantly. “Don’t see why not - he’s broken his end of the deal, why should you uphold your’s.”

“Well because- because he-” Ford stopped, furrowing his brow in thought.

Next to him the scratching of Fiddleford’s pen stopped. Ford glanced up to see him chewing on the end it. “Y’know Ford, I can’t rightly think of a reason why that shouldn’t work. If you have a contract with someone and they’re not upholding their end of the agreement, you’re no longer beholden to it. We just need to find a solid enough lock to stop him breaking in again” He pointed to Stan with his pen “That’s some good lateral thinking - same as with what you were saying about the journal pages in the truck.”

Stan looked at Fiddleford perplexed. “What did I say about the journals?”Fiddleford had gone back to his calculations “When you were falling asleep, about just ripping out the pages on the portal.”

Ford stopped, staring unblinking at Fiddleford. “You had a solution for dealing with the journals this entire time? Fiddleford! We’ve been discussing this for hours, what reason could you possibly have for not telling us?”

The other man shrugged, defensive. “Sorry Ford, I guess I forgot. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot going on right now.”“‘There’s a lot-’, okay, fine,” Ford took a slow breath, trying to reign back in his temper. “What was Stan’s idea?”

“That if you wanted to keep the journals you could just rip out the pages with information on the portal and destroy those, and retain the rest of your research. It’s a good idea, I don’t know why we didn’t think of it.”

Ford turned to face his twin, who had gone slightly pink from the praise. “That is a good idea Stan.” He pulled journal one out of his pocket, leafing through until he reached the section on the construction of the portal and unceremoniously ripped them from the book, ensuring no stray words were left behind. “Here,” he proffered them to his brother, “The gas is still hooked up to the stove, if you would do the honours of burning the first pages.”

He watched as Stan took them and watched as they caught on the burner, the yellow flames eating up the information. He felt relief flood through him; that the work was one step further from Bill’s hands, and that he wouldn’t need to destroy the entirety of his life’s work. His life’s work so far.

———

It was late in the evening, after the three of them had spent the day searching for the journals, eventually finding one buried in the woods and the other by the elementary school. Each had taken turns burning the relevant pages, and Fiddleford now found himself bundled up with a hot cup of coffee, sat on a rickety chair on the porch. He had been trying to stay out the way of the Pines twins, giving the two the space they definitely needed to clear the air after not speaking in so long. While there was still a certain awkwardness hanging between them they also hadn’t had another screaming match, which he was taking as a win.

His fingers comfortably warmed from his hot drink he placed the mug on the ground, swapping it for his banjo and began plucking out a song. Halfway through his third tune there was a creak as the door next to him swung open to reveal Ford, wrapped up in all his layers.

“Hey F, mind some company? Stanley’s stress-cleaning again and I think it would be safer if I was out of his way.”“‘Course, pull up a chair.”

Fiddleford continued quietly plucking at the strings.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you, you know.”

“Okay.”

“You disregarded my safety, and worse than that, you ignored my scientific opinion. It’s going to take a long time to rebuild that trust.” Fiddleford sighed and put down the banjo, begrudgingly looking up at Ford for the first time since he came out, “But I do still want to be your friend.”

“Really? Oh. Good. That’s good, I would also still like to be your friend.” Ford paused, tapping his fingers together, and Fiddleford picked up his mug, giving him a moment to collect his thoughts. “I know I have a lot of work to do to earn your forgiveness, but I am sorry, for how everything happened. I got so caught up in the idea of what I could have; the discoveries, the acclaim, the notoriety, that I lost track of the important things that I already have, and you’re one of those important things.”

Fiddleford reached over and gave his knee a squeeze. “Thank you.”

He picked the banjo back up, picking out a new song as the two sat on the porch, flakes of snow falling around them. There was a thump inside as another piece of debris met Stan’s cleaning wrath.

“I was thinking,” he said as he continued playing, “we’ve been trying to think of a way to lock Bill out of your mind, but what if we don’t need a lock? What if we just need to hide it? I’ve been doing research into cognitive function and neural networks, and I reckon we could make a machine to encode your brainwaves so Bill’s no longer able to find you.”

“You really think that could work?”

“I think it’s the best shot we’ve got right now - it might not be a permanent solution but it should at least buy us a few months. Maybe longer - while the rest of the cells in our body regenerate, our brains aren’t capable of the same level of healing. There’s even a possibility it could work permanently. Now I’ve still got the blueprints for the, uh, for the memory gun,” Fiddleford was suddenly very interested in inspecting the wood grain of the wall, “which could be a good jumping off point for the design. We have a different end-goal, but the basic principles and theory behind them is consistent.”

“Well come on,” Fiddleford felt himself get wrenched to his feet, “What’re we waiting for, let’s gather our supplies.”

———

The three spent the next few days running through the house, gathering various gadgets and macguffins from throughout the house to build Fiddleford’s new brain gizmo - sorry, the ‘Cerebrum Scrambler 3000’ (there had not been any previous versions but Stan had insisted on the number. If you were going to have a base like an evil scientist you needed to name your inventions like an evil scientist). The paraphernalia included, but was not limited to, four computer screens, a typewriter, the light from the fridge, an old colander, and a pile of towels. They were currently holed up in Ford’s office - apparently the basement had more space but Fiddleford point blank refused to go down there - and Stan was stood in the corner of the room, carefully avoiding touching any experiments or making any sudden movements. The last time Stan had quickly stuck his head in the engineer had been wearing a welding mask and wielding a blow torch, and while Stan wasn’t a fan of his mullet he was attached to his eyebrows and wasn’t looking to get them fried off his face (again).

This routine continued for three days as the machine slowly grew. What had started out as a pile of junk turned into, well, a pile of junk but with cables and electricity and weird little glowy bits. At least the sparks were gone now. As it began to reach completion the atmosphere grew tense and excited; they were close to being able to free Ford, but the closer they got the more agitated Bill grew each night. He had yet to escape the restraints while Ford slept, but the previous night Stan and Fiddleford had had to find a way to jam his mouth open as he tried to chew off his own tongue.

The office desks were now taken up by a wall of monitors, with ones and zeroes running across the screen, all plugged into an extension cord that looked like an arson attempt waiting to happen. Cables led from the screens to a stack of computers on the floor, to a modem, to the old colander which now had a chin strap and was sitting on the desk chair in the centre of the room surrounded by towels. Stan hadn’t asked what the towels were for and he hoped he didn’t have to find out.

The blueprints were taped to the wall, Fiddleford’s and Ford’s handwriting cover the edges of the paper as edits and adjustments were made to the design. Fiddleford was stood with a clip board, double-checking his notes and the schematics with the physical machine in front of them.

“I think we’re ready for a trial run.”

“Alright then,” Ford clapped his hands together and reached for the colander-helmet.

“Sixer!” Stan slaps his hand away from the colander. “You are not testing a brain-scrambling machine on yourself. What if it melts your brain and you can only speak in limericks afterward? Honestly,” he rolls his eyes turning to Fiddleford, “Like I said, dumbest genius.”

“Heh, yeah, who would use an untested machine on their own brain? Now Ford, I am completely confident in my design, but there’s no harm in a non-human test.”

“I don’t think that colander’ll fit on a rats head."“No,” Ford looked at the machine thoughtfully, “but it might fit a gnome. We would need to capture one though - while they are easy to locate, especially as they keep trying to get into the garbage, they are slippery little things and can put up a good fight.”“Aren’t gnomes like,” Stan lifted up his hand, his thumb and forefinger a couple inches apart.

“First they’re more like,” Fiddleford lifted his hands, about a foot apart, “And they’ve teeth! Those assholes are not afraid to fight dirty!”

“Sorry Fids, but you’re not the first person I’d go to for fighting advice. You said you’re strong but that’s not really the same as street-smarts.”“I don’t see why I should need to learn to fight when I can just build a killer robot to do it for me,” the engineer groused.

“Gentlemen, if we could get back to the matter at hand? The faster we acquire a gnome, the faster we can protect ourselves from Bill. Stanley, as you just pointed out, you are the best here at fighting, I trust capturing a gnome is within your wheelhouse?”

———

Five hours later, multiple bite wounds and one test run later, a dazed gnome was safely returned to the forest. The three watched as it wandered haphazardly towards the tree line, stumbling over stray twigs and pitching into a bush on the way.

“A little disorientated, but otherwise I would say that was a resounding success!” There was a dull thunk as the gnome walked into a tree. “Let’s continue on to the human testing phase.” Ford paused for a moment. “And maybe get Stanley a tetanus shot.”

———

Fiddleford scanned over the lines of bright green C++ that filled the screen, double checking the program while Ford secured the helmet on his head. Stanley was stood in the corner brandishing a fire extinguisher, three of his fingers covered in bright blue plasters that had previously been bought for Tate. He gave a decisive nod to himself as he checked the last line of code and moved on to checking the hardware connections with his voltage tester. Finally satisfied with his work he spun his chair to face Ford, who was looking at him determinedly as he sat on a spare kitchen chair with a colander strapped to his head, surrounded by bath towels.

“It’s ready. Ford; the plan, one more time.”

“We turn on the Cerebrum Scrambler and-”

“The Cerebrum Scrambler 3000.”

“Quite. We turn on the Cerebrum Scrambler 3000,” he gave Fiddleford a look. “It will bio-electrically encrypt my mind by reconfiguring the baseline connections of my neural pathways, leaving them functionally as they are but altering them at a cellular level, blocking Bill’s access to my mind. Before the encryption completes I will recite the reversed summoning ritual to banish him for good, hopefully leaving me free from his possession.”

“Sounds about right to me. And Stanley, if it’s all going to hell in a hand-basket?”

“If the machine catches fire, use the extinguisher. If he gets possessed again, use the extinguisher. If it start frying his brain, pull it off him. And maybe use the extinguisher.”

“Alright, time to fish or cut bait.”

He spun back round to face the machine, flicking the switches above the screen and slowly adjusting the dials. The coding filling the screens quickly changed to binary code before Fiddleford pressed the last button and the screens filled with Ford’s scanned thoughts.

Destroytheportal-Destroytheplans-EscapeBill-DestroyBill-Canhebedestroyed-He’sgoingtostealmyeyes-Arethejournalsreallysalvageable-He’salreadybeenhurttwice-He’sbeenstabbedandhadhisfingersbroken-Havetomakeituptohim-Needhimtoknowhecantrustme-HavetomakeituptoFiddlefordtoo-Stopthinking-Stopthinking-Stopthinking-3.14159265358979323846264338

The sound was abruptly cut off as Stan wrenched the cable out of the speaker.

“Let’s, uh, just pretend we didn’t hear any of that, yeah?”

“Yes, thank you Stanley,” Ford nodded his head as much as he was able without dislodging the headpiece. Out of the corner of his eye Fiddleford saw the screen fill with new text.

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou

Fiddleford turned his back to the screens, grabbed a pen torch out of his pocket and rolled his chair over to Ford to perform a basic neural exam. He flashed the light into his eyes before having Ford follow his finger, checking his pupil dilation and eye tracking, and then gave him a short term memory test and took his pulse. He rolled back over to the desk to compare them to the results from that morning and Stan leaned over his shoulder.

“All looking good?”

“Yes, there does’t seem to be any negative side-effects so far. How’re you feeling Ford?” He called over, not looking away from the screen of data.

“Just peachy! Y’know the thoughts of the gnome were much less coherent than mine just now. Given their sentience you would expect similar results. D’you think I could get my journal? I’d love to take some notes on it.”

“Ford, you know they’re staying hidden until we’re sure you’re safe from-”

The text on the monitor next to him was flickering between the Roman alphabet and coloured squares.

Helpmehe🟨🟪⬜️ehelpme🟩🟨lpmehelp🟦🟦helpmehelpmehelpmehelpme

“-Bill.”

A pair of yellow eyes was reflected in the screen from across the room.

———

Stanley looked up from the screen of incomprehensible numbers to see Bill stood in the centre of the room, wearing Ford’s skin.

“Offbrand Sixer! Now I’ve finally got my hands free we’re going to have so much more fun!”

“Oh, hell no.”

Stan hefted the fire extinguisher to his side and swung it in an arc at Ford’s head. The metal made contact with the colander with a loud thunk and Bill crumpled to the floor.

“Oh my goodness!” Fiddleford quickly ran over and crouched over Ford, checking his pupils and for a pulse. After a moment he let out a sigh of relief before glaring accusingly up at Stan. “You could’a damn well killed him, Stanley!”

“He’s fine! Maybe a little bit concussed, but he’ll live. You really think I’ve never knocked someone out with an extinguisher before?”

“Everything you say about your life is deeply concerning. Now help me get him off this here floor. And grab some tape.”

Stan grabbed the other side of Ford’s limp body and hoisted him back into the chair, holding him steady while Fiddleford attached him to it with gaffer tape, a single phrase now filling the computer screen.

Honkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshhhonkshh

“Good news is your weird machine works on unconscious folks too.”Fiddleford leant down to scan the data being generated on one of the many screens. “That’s one bonus, I suppose.”

Stan leant back against the wall, keeping an eye of Ford’s body while the engineer watched the machine.

“Stanley?”

“Yeah?”

“You were real quick to hit him with the extinguisher.”“There gonna be a question in there, Fids?”

“Not really, guess I just thought you might hesitate before belting your brother.”

“I mean we’ve talked stuff out but I guess I’ve still got some negative feelings there, y’know in my subconch-shell.”

“Subconscious?”

He clicked his fingers towards Fiddleford. “That’s the one. Hell, this is probably therapeutic or some shit. Oh!” Stan quickly touched his finger to his nose. “Dibs if he doesn’t wake up to do his weird spell I get to chuck a bucket of water over him!”

[sanghyukstattoos]

Glaze of stars

Characters: Lee Sanghyuk I Dawon x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Words: 2156

Summary: Warmly, the trees and the animals blurred into the shadows of the forest, making way for you and Sanghyuk whose fingers gently grasped the softness of the night. 

A/N: Heyyy, How is everyone??? This was a really sweet request which I smiled all the way through while writing~~~ When describing the places, I deliberately made sure to not mention any specific names (of the place they went to) because I wanted you to be able to imagine a place by the descriptions (like a fantasy land or a far away place- it’s up to you!). I also left the description of the reader ambiguous as I do for all my fics as we are all different people so when you read it, you can imagine yourself with ease. I truly hope everyone loves this fic (also, should I make a second one?) 

Hand in hand, you stood on your private deck with Sanghyuk admiring the night sky. On the deck, the wooden lodges formed a barrier and at every lodge was a lit candle, hugging the holder. If it weren’t for the candles scattered across the deck, you would have been shrouded in incomplete but oncoming darkness. The sun was setting and pastel colours of fading pink and purple had managed to settle in the sky. Looking like a postcard, the clouds were scarcely littered across the sky and bathed in opulent tones of dark blue. The forest that laid miles beyond from where the two of you was not to be seen however, you could faintly trace the uninterrupted outline. Looking up, you could see that hints of the light blue morning still existed, yet to leave and make way for the night.

Rubbing his thumb in circular motions on your knuckles, Sanghyuk smiled at the nature that encompassed the two of you. To his side was the section of wood that branched to guide their line of vision to the site ahead of them. Although the stars hadn’t set, the two of you could still settle into the bath behind you. Ceramic and adorned with gushing foam, it stood in the near centre of the deck capturing your focus as you walked up the stairs. To its right, three bottles, each containing a different aroma were interlinked by a brown, polished medium. On the opposite side, two adorably- shaped wooden tables rested, one holding a bucket of champagne while the other held two glasses. 

Each carried a candle but the candles were so much more important than tourists thought. Without the presence of the bright, glaring light of the sun, the burning wick helped set a soft atmosphere where your worries disappeared from the moment you entered this place. Still holding your hand, Sanghyuk bought his hand over your head, pulling you into his chest wrapping you in his arms. Feeling the heat radiate from him, you nestled closer and turning to meet his eyes, he gently pressed a loving and light kiss to your lips. As you leant apart, he swooped a kiss to your forehead in one smooth motion whispering, ‘’Let’s go and take a dip’’ into your ear. Shivering from his close proximity, your arms found his waist as you cheekily whispered back, ‘’I think we’ll be staying for longer than a dip to be honest’’. 

He scrunched his nose at your mention, finding you intensely lovable. Replying with, ‘’I hope the water is warm’’, your arms left his sides as the two of you found your way to the back, shedding all your clothes. Returning to the bath, your hands found his as he hesitantly dipped a toe in the water, relaxing when he felt the warmness envelop his skin. ‘’It’s warm’’ he spoke with lightness in his tone and you laughed feeling excited at the prospect of admiring the night sky from a bath. Waiting until he climbed into the tub, you followed suit, nestling in between his legs and resting your back against his chest. Surrounded by foam, the two of you found the bubbles fascinating, smiling at the way they moved. His arms wrapped around your centre and you held his hands, leaning your head back on his shoulder. 

The wind was not at its high tonight and you were immensely thankful for this. Not only did your hands feel warm, but the water had remained the same hugging your bodies as you watched the stars. Sun down and stars up, the sky was completely covered in a pretty shade of dark blue and tiny dots adorned the expanse of the vast summer night sky. If there was anywhere the planets met, the blending of their colours pooled and the reflection formed the sky above you. Back home, if you ever looked to peak out of the window and admire the sky (which was rare), you wouldn’t find it so bright that it illuminated the nature below it. Lakes, trees and little rocks weren’t shadowed by the approaching darkness like they would usually be. 

Shifting your eyes onto Sanghyuk, a smile lit your face as you saw his focus fixated on the sky before him. Entranced, the beauty of the sky mirrored itself in the dark brown orbs of his eyes and you could see how graceful he looked. The night sky did nothing but add to his features from the arches to the curves. Gracefully etched, the elements of familiarity eased you and a deep sense of gratefulness blossomed from within you. In his arms, you felt relaxed knowing that you could spend an obscene amount of time in them and the only things that he would joke complain about would be the pain from remaining in a single position for so long. ‘’Seriously, this place is really pretty. At home, this would all be darkness and the stars would be a luxury...’’ he spoke gesturing to the sky above us. 

Laughing, you agreed saying, ‘’Literally, we never even look out of the window’’ and mirroring your laugh, he said, ‘’Yea, we were saving it for this day, but for real though, how is this place so beautiful?’’. Glancing into his eyes, you spoke, ‘’I don’t know but we could always ask’’ raising an eyebrow. You laughed as the most flat look ever crossed his face, unimpressed as you gave him the answer that you had on repeat since the day he’d met you. ‘’You know those things that couples have?’’ he asked, to which you nodded your head in agreement. ‘’See, this is our thing. When I make a statement and you say that. It’s like you have it out on repeat just to annoy me?’’ causing you to crack up the moment you heard his words. ‘’They are NEVER going to tell us’’ he said exasperated and if his earlier words made you laugh, these sent you flying. 

A relationship needed work and seeing you laugh was one of the most satisfying things but mainly because it made him crack up as well. The sweetness in your tone when you laughed magnified the love he felt when you responded to his quirks. You accepted all of him and he was glad for that. In the same way, this trip had been renowned for its marvellous and striking beauty and it had delivered. The distinguished environment made you ironically feel like passer-bys when you were in fact, right in the centre of it all. You had no idea how far it stretched but the two of you greatly relaxed knowing that you were left alone for the night. Taking your hands in his, he squeezed his arms around your waist and peppered a tender kiss to the side of your head. 

On the inside, you squirmed from the amount of love you were receiving. Given his form, you were always swooning but he just didn’t know it. Once or twice and it depended on his mood as well, but his teasing grew endless because he knew your agenda. Whenever appropriate, you would give him love just to watch his cheeks turn a little pink and seeing that meant that you had won. Pecking him on the cheek, you smiled at him saying, ‘‘You know we’ve forgotten about this right? If it wasn’t for me, I don’t think we were ever going to eat it’‘ motioning to the food. If it wasn’t the water, it was the thought of the food that had struck you cold. Covered with a container, the two of you froze with widened eyes. Cocking your eyebrows, you questioned, ‘‘I wonder if it’s warm because there is absolutely no way we can leave such precious food till morning. Can you see it crying because we abandoned it?’‘. ‘’I see your point’‘ he inquisitively replied, hands already reaching out to pluck the container from the plate. 

Setting it aside, the smell invaded your nose, going straight to your brain. ‘’Oh, that smells good’’ you said, genuinely feeling hungry. Agreeing, the hunger was looming in the air as your stomach lowly grumbled. Whatever it was, hunger was not the way to go and the two of you would only be grumpy and have the managers shaking their heads in disdain wondering where the food was. ‘’How are we going to do this- okay, you grab the plate while I pour the champagne’’ he stated. Reaching for the plate, you held it out of reach while he filled the glasses careful to not drop anything. Handing you a glass, you said, ‘’thank you’’ before you handed him to the plate. Risky business over, you settled into his chest once again as he fed you a bite of the snack. 

As you sank your teeth into the crispiness, you were instantly met by the soft and fluffy texture on the inside. Deep- fried, the irregularly-shaped snacks were spongy and filled with tiny pockets of air bubbles. They had been dipped into cinnamon powder, the flavour colouring the inside of your mouth as you turned towards Sanghyuk nodding. He had been watching your reaction and upon your confirmation, heartily dove into the snack, smiling brightly as his face lit up, he nodded absolutely loving the taste. Appreciating the snack, you moved over to the champagne, taking a sip. As you set the glass down, he glanced at you questioning the taste to which you replied, ‘’It’s sweet’’. Taking his own taste, his mouth savoured the velvety texture that coated his tongue. 

Bringing his knees up at your sides, you were now enclosed in heat as you held the glass to your chest. Steadily, the both of you watched as the sun set, finishing the champagne in your glass, bit by bit. You left his embrace as you sat up, sitting on your knees and turning to face him. Now out of the water, droplets of water beaded your skin, gently running down and joining the bath. Gripping the sides of the tub, you lifted yourself forward so that you were now right above him. Tilting his head to the side you pressed a slow and deliberately steady kiss to his lips, asking as you pulled away, ‘’Let’s go?’’. Whispering a ‘’yes’’, he observed as you got out of the bath, stretching your limbs. 

Clutching the sides, the muscles on his arm momentarily tightened as he swung a leg over the side. The water gently cascaded down his back, flowing towards the floor and beginning to pool at his feet. The moonlight illuminated your bodies, outlining your figure against the jagged wooden logs that protected your forms. Water trickled down seeping into the wooden floor as you clasped his hand in yours, making your way to the bathrobes; slipping them on, you looked up, catching his eye. He softly smiled when he met your eyes, hand grasping the back of your head and pulling you in for a hug. Surprised, any questions you had slipped away as you threw your arms around his waist, pulling him in closer. 

Breathing in, the smell of cinnamon lingered between the two of you. Trees, plants and even the water stood still while the birds flapped their wings but no calls were heard in the distance. There were no watches or the rustling of leaves to keep you cautious and on your toes. Peppering a kiss to his jaw, the corners of his eyes creased as a trio of butterflies made their way past the horizon. One could only see their shadows but their presence was known and enough for you to mirror his bright, white smile as his gums peeked through. Still smiling, you clasped his hand in yours and tugged him in the direction of the bed. Bouncing as you made your way there, the two of you plopped onto the bed, a gracious and tired sigh escaping your lips. Bathing in warm water had exuded the energy from your bodies as the night kept its perpetual hold on the sky.

Laying on the bed, you asked, ‘’Are we going to sleep in these robes? I’m pretty sure that we were meant to dry ourselves with them’’ eliciting a laugh from him. He extended his arm, allowing you to place your head over it, replying, ‘’Let’s lay here for a little while’’ while adorably scrunching his nose at the same time. ‘’You’re tired aren’t you?’’ you questioned, giggling at the cuteness etched all over his face. Turning his head so that he was now face to face with you, he murmured a ‘’yes’’ watching as you poked his side laughing. This was not before you also admitted yourself that you were tired as well, the ‘’same’’ making him question why exactly you were laughing. A pout on his face, the charming atmosphere continuing as you both gazed upon the stars in the fetching sky.

[ink-splotch]

Have you ever written about all the little moments that Ron realized he was falling in love with Hermione? Love your writing!

Probably the closest I’ve come to that is this excerpt from my “Ron as the Chosen One” fic (which I love quite a lot– Ron’s not any more or less loyal, tetchy, insecure, or brilliant as the Boy Who Lived and the youngest boy of the seven Weasley orphans than he was as Harry Potter’s sidekick. And he is a delight to write.). 

This is Ron’s version of that bit in the seventh book, the bit in the Great Hall, and then the Stone in the forest, the walking out to die, and what came after– with Dumbledore and the train station. But for Ron it’s not Dumbledore and the train station, and it, among other things, ends up being about Hermione.

Er, warnings for spoilers about who I decided to kill v. not kill to match it up with a different protagonist’s emotional journey. 

Ron did not see Bill go down. He wasn’t sure who did, or how it happened, or when– while Harry was racing up the stairs to find the diadem? While Ron was hissing open the passage to the Chamber? While he was kissing Hermione in an ankle-deep puddle of slimy water and dropped basilisk fangs?

Ron didn’t see Bill go down, he just stepped into the Great Hall and found him there, laid out and peaceful.

It had always been easy to pick his family out of a crowd– the hair, the sort of volume that Fred and George and Ginny had always carried with them, Charlie’s big friendly smile. It was easy to pick his family out of this crowd– the hair, the hands grasping hands grasping shoulders grasping elbows, the way George cried quiet and hard and familiarly.

Ron thought dully, At least this time we’ll have something to bury.

He stepped forward, past rushing young soldiers and past the tired teachers who watched their students go by, breathless, desperate. His family– and there was Fleur, laid out beside Bill, their hands almost touching. Her hair was long and mussed from the fight, the fall. Her face was pale. Ron tried to take another step forward.

Closer, and he could see them better. Closer, and he could ask how, and when, and why. Closer, and he could forget how to stand up at all.

A hand on his elbow stopped him in tracks. It was easy. He wasn’t sure he was touching the ground, except everything also felt so heavy, pulling his wrists down and down. He turned and Hermione was standing there.

Fred was gone, and now Bill was dead, and Fleur, and Hermione was standing there. Her hair was untamed, as it had been every day except for a ball once upon a time. She had put her wand away.

She had put her wand away and she was crying, and he always forgot how brave that looked on her. Hermione was crying, nose snotty and cheeks shiny, and she was going to save the world, this girl. She already had, and she was going to keep on doing it– waving petitions in peoples’ faces, and pulling things out of her magic bag like Mary Poppins, and never giving up, not even when things were impossible, not even on him.

When she reached out, Ron folded in, burying his face in her hair and crying until he stopped. Then he pulled back and scrubbed at dirty cheeks. He still had his wand fisted in his other hand. “We have work to do,” he said. “C'mon, let’s–” He scrubbed at his eyes with his fist again. “Let’s find Harry.”

Voldemort had already given his ultimatum– the Boy Who Lived, for all of you. Pansy had been all for it, and then Ron had let Hogwarts defend him.

Ron remembered Ginny’s dark robes and bright hair, lying on the Chamber floor, discarded like so much refuse. Tom Riddle had been young, translucent, and he had smirked over that barely breathing body, knowing exactly who would come for her.

Bill had cleaned all the picture frames hanging around the Burrow. He had hung up new ones, from the years spent bouncing from house to house, but he had kept up all their old ones. Their parents had danced above the mantle, Molly in gingham, and Arthur in a tux that didn’t fix him. They had held hands, beamed, and waved in the polaroid tacked up in the kitchen beside Bill’s postcards. Ron had heard their last words, echoing in his skull, dredged up by nightmares. He couldn’t even remember seeing the way they looked, fallen, the shape of their cooling bodies on the nursery room floor.

Which room had been the nursery, even? Which– Bill would know, but Bill was dead. Bill was another body strewn between Ron and the end of this. Charlie would know, or Percy, maybe, but Ron wasn’t going to have a chance to ask them.

George had stopped crying, mostly, talking quietly to Ginny. Charlie was laying wards down and down around the Hall with McGonagall. Harry and Hermione were with Neville, leaning over the Marauder’s Map rolled out over a bench at the Hufflepuff table, making battle plans. Ron went out through a side door and headed toward the Forest.

The trees were tall. The wind was cold. There were things that lived out here, spiders and nightmares, but he knew where he was going. If he was frightened, it didn’t matter.

Ron turned the Stone three times in his hand. Harry had the Cloak, and Hermione had won rights to the Elder Wand, disarming Draco in a skirmish– but Dumbledore had left Ron the Stone. He turned it three times and his ghosts stepped into view.

“Ron,” Molly Weasley said, squeezing insubstantial hands together, and Ron looked at her standing there. She was plump and short, with flushed cheeks and a wand shoved through her bunned-up hair. He had seen her in a dozen pictures, beaming and scolding and napping, and he wasn’t sure if this felt worse because it was just another picture, or because it wasn’t.

“Hi, Mum,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Molly said hotly, like she was Percy in a temper, and Ron almost smiled. “You haven’t got anything to be sorry for, sweetheart.”

Her hair– Arthur’s, Bill’s, Fred’s– it should have been red, but it was a listless silver. He could see the trees through them, the drooping pine needles and whispering leaves. Ginny could always tell Fred and George apart, but Ron never could– except that now Fred looked so young. George had been growing and growing, outliving him, and he would go on outgrowing him forever.

“He’s alright,” said Fred. “Isn’t he?” And Ron nodded, because he was bad at lying aloud.

“Take care of Art,” said Bill. The earring Fleur had talked him into getting glittered in his earlobe, the brightest thing in eyesight. “You will take care of him, won’t you?”

“You named him after me?” said Arthur. “Oh goodness. Dear,” he said, patting at Molly’s hand. “We have a grandchild.”

“We’ll take care of him,” said Ron. “He’s got so much family,” he said and his voice broke. “They’ll be there.”

“Chin up,” said Fred, a little wetly. “You’ve got work to do, little brother.”

“We love you,” said Bill. “It’s going to be alright.”

But Ron knew how to care more about what he needed to do than what he wanted. He dropped the Stone, round and grey and anonymous, to the Forest floor and he moved on.

When he reached the clearing, Ron did raise his wand. There was no old friend of his mother’s to tell him about the Horcruxes, about the way Dumbledore had been raising and raising him to die. But Ron had walked out into the Forest to die for his friends, his family, and that was enough for the magic.  He raised his wand because if he could take out a few of them before he went, all the better.

Ron shot out an Avada Kedavra with all he had in him, but Voldemort’s hit first, and the Boy Who Lived fell down dead.

When Ron opened his eyes, the clearing was empty. The trees, which had been towering and grasping and dark, were peaceful. The Death Eaters were gone, Hagrid, flushed and sobbing, was gone. Starlight dripped down through the leaves. The shadows of the Forest circled round and round him, calm, all-encompassing. There was something twisted and bloody, tucked in the curve of some old roots across the leaf-strewn ground.

A Killing Curse must kill something, said a voice. But there were two lives in you. That is a piece of Tom Riddle’s soul.

Wind ran through the branches and it wasn’t cold. “This is a weird dream,” said Ron. “Am I dead?”

Not yet.

He blinked and he was standing in Ginny’s shed. It was all spare parts and clutter.  The door of the Ford Anglia was unlatched, hanging open.

You do not have to stay, said the voice, and Ron thought about that. He thought about what he wanted.

He closed his eyes and the white queen stood over Harry, crumpled on the cold chessboard, eleven years old.

Ron opened his eyes and it was summer behind the Burrow. Ginny was balancing a box of tools on the edge of the Ford’s open hood, looking inside. He was fifteen, a Triwizard champion. She was thirteen, bare years away from the cold sludgy water of the Chamber floor. She startled at the noise of his step behind her and the tool box fell, shining wrenches going bouncing and banging all over the dirty floor.

He squeezed his eyes shut again. The sound reverberated through his skull, clashing and clinging, metal on metal on wood. His heart beat in his ears.

Ron wanted to lie down and sleep forever. He was done losing brothers. He was done watching Hermione cry. He didn’t want to see that ever again. Hermione looked so brave, even when she cried, especially when she cried, and he wanted to run away to some place where no one had to be brave.

What did he want? Ginny was fierce and terrible, but she was so scared when there was no one looking, and so Ron didn’t look. Harry had hung, bloated, in the cold water under the Lake, and it had been a game, just a game, Ron knew how to play games. George had cried out, Ron had reached out, when Fred fell softly backward through that archway into whispering veils. Ron had reached out, and now he could catch him, catch up to a fate he’d been chasing for years.

You do not have to stay.

But Hermione was going to save the world.  Harry was going to tug at his already messy hair on late nights, studying to be an Auror like his mother, like his uncle, and he was going to help people. George was going to torment a whole new generation of Hogwarts teachers with the trinkets and tricks he’d sell to the schoolchildren. Charlie would burn pot roasts for dinners, years and years of them, and Percy, muttering, would fix them all as best he could.

Hermione was going to save the world, and Ron wanted to be there to see it.

They were going to lose things they had wanted to keep. He never wanted to see Hermione cry again, but he would, because he wanted to hear her correct his spelling, and to see her roll her eyes and to call giant old tomes “some light bedtime reading.”

He wanted to hear about all of the hazings Lily would gleefully concoct for Harry when he joined the Aurors. He wanted to teach Bill’s kid how to play wizard’s chess, and to see Charlie go back to school, and to argue with Ginny about comics.  He wanted to know what Hermione looked like in the morning, sleep-mussed and soft, smiling.

Ron opened his eyes. 

–excerpt from the last son by dirgewithoutmusic

[deathbyvalentine]

Prompts

Worst Case Scenario

So, worst case scenario, there was a fire, and he was trapped in this fucking metal coffin, and he burnt to death, with nobody to hear his screams. Let nobody say Trick Adams was unimaginative. The familiar anxiety rose in his throat and burnt like bile. His chest stuttered a little, and he found it harder and harder to breathe. He reminded himself that he couldn’t suffocate, there were slats in the door where the light filtered through, and therefore, air. 

God, it was quiet. He had long since stopped shouting, his throat hoarse and wrecked, realising nobody else was in the building.

What if for some reason school was cancelled for days, and he dehydrated to death? That seemed somehow more likely than the fire scenario, and panic, real panic welled up inside him. He braced his shoulders, leaning back, and tried to kick out at the door. But there wasn’t the room to gain the force and apart from a few ineffectual bangs, there wasn’t even a shudder. There wasn’t enough space to even sit down. His back ached from being slightly curved so his head did not hit the shelf.

It took a little while for him to realise the light was growing dimmer. He could no longer see the corridor outside of the slats. He could no longer see the outline of his hands when he looked down. His legs ached. His bladder ached. He was thirsty and he was hungry and fuck, his aunt would be going spare. He always told her when he was going out. Always.

It was pitch black and the only thing he could hear was his own breathing. It was quick and irregular and if he focused too much on it, it stopped sounding like his own. Like something was in there with him. It was about three am he snapped. His anxiety had been stretched far enough to break into a panic attack. He shoved at the door as hard as he could, kicking, screaming and eventually, sobbing. It was dark enough to feel like he was being smothered by it. Not really knowing where the locker ended, or himself began, or if something was standing directly outside the locker, waiting. 

You could only be terrified for so long. The body could only sustain it for so long. He slipped in and out of dozing, jumping awake at the noises of the school. Eventually to his shame, he couldn’t hold his bladder anymore, and awkwardly went. The smell in the locker was enough to make him retch, but he managed to force down the urge. He thought, somehow, this night would never end. That time had somehow stopped, and this would be it, forever. 

Imagine his surprise when slowly the outlines of his hands reappeared and soon were bathed in gold from the morning breaking. It must have been early, the halls were still quiet and not yet full of the bustle and movement a school encompassed. A bell hadn’t so much as whispered. And yet, footsteps, hurried and heavy. A little frantically he banged on the door with a fist, his voice too wrecked to be anything more than an inaudible whisper. The sound stopped outside his locker. The door was wrenched open, and he squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust to the bright autumn light.  Freddy stood in front of him, thrusting forward a shirt. “Alright?”

The Distance From Where They Are

The lake was perfectly still, shining like glass. Rather than making him feel peaceful however, it filled his hands with restless energy. Why should the lake get to lie there, unchanging, undisturbed? Why did it get some peace? 

It had been three weeks since his last postcard.

The skies were free of planes now. There was no longer the smell of smoke on the wind. He wasn’t woken in the night with distant booms, the sound of a thousand lives being snuffed out like insignificant candles. 

He had wished, several times, that he too was a soldier. Selfish, he knew. But somehow the waiting was agonising, and without knowledge of the atrocities happening over the mountains, it seemed more appealing than this feeling of utter helplessness. 

Thomas’s postcards had generally been muddy, short, and cheerful. But that was him to a T. Ryan had never heard him be anything less than positive. The time the store of firewood was ruined, the time the power was knocked out for weeks, when the herd was culled by wolves... He hadn’t complained, just did the work he needed to do. And when war came, well, he did the work he needed to do.

Ryan threw a rock into the lake as hard as he could, watching the ripples ruin the glasswork. He stood up, dusted the seat of his trousers, and began the short walk back to the village. The war had been over for two weeks. In his dreams, Thomas came to him, pale and bloody, his smart uniform full of holes. He never spoke, but stood silent and absent.

Days passed by with nothing of note, nights passed fitfully. And still he waited. And waited. And waited.

He woke up in the middle of the night, a cold breeze making the fire in the grate jump and dance. Instantly alert, he heard the latch on the front door quietly click shut. His breath caught in his throat, not daring to hope. There were no thieves in this area - they were too far out, too poor. The worst they got was vagabonds looking for a warm hearth. 

There was a step on the stair, and he sat upright, the covers pooling around his bare hips. His door opened, and there was Thomas, pale and bruised and silent. He was unsmiling. Ryan rose, uncertain. Was he dreaming still? Was this a ghost? Had he finally lost it, driven mad by grief and longing? He approached him, noticing everything. The feel of the wood on his bare feet, the crackle of burning wood, even the navy of the sky outside. 

His fingertips grazed Thomas’s cheek, and he did not fade. Ryan gasped his name, and suddenly he held Thomas in his arms. He was cold, he was shivering - or was he sobbing? He couldn’t tell, he couldn’t let him go, every army on earth coming for them couldn’t make him release him. He was here, alive, breathing, as real as he could be. 

But when Ryan drew back, he began to notice the differences. How he was thinner. How there was dirt under his nails, and a bruise on his cheek. How tired he looked. How he still had said nothing, even though his shoulders were shaking. He guided him to the fire, stripping off the wet, cold clothes that clung to his skin. He rubbed warmth into his hands and feet. He wasn’t quite prepared for the mess of bandages under his shirt. He had been shot, in the shoulder and the bandages badly needed changing. How long had it been? 

A shredded bedsheet and some hot water had to be enough. Thomas only hissed when the wound was cleaned, closing his eyes against the pain. Ryan’s mouth was full of meaningless apologies, to fill the silence as much as anything else. He couldn’t stop even when he dressed him in too-short pajamas, or when he wrapped his arms around him in their shared bed.

How could he have been foolish enough to wish to be a soldier?

Thomas would eat, would bathe, would sleep (often for hours and hours) but still would not speak. Sometimes he looked at Ryan and Ryan wasn’t sure he was really seeing him at all. He was seeing some other soldier, friend or foe, seeing some other landscape. It was breaking his heart. But he wouldn’t give up. Of course he wouldn’t. Love wasn’t easy.

The rest of the village kept a respectful distance, but every morning there was some baked good or soup or casserole left on their doorstep. When visiting the post office, they enquired carefully after his ‘companion’ and his injuries. Ryan told Thomas about these, in a forcefully upbeat tone, showing him flowers and books as he cleaned up their cottage. He wasn’t sure if Thomas even heard him.

It was Winter when he had an idea. He dressed Thomas up in hat, scarf, gloves, terrified of letting him get too cold again. Thomas wouldn’t tell him after all. He took his hand, and lead him down the icy path out of the village. It was quiet except for the crunch of their footsteps and the sound of their breathing.

The lake was not quite frozen, but looked like ice, reflecting the grey skies above. It would snow tonight - you could already see it on the tips of the mountains. They sat down, and Ryan wrapped an arm around Thomas. This was the most peaceful place he knew. The war had never even touched this place. It was whole, it was undisturbed. Nothing ever changed here.

Thomas let out a shuddering sigh, and when Ryan looked over, he was rubbing at his eyes, furiously. He looked over at Ryan, and smiled. 

I Wouldn’t Start Here If I Were You

The alleys were narrow around here. Some brushed both your shoulders as you walked through, some scarcely let the light from above down, the roofs and fire escapes cluttered so much of the air. Still persistent, a flake or two of snow would flutter down and melt on his skin. Winter was here, as it would always be here. Once, it was warm. Once there was sun. Once there was, perhaps, a boy... He was sure of it. He pushed his hands further into his pockets, and popped his bubblegum impatiently. He could feel the bricks through his thin leather jacket, and on the wind, singing. He shook his head, unable to help a small smile. Who was still falling for that?

Finally, he heard a noise from the mouth of the alley. He fixed his smile, and turned to face the man walking towards him. His eyes flickered towards the skull and crossbones he wore, and he forced his expression to stay the same. He wondered if Jimmy thought similar of the acorn that rested innocently around his neck. 

The pirate was smoking, and Eli took the cigarette from him as soon as he drew level, inhaling and grinning. “So, handsome. Have you got my stuff?” “No hello?” Jimmy feigned indignation, stealing his cigarette back, and leaning in a little too close.  “After.”  Jimmy tutted, and dug in the pockets of his long trench coat, and after a few long moments where Eli’s heart was pounding, produced a small baggy filled with a pinkish, shimmering powder. It looked like fairy dust, but Eli knew it wasn’t. This shit caused nightmares in anyone under the age of twenty five. Sometimes they got so bad it caused heart failure. Sometimes the kid never woke up. 

He took the bag, and tucked it inside his own jacket, drawing his pocket knife as he did so.

But the pirate was quicker, grabbing his wrist and slamming it into the wall until he was forced to drop the knife. “Knew it kid. Every one said you were stringing me along. I wanted to believe different, but you Lost Boys are all alike, aren’t ya?” His other hand reached into Eli’s hair, and slammed his head back to hard against the wall, his vision swam.

“You don’t want to do this.” “No babe, I really do.”

“You really don’t.” A small squeak. A louder creak. Slowly, all the windows opened above them, and a small army of boys were cluttering up the fire escapes, hanging out of windows, holding rocks, bows, bottles. Out numbering the single, condemned pirate below. Eli grinned.

Nothing to Die For The snow fell down round her, and sat in drifts on her bare feet. She couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel anything. It felt like a sort of purgatory - the sky white and oppressive above her, the ground white and frozen below, her skin not far off from matching the hue.

She wanted to sleep here. To lie back, and let the snow cover her like a blanket, inch by inch, until she couldn’t be seen. What a gorgeous way to disappear. What peace. What silence. She stood, unsteadily, her dress slick and wet, clinging to her. She wasn’t brave enough to die, not really. She had not the courage for grand, sweeping gestures. She would perish ignobly, undignified, of old age or sickness, or swept out of this world with an avoidable accident. 

She moved her feet, shocked at the sudden flash of green grass the movement uncovered. Still growing. Not dead yet.

Former Glory

“When you were beautiful...”

He was, once. They had long, red hair, easily tied back. Their skin was not so pale then, and caught the shine of the sun. His eyes were a deep, warm brown, full of expression. Their lips pink. They did not draw attention, they were not of that sort of beauty, but he warmed those he spoke to until they were entranced.

He was kinder then, too. Softer somehow. This should not be taken to mean that he was a pushover - he was still an Ossienne and his anger and pride was incredible to behold. But he was not cruel. His days were spent primarily reading and sparring, pushing themselves to be the best in both knowledge and swordplay.  He learnt the history of the house by rote. He wore his nobility like the crown it was. 

Winter had taken it from them. Their looks, his kindness, his grace. It had left something else, something colder, something with less humanity in it. They avoided mirrors now. They found no joy in poetry or fairytales. He felt cold, always. He was more glorious now than ever, it could be argued. He felt no fear, never flinched from battle, fought valiantly. 

But he was no longer beloved. And then, what was the point?

Giving Advice

The door was left unlocked, as always. Only a man so confident he would be the most dangerous thing in the room would leave his door unlocked in these violent times. And while Ben may not have been the strongest or most martial man in London, he was almost certainly one of the most dangerous. Only a fool would try to rob him. Only a condemned man would try to kill him.

The apartment was lit with enough candles it had a warm, welcoming glow, if also a deluge of wax dripping onto papers and shelves alike. Ben was not one too preoccupied with the cleanliness of his apartment as long as his books and equipment were unharmed. Occasionally a cat would look particularly offended if a delicate paw touched the warm liquid. 

The man standing by the window cut an elegant figure. He was lean - extraordinarily so. His black hair was a mess of curls, his sleeves rolled up to reveal a hint of tattoo ink. He was biting his lip as he inspected a letter he held. He could have been almost smiling. 

Nathaniel’s letters were always a little close to his heart, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. He kept all of them locked in his desk, never throwing a single one away. He often thought sentiment was for children, but still he kept them. This letter was asking for advice on a poison. Well, not in so many words as Nathaniel hated admitting he didn’t know anything, but that’s what he was doing. 

He could scrawl a reply, condescending. He was tempted. But it was near Christmas, and perhaps he was going soft. He went to his other desk, too high for the cats to get at, everything sealed away, and selected a vial. It was filled with a white liquid, thick. The test tube was warm to the touch somehow. He slipped it in the envelope with a note, and paid the messenger handsomely to not drop it. It’d be his own funeral if he did.

Masks

“Roll up roll up!” He leapt on a crate, balancing on the edge with the middle of his feet. A few passersby paused, knowing a show when they saw one. Michelangelo had a way of both attracting attention and keeping it. Perhaps it was his looks, handsome, with curled chocolate hair and devilish blue eyes that always seemed to sparkle. His antlers were pretty too, draped with bits of gold and jewels.  Or at least, things that looked like gold and jewels. In the Mestran streetlight, they looked almost the same.

His mask was the thing of true beauty of course. Dark dark red, with swirling patterns of gold, matching the changeling swirls that came up his neck from his chest. His chest which was so visible due to his shirt being more than a little generous with it’s opening. All part of the advertisement. 

Quite the crowd was gathering now, anticipation building. “There is a show this evening, ladies and gentlefolk, quite a show indeed. You’d have to be a Regarian to miss it.” A predictable but solid laugh, consolidated with a grin. “It has love! Death! Twists and turns!” He scarcely stopped moving, an almost manic energy informing his expressions and hand gestures. “And, of course, it is held in one of our most reputable inns, of which exists an offer of a free drink with a ticket exists.” That was enough for most of them. 

He handed over small bits of printed paper for a crown each. Not so expensive that it was unreasonable. A free drink came with it after all. Nor would it particularly make him rich. This wasn’t where the money was made. This was just a distraction.

In the crowd, flitting shadows. Lifted purses. A pocket watch, ticking muffled by a gloved hand. He smiled, the spotlight suiting him. The shadows were for other people. 

Premonitions

Ashley Heathers hoped she woke up because of the storm that was raging outside. There was thunder rumbling, and lightening occasionally lit up the sky, painting trees and buildings in silhouette. The flimsy hotel curtains were not quite enough to keep out the light. Still, to be sure she grabbed the pistol from under her pillow, and grabbed her flashlight, and shone it under the bed. Only when she was sure nothing lurked beneath did she lapse back into the pillows and duvet.

The sheets were damp with her sweat, and something danced right on the corner of her memory. Had she been dreaming? What had she been dreaming of? God, the wind was loud. It could have been screaming. But then this old hotel was full of noises, and when you had lived a life like hers, you heard distress in all of them. 

She went to the bathroom, clicking on the light, and washed her face in cold, cold water. She held her own gaze in the mirror, dripping wet. She looked a state. Hair growing out of dye, dark circles under her eyes - she couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten a decent nights sleep. Too long. She found herself falling asleep in the day - in cars, buses, whenever she sat down in a place that was warm and quiet. Maybe she needed some pills. Maybe she needed a fucking day off. 

The shower curtain twitched, and with a noise quickly muffled, she turned, batting it aside to point the pistol inside. Nothing. Nothing but a moth, fluttering futilely at the plastic. Her heart hammered painfully hard. She was losing it. For a moment she thought, she thought - 

“Violet.” Fuck. She was going mad.

A Whisper and a Galaxy Away

Her dress was sprinkled with diamonds, looking like the stars she could not see. She sipped the amasec, staring out over the faux-balcony, sensing the nebulae swirling in the distant dark. It wasn’t like seeing, it wasn’t like anything that could be described. To have a galaxy occupying a part of your brain, in concept even if not in actuality, was a little overwhelming. The astronomicon flickered and danced, present as it always was.

She heard him enter, the compressed air gently hissing as the door opened. She straightened her back, not turning. Let him come to her. He made enough demands, she was off the clock. He couldn’t ask anything from her.

He was typical in a lot of ways. A young noble, arrogant and beautiful, talented enough but not enough to be really setting himself apart. He would find some cushy post somewhere safe or die somewhere tragically young, his name little more than a obituary in a holopaper. Contrary to the implications, she didn’t dislike him. She was sad for him, in an abstract sort of way. He would never be extraordinary, and he would never know real sacrifice or pain. He would never fully know the Emperor’s light, nor the price tag it carried.

She wanted him to. She wanted that more than anything.

He stood beside her, clinking his glass with hers.There was companionable silence between them for a long moment, not filled with the inane chatter of the party they had just left. He flexed his mechanical hand - a nervous habit she had noticed. What was he nervous about? “Beautiful, isn’t it?” She had to bite her lip to prevent herself from laughing. It wasn’t the most original opening. In a sudden flash she felt a wave of hurt from him. He was a sensitive young man who masquarded it as gravitas. “I’m sorry. Yes, it is. It’s not something you should get used to I feel. Too many captains lose their eye for beauty.”  

“Hm. The universe is a beautiful and terrible place.” “And let me guess. The beautiful places are the work of the Emperor and all else is the work of chaos.”

“Of course.” He looked genuinely surprised, and she was struck again by how very naive he was. She envied it, in a way. This universe would break him, one way or another, as it broke everyone. But for now he was whole and unharmed. She finally turned to him, a smile playing upon her lips.

“Did you get bored of the party?” “It got a little loud for me.” He looked briefly troubled, then shook his head, ridding his mind too quickly for her to read. “What about you?” Accidentally, she mirrored his head shake. “I don’t belong there. Not really.” She hated the stares, she hated the whispers, she hated standing on her own. She hated the noble that owned her, sorry, owned her contract parading her around as something exciting to look at. 

“Hey, if I say you belong there, you belong there.” He caught her hand, the sudden contact startling and almost astoundingly intimate. The only person that ever touched her was her employer, and this was not that. This was welcome, and warm, borne out of somebody’s concern for her. She suddenly got a flash of another world. One so close she could almost touch it. One where she would fall in love. One where she would pull him close, and kiss him with no time for fear. One where she might, if she liked, bear his children. Or perhaps he would bear some instead. They would have a life together, a shared road, a future. It was so close.

She pulled her hand away. It was her duty not to be a moral hazard. She had to be careful of the untainted. She could not damage them. “I think you ought to get back to the party sir.” Her voice was cold, and she turned her eyes back to the wide wide universe. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

Shocked, startled, and a little ashamed, he nodded, stiffly, downing the rest of his drink and leaving her alone to stare at the stars.