#is there anything more tragic than someone cracking a relationship because they kept a secret

[exasperatedoctopus]

Kira: Can you ever trust me in the same way again?

Odo: Dead Silence until the episode fades to black

Me:

[thorinsbestie]

First time writing in english, is still hard for me to make paragraphs have sense, sorry :'3

War and Victory

Five months stood in the past since (y/n) magically appeared in front of everyone's eyes thanks to a mischief of Gandalf, after that she had been reluctantly accepted into Thorin's Company. Her relationship with the dwarves at first was not the best, however with the passing of days it improved little by little; now everyone treated her as if she were an old friend of theirs.

(Y/n) was lively, although most of her scandal and shamelessness led her to be the victim of the constant scolding that Thorin dedicated to his nephews. The three of them were somewhat common personalities, after a week or two the Li brothers and (y/n) had easily turned to nail and grime. It was no wonder why they had become best friends so quickly, both princes adored her, especially since (y/n) used to cunningly challenge their uncle, defying his words with a playfulness that drove the poor dwarf king mad and ended him musing incomprehensible words in khuzdul.

Today everyone had stopped in a town of men to reload ammunition of food and medicinal herbs. Being so late Thorin had agreed to stay in a tavern, the dwarves would share two rooms and the last one was left free for Bilbo, Gandalf and the human; luckily for (y/n) the hobbit was downstairs with the rest of the Company enjoying their free time. (Y/n) needed to talk with the Istari about a painful subject that she had been hiding in the depths of her soul since her arrival in Middle Earth.

As they approached the Lonely Mountain her heart stumbled more full of regret while remembering the tragic losses that all would suffer in the future.

"Gandalf, it's time for us to talk," she began, turning her cheerful face off with a pained expression, "you told me in the beginning that it was you who brought me here. You revealed to me that you were aware of everything I know about the future of Durin's sons and you asked me to keep the secret until I understood the purpose of my visit" the wizard looked towards the wood of the floor instead of her pleading eyes "I ... I think or rather I feel that from the first moment I came I knew what my role was. Five months have passed and my suspicions about this purpose it's now confirmed ... and I... I have made a mistake" she swallowed "a feeling that I already brought with me from my world was reinforced, I feel so desperate to prevent them from dying that…"

"Do you think it is correct to change the flow of events?"  the wizard interrupted.

"I believe… is no longer important if this is correct or not. I adore Fili and Kili, and I love Thorin. I have been in love with him since I read his story in my world!"

"And do you love him enough to lay down your life for him?"  he asked sternly. Gandalf's pale eyes piercing her soul. "You must think wisely about what you want to do, young lady. Yes, it is true that I have brought you to be the one who is choosing the destiny of Durin, and I know this is a difficult decision. But why would you lay down your life for someone whose feelings are not mutual?" his words were a hard blow to (y/n), but she remained firm "what will you gain by saving them? If Thorin lives he will be king of a kingdom of dwarves, do you think there will be an opportunity for you if you survive as well? Do not judge me as cruel, I just want to open your blind eyes from an illusion whose expectatives of being fulfilled are almost nil. If Thorin becomes king he must marry a dwarrowdam, a lady of noble birth; diplomacy does not allow a human to sit on the queen's throne or let an hybrid inherit the crown" his face became sympathetic, almost paternal "think, dear (y/n), you love Thorin however you don't need to risk your life for your feelings to be returned".

By now with such crude words spilled out from Gandalf's mouth, (y/n) was already biting the inside of her cheek as helding the fat tears that yearned to fall from her eyes.

"I don't care about my feelings! If he lives, I'll go happily into the arms of death!" she exclaimed with a broken voice, "he has been one of my greatest wishes! I am willing to fulfill it at all cost!"

The dwarves found themselves drinking huge mugs of ale that accompanied the stories and jokes that were told. The atmosphere down there was happy, even Thorin kept a tiny curve in his lips that, unfortunately, fell as soon as his eyes were fixed on the person who was coming down the distant stairs in a hurry.  The dwarf King distinguished crystal drops sliding in her face. She was crying. Why was she crying? Why was her vivacity reduced to ashes? At no time in the five months that they had been sharing Thorin had seen her discouraged like that.

Without even thinking about it Thorin apologized and got up following (y/n), who had left the tavern. He didn't just go with her out of curiosity, night was falling, it was dangerous for her to be defenseless outside but he would never admit it out loud, not yet at least.

Thorin found her curled up in the barn where the ponies rested, her arms hugging her legs that kept her face hidden. He approached carefully as she quietly sobbed. Was a matter of time when Thorin felt his throat go dry as he discovered how much he hated seeing her so blue.

"(Y/n)...? " he called soft.

When he didn't obtain an answer, he preferred to take a seat next to her. Thorin gently dropped his hand on her back for support. There he stood by his side, feeling unable to formulate a word as he heard the heartbroken whimpers that made him wonder what was the reason for such sadness. And finally, after half an hour she calmed down, straightened her back and proceeded to lean against the wall of wood; her expressionless face was soaked, eyelids as reddish as her nose, yet the pained glow reflected from her orbs was the last straw for Thorin's patience.

"Who made you cry?"  he asked demandly.

"Myself," (y/n) said in a whisper "Thorin, please answer this with honesty. If you were aware that your life is shortened with each step taken ... and if you have in your hands the possibility of preventing it, would you do it? Would you try to save yourself?"

What kind of question was that?

Upon analyzing his words, Thorin was clearly desconcert.

"What are you talking about (y/n)? Is your life in danger?" 

 "Answer my question, please" she turned her face bathed in anxiety, "would you save yourself even if it means paying with what you love the most?"

"I wouldn't, living without what I love the most would be a punishment worse than death. Tell me now, what is wrong with you? Are you ill? Should I call Óin?"

(Y/n) smiled without grace, but such action was interpreted by the dwarf as the synonym of a goodbye. A bad feeling took hold of his stomach that churned at the simple idea of ​​losing her, because Mahal, it was clear than water how much Thorin appreciated her. She was his One! His true love, and if she had fallen from another world right into his arms it was because she was predestined for no one but him; she was his by right.

"Since the first time I met you in my world you became my greatest admiration, Thorin, and for that reason I would follow you further to Mandos' halls"

 "Don't say that, (y/n), I haven't …"

"I'm sorry" she interrupted getting up and wiping another fallen tear, "keep in mind that no matter how difficult the circumstances are, I will be by your side until ... until my visit to these lands is over, I promise you."

Her words were never erased from Thorin's memory.

On Raven Hill there was no noise except for the cries of a King crying disconsolately the name of his One. She was slowly perishing in his arms. The dwarf did not cry easily since his heart was made of stone, however his hardness was cracking, cracking to release the unbearable pain that he suffered when he saw that life abandoning the human's eyes.

Why? he wondered, why had she taken her place? Why had she given her life in exchange for his?

Minutes before this heartbreaking scene, a battle had unfolded between Thorin Oakenshield and Azog the defiler. The King had no other thought than defeating the orc. At no time crossed through his mind the thought of (t/n) leaving the throne room where he had demanded her to wait for his return until the war was over. Thorin thought she had listened to him, but now the misfortune of her disobedience was manifested by a reddish thread of blood that trickled from between her lips and ran down her chin, staining her shirt more than it had already caused the deep wound on her abdomen.

"Thorin ... don't cry ..." she spoke in low whispers.

"Why have you broken your word? I asked you to stay on the throne where you'd have been protected, why have you taken death for me?! You shouldn't have ...!"  Thorin broke into sobs, "you can't abandon me, don't do it, I implore you to stay with me"

"Don't you remember what I told you? I would go by your side further to Mandos' halls. I have come to Middle Earth with a purpose that I have already fulfilled, my visit is over" she smiled weakly. "I knew your destiny. Many times I begged in my world for being able to change it and give you the happiness of enjoying your effort to recover Erebor. My wish was listened, and…. " a fit of coughing interrupted her. Each second passed her voice was hard to hear" I will leave happy knowing that you can be King, Thorin…"

The dwarf never imagined that she would actually follow him to Raven Hill, that (y/n) would wait hidden in the mist and debris to impose her goal. He didn't see her coming when she leapt to get between the sharp edge that was pointing against his torso. He even had a chance to push her away from him.

"How could you be so cruel to yourself? You didn't owe me anything! Then why did you give your life for me ?! Why did you do it ?!"

 "Because ..." her eyes narrowed, already becoming opaque, "I have admired you since I read your noble feat in a book, because I fell in love as an innocent little girl night after night, the naive illusions of meeting my hero one day in person were just lovely…." she was about to die "because I grew up adoring you and… I have loved you since the first moment I met you… Tho… rin… " her voice finally trailed off.

Her eyes finally got closed. She did not speak any more.

" (Y/n) ....? (Y/n) wake up, please open your eyes givashel, wake up, open your eyes!" cried the king in despair "please come back to me! You cannot abandon me!"

The cries returned, Thorin clung to the human's body as if he wished with all his soul to become one with her. His tears fell without frenzy, drenching the face that would have loved with such devotion if fate had not unjustly taken her away from his embrace. At that moment Thorin felt alone again as when he lost his father and grandfather during the Battle of Azanulbizar. This time Fili, Kili and (y/n) joined the memories that only came to life in his head; the three partners in shenanigans slipped from his hands like souls he could never caress or see.

In war there is no victory when lives as loved as those of your family have been lost.

[smells-like-mettaton]

Perhaps #5 (Hold my Hand) with Papyton for the fic ask game if you are still doing it?

(I hope you're okay with me writing this as a sequel to one of my other papyton fics! This could still be read on its own, but it will make more sense if you read the first chapter. If you don't want to, just know that the part in italics at the beginning is from a fanfic that Alphys wrote.)

The Greatest Fanfiction of All: The Sequel

Rating: T Word Count: 1687 Read on AO3: here

---

Papyrus’s hands are warm. Of course they are. Theyre always covered in gloves. Not even Mettaton, his boyfriend of one month and thirteen days, knows what his bony phalanges look like beneath the plush red fabric.

But tonight, that's going to change.

xxx

Exactly one month and thirteen days had passed since Mettaton had read the beginning of Alphys’s “papyton” fanfiction. It also happened to be one month and thirteen days since Papyrus had agreed to be his boyfriend, sending him on a magical journey of love and romance.

That journey had given him plenty of new perspectives and discoveries. Yet the mystery of what lie under Papryus’s gloves was not one of them.

He sat next to Mettaton on their usual bench at the center of the hedge maze. The sky was dark with stormclouds, which kept any stray spectators away from the park. Papyrus was prepared, as usual; a tall MTT-Brand Umbrella leaned against his femur. Nothing and no one would ruin this moment.

Now Mettaton just needed to have the moment. Preferably without resorting to calling Alphys and Frisk again.

“METTATON? IS SOMETHING THE MATTER?” Papyrus asked, his browbone furrowing in concern.

Mettaton’s fingers were already laced through his; Mettaton rubbed his thumb against the back of Papyrus’s glove.

“Well. It is a very special day, darling.” Special enough that Mettaton had worn the outfit Papyrus loved most—a cropped shirt that said COOL ROBOT and galaxy-print leggings that hugged his metallic thighs. Papyrus himself had worn a bright Tetris shirt and shorts that exposed his gleaming femurs.

“IT IS?” Papyrus blinked. “IS THERE A SALE ON RIGATONI? BECAUSE I THOUGHT THAT STARTED NEXT WEEK.”

“Hm? Oh—not that I know of, but I will keep that in mind.” He imagined creating a pasta bouquet for Papyrus, and a smile graced his lips. “Today is the one month and thirteen day anniversary of our glamorous romance.”

“WOWIE! TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE DATING A HOT ROBOT!” Papyrus grinned, pressing his teeth to Mettaton’s cheek in a close approximation of a kiss. “HAPPY ONE MONTH AND THIRTEEN DAYS, METTATON! IS THERE A SPECIAL WAY YOU WANT TO CELEBRATE?”

It was perfect. Mettaton couldn’t have set it up better if he tried.

“Actually…” He turned Papyrus’s hand over, examining every seam and stitch in his crimson glove. “I was hoping to see your hands. I know they’re just as handsome as the rest of you.”

He winked, and a light blush spread across Papyrus’s cheekbones.

“MY HANDS? I’D GLOVE TO! BUT, ERM…” His fingers disentangled from Mettatons, instead fidgeting nervously with the hem of his right glove. “I DON’T KNOW THAT YOU WOULD FIND THEM AS UNBEARABLY ATTRACTIVE AS THE REST OF ME.”

Coming from Papyrus, that was practically a statement of self-loathing. Guilt bubbled in Mettaton’s soul-tank.

“Beautiful.” He grasped the top of his boyfriend’s arms and squeezed them gently. “There is not a bone in your body that I would not find attractive. Of course, I will not ask you to perform if you are suffering stage fright, but I do think you shine so much brighter in the light.”

Papyrus smiled a little, though his browbone was still turned upward with worry.

"IF YOU'RE SURE…"

"Positive as my ratings, darling."

Papyrus nodded slowly. "I TRUST YOU, METTATON."

Those words were like ambrosia to Mettaton's soul. He would do anything to remain worthy of his boyfriend's trust.

"PLEASE, JUST… DON'T BE FRIGHTENED, ALRIGHT?"

Mettaton couldn't imagine anything about Papyrus being frightening.

Then, with agonizing care, Papyrus peeled off his gloves. And Mettaton understood.

The bones of his hands were scorched an ashen gray, nearly black. Hairline cracks laced through them like spiderwebs. Mettaton was half afraid that if he touched them, they would crumble to dust.

"I'M FINE, REALLY!" Papyrus must have noticed the look on his face, no matter how quickly Mettaton had schooled his expression. "THESE BURNS ARE SO OLD, I BARELY NOTICE THEY'RE THERE!"

His grin was strained. Mettaton wanted nothing more than to reach out and squeeze his hand, but he didn't dare.

"They don't hurt?" Mettaton asked, then winced. He could've phrased that more tactfully. It was probably better than asking how on earth the injury had happened, at least.

"WELL… THEY ARE A BIT SENSITIVE WITHOUT MY GLOVES. THEY HAVE HEALING MAGIC, YOU SEE." Papyrus held out one of his red gloves, his expression turning to one of pride. "SANS DID THE SEWING, AND I DID THE ENCHANTMENT."

"No wonder you love them so much." Mettaton smiled. It was adorable how much Papyrus loved his brother. Their love had inspired Mettaton to finally patch up his relationship with Blooky and Mew Mew.

Papyrus smiled back, running a charred fingertip fondly over the fabric. "WOULD YOU… LIKE TO TRY ONE ON?"

"Me?" Mettaton blinked.

"OF COURSE! WOULDN'T YOU LIKE TO EXPERIENCE THE GREAT PAPYRUS'S LEGENDARY HEALING MAGIC FIRSTHAND?"

Mettaton chuckled at the pun. "How could I possibly refuse?"

He slipped off his white gloves, revealing the unsightly bolts in his own fingers. He hardly felt self-conscious about that after seeing Papyrus's hands, though.

Papyrus's glove fit like a dream. Like holding his hand, only from the inside. Warmth seeped from the fabric into his metal joints, slipping through his cracks like sweet oil.

"This is… quite the enchantment," he breathed.

Papyrus couldn’t be in pain with that much healing magic caressing his bones. But on the other hand, even the constant healing magic had failed to permanently erase the scars. Mettaton still wasn’t too familiar with physical injuries, but surely that wasn’t normal, right?

Papyrus’s wink sounded like magical glitter."WHAT CAN I SAY? I'M VERY ENCHANTING."

He looked just as bright as ever. Just as energetic, as full of life.

Just as beautiful, inside and out.

"That you are, darling." Mettaton kissed his cheek.

Papyrus pulled his left glove back onto his hand, then twined his fingers with Mettaton's. Red on red, warmth on warmth Their hands matched perfectly.

"YOU PROBABLY HAVE SOME QUESTIONS," Papyrus said quietly.

Mettaton's eye flickered to Papyrus's bare right hand before returning to his eyesockets.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't feel comfortable with, darling."

Mettaton was curious of course. If this injury had been caused by another monster, they would face the wrath of a true killer robot. Knowing Papyrus, though, he had probably forgiven whoever was responsible.

"I ALWAYS FEEL COMFORTABLE WITH YOU." He smiled. "AND IT IS… NICE. TO HAVE SOMEONE BESIDES SANS KNOW THIS."

"No one else knows?" Mettaton’s eyes widened. He'd thought Undyne would have found out, whether Papyrus told her on purpose or she burned off his gloves during one of their cooking lessons.

"I AM A SKELETON OF MANY SECRETS." Papyrus winked again. This time it sounded like tinkling bells. "IT HELPS THAT NO ONE ELSE REMEMBERS THE ACCIDENT, THOUGH."

An accident. No one had hurt Papyrus on purpose.

Mettaton sighed in relief, powering down his killer robot protocols.

"I WAS HELPING MY DAD WITH HIS WORK ON THE CORE. I ALWAYS CALIBRATED THE PUZZLES WHILE HE CALIBRATED THE GEOTHERMAL POWER LEVELS."

Papyrus looked down at their tangled hands, his expression distant.

"I STILL DON'T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED. ON THE DAYS SANS REMEMBERS, HE PROMISES THAT IT WASN'T MY FAULT. THAT DAD WAS TOO CARELESS. BUT THERE WAS AN EXPLOSION, AND DAD, HE… HE FELL…"

Something in Mettaton crushed as Papyrus's voice cracked.

"I WAS LUCKIER. THE BLAST ONLY GOT MY HANDS." The smile returned.

"Papyrus…"

Mettaton didn't know what to say. What could he say? Ghosts didn't have parents. His cousins were his family, but he couldn't imagine them dying, either. Blooky physically couldn't.

But this wasn't about him! It was about Papyrus, who had lost his father and scarred his hands and still counted himself lucky.

"DON'T BE SAD, METTATON. IT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. LONGER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE."

Papyrus looked into his eyes, and for a moment, Mettaton saw something old. Mettaton had been alive—albeit as a ghost—for nearly two centuries. Right now, though, Mettaton wondered if Papyrus was even older than that.

"I suppose so,” he reluctantly admitted. “I don't even remember an explosion at the CORE."

"OH, THAT'S NORMAL. APPARENTLY DAD WAS RATHER FORGETTABLE." His smile was sad. "EVEN SANS DOESN'T ALWAYS REMEMBER HIM. BUT I… WELL."

He closed his blackened fist.

"IT WOULD BE DIFFICULT TO FORGET."

Mettaton opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Luckily, it didn’t seem like Papyrus was looking for a response.

“WHEW! ALL THIS HONESTY IS EXHAUSTING!!” Sweat beaded on his skull. “DO YOU WANT TO GO GET NICE CREAMS?”

“Of course, darling, but—are you sure that you’re okay?” Mettaton couldn’t help the concern in his voice. It wasn’t every day that he unlocked his boyfriend’s tragic backstory.

And here he’d been so concerned about something as trivial as holding hands. He truly was as selfish as everyone believed.

“PLEASE, DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME,” Papyrus said firmly. His hand gave Mettaton’s a tight squeeze. “I MEANT IT WHEN I SAID IT WAS LONG AGO. PRACTICALLY A DIFFERENT LIFETIME. I ONLY TOLD YOU SO THAT YOU WOULD KNOW HOW MUCH I TRUST YOU.”

Trust. Mettaton trusted Papyrus, too. Trusted that he didn’t need Mettaton to coddle him. Trusted that if he wanted Mettaton’s help, he would ask for it.

“I… thank you, darling.” Ghostly tears welled in his eyes. “Your trust means everything to me.”

“WELL THEN!” Papyrus’s grin turned mischievous. “I TRUST YOU TO KISS ME UNTIL I CAN’T BREATHE!”

Mettaton’s fans whirred and whirred. The sound was quickly drowned out by the raindrops that began to fall and fizzle on his shoulder pads.

“Darling, you’re a skeleton. You don’t have lungs.”

“NEITHER DO YOU.” Papyrus twirled the umbrella before popping it open, protecting Mettaton from the threat of short-circuiting.

(From the rain, at least.)

“You truly know how to give me a challenge, darling.” Mettaton cuddled closer, reaching up to brush his red-gloved hand against Papyrus’s cheekbone.

“ONLY BECAUSE I KNOW YOU’LL RISE TO IT!”

Mettaton grinned back, and that was exactly what he did.

[spaceskam]

Hi! Could you do #12 “Holding everything in doesn’t help, you know.” for Malex please? Like I need more angst in my life. 😅

from this prompt list – better late than never I hope 😂

ao3

It was far too easy to think that once they got together, their relationship would be perfect.

Michael had spent years dancing around Alex, watching him be a total badass and falling in love with him and never being able to do anything about it. They grew up in the same government facility that Alex’s father ran and resided in to pair up humans and aliens as unstoppable assassination duos. He and Alex were trained alongside each other, both learning how the other moved and how to use each other’s strengths against their enemies. 

It took them into adulthood before they realized they wanted something more than just to be each other’s companion on missions. They couldn’t do anything, though, until after Alex’s father died in some “tragic” accident involving a large bookshelf that fell mysteriously while he was going to see his youngest son in the facility’s library. So sad.

They'd been slowly dating and talking and getting on a good path for awhile now. Communication was key when things were this weird and complicated and they were focusing on that, putting physical intimacy to the back burner until they were ready. It came with the struggle of trying to date someone who had technically been raised to be your battle companion and nothing more. After some talking in secret, they decided this weekend they would finally take it to that long awaited level.

Michael wanted it to be special. They’d spent so many years being unsure and scared and hurt that this had to be special. They got a hotel room outside of the facility, got a bottle of champagne, and made sure all of their work was caught up so no one would have any reason to question why they were gone.

And it was going good all the way until Alex stopped him and walked out onto the balcony.

"Holding everything in doesn't help, you know?" Michael said as he walked outside, staring at Alex’s bare back that he’d seen so many times and yet had only got to touch it today. He stepped up beside him. Alex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Or maybe it does, fuck if I know. Just some advice a guy told me one time. You might know him. Dark hair, nice build, highly ranked assassin..."

"I just need a minute," Alex whispered. Michael scanned his face.

"If you're trying to psych yourself up to it, don't," he told him carefully, "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

"And if I never want to, you'd be okay with that?" Alex asked. Michael didn't know how to respond to that. "Yeah. Thought so."

"Well, stop, talk to me. Why wouldn't you want to ever? What happened?" Michael asked. He liked to think if Alex was never comfortable with it, he'd make it work, but it felt like a big jump from the Alex who was sexual when they couldn’t risk getting caught to not having any interest at all the minute they didn’t have to worry. "Are you just scared to mess things up?"

"No," Alex said, voice firm, "Can you please give me a minute?"

"Well, yeah, but–"

"Michael," he said, voice cracking, "Please."

"Okay," Michael agreed softly, slowly backing up. He stood in the hotel room for a few seconds too confused to really process anything. But, once he could, he quickly got dressed again so as not to make it worse.

He waited and watched Alex bow his head and lean against the railing. Panic pulsed through him, but he did his best to keep his cool. He wanted to help, but he had no idea how. He just had to wait.

And that wait stretched on for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, though, Alex came back inside. Michael stood up straight, his head held high and waiting for whatever Alex had to say. Beautiful, beautiful, shirtless Alex.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he said. Michael stared at him, waiting for whatever he had to say. It was a little weird that he kept something from him. He and Alex were trained never to keep secrets from each other, that was how you got killed. “When we were 13, my dad put a chip in both of us.”

“I knew that,” Michael said, “It’s a tracking chip.”

“Not exactly,” Alex sighed, looking around the room and avoiding eye contact, “He knew what I was before I did and he didn’t like it. If they connect in a certain way, they activate and it releases a toxin into your bloodstream and you’ll die. I’ve already gone too far by kissing you. I could’ve killed you by doing that. It was selfish.”

Michael stared at him, his eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process what he was being told. He remembered kissing Alex for the first time and feeling his fear, but it’d gone away once he realized it was okay. But, still, it didn’t make sense. Maybe they’d never touched with complete skin on skin before, but they’d been pressed up together countless times throughout the years for different reasons. If it could be activated through skin, couldn’t it be activated through clothes?

“I think your dad lied to you,” Michael said slowly, “To scare you away from me.”

“No,” Alex said firmly, shaking his head, “He did a lot of things, but he wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” Michael wondered, taking a step closer. Alex took a step back. “Alex, your father was a bad man who hated who you were. Why do you think he wouldn’t lie to you?”

“Because if he didn’t want me to be gay, he would’ve told me it would’ve killed any man I ever was with. It... It’s you, though. He knew I loved you,” Alex argued. And it would’ve been very sweet if he didn’t say it like he was all angry.

“Alex,” Michael said slowly, “I’ve had parts of you touch every inch of me. I’m still here. I don’t think it’s real.”

“It’s real,” Alex said, eyes wide and panicked, “Why don’t you believe me?”

Michael held his hands up and shook his heads. He needed a better tactic. 

His eyes scanned over Alex’s body, muscular and scarred. They were both under anesthetics when they had those chips implanted in them over a decade ago and they left no scars. He had no idea where they were.

“I believe you,” Michael said, nodding, “I do. So how do we fix this?”

“There is no fix, Michael! We just can’t do this! This was wrong and I shouldn’t have agreed to this in the first place! I’m selfish!” Alex said, tears in his eyes and looking overwhelmed. Michael swallowed harshly.

“So, what, you just want to stop it here and not even try to find a solution?” he asked. It was beginning to sound like he was looking for an excuse to not be with him at all. “What was it all for then? I mean, I killed your fa--”

“Stop,” Alex said, holding out his hand, “You did what you had to do. He was horrible to you.”

“What? Alex, he was horrible to you. And we never could’ve been together if he was alive and you know it,” Michael said. Alex’s eyebrows were pulled together in frustration, his lips pursed.

“So, what, it’s my fault you killed someone?” Alex asked. Michael sighed.

“No. I’m saying we did a lot to be together and now you don’t want to because you’re scared.”

“Yes, I am scared! I’m scared I’m going to be the reason you die! It’s not worth it! One night of having you isn’t worth you dying and never seeing you again!” Alex yelled. 

“Then let’s fix it!”

“There isn’t a fix!”

“Why not?! What’s stopping us from cutting it out of me, huh?!” Michael demanded. Alex opened his mouth to argue, but he slowly closed it. Michael watched his Adam’s apple bob as he physically wound himself down from a fight.

“You’d be willing to risk getting in trouble for cutting it out to be with me?” Alex asked. Michael huffed a laugh.

“When are you going to realize I would do anything to be with you, Alex Manes?” Michael asked, shaking his head, “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what the fuck love even was. That’s not stopping because of something your dad did, okay? It’s just not.”

Alex kept breathing heavily, slowly but surely calming himself down. Michael waited for him. He always would.

“But what if you get in trouble?”

“Fuck them. I’m a grown ass man, I’m tried of being their property anyway.”

Alex licked his lips and nodded. Michael cautiously took a step closer. Alex didn’t move this time, so he moved even closer. Michael put the tips of his fingers beneath Alex’s chin, tilting his head up just a little for a kiss. He kept it short and kept some distance between them to keep Alex calm. He wasn’t convinced the chip actually had anything in it to kill him, but Alex clearly was. He just had to work with that.

“Let’s find it, okay?”

“Okay.”

[maehara-san]

beautiful tragic || shoto todoroki x reader

Pairing: AU!Shoto Todoroki x F!Reader 

Summary: Two powerful souls try to comprehend their love only to realize they were shooting at the wrong fate. 

Warning(s): angst, mentions of cheating 

                                 ✸         ✸         ✸         ✸         ✸      

“Why should you sacrifice yourself for someone who isn’t paying attention to you?” you rested your forehead against the person’s chest as they ran their fingers through your hair. 

“Because...even though he’s married...” a tear rolled down your cheeks “I fell in love with him Himari...” 

Your friend sighed and shook her head “I’ll never understand how you’re still in love with him when he’s clearly married to her.” 

“He took over my heart Himari...” you pulled away as she looked at your tear-stained face “I can’t simply say I can’t love him as if it were that easy!” you exclaimed. 

“I’m sorry...” you mumbled regretting that you raised your voice at her. “I just can’t...I love him with all my heart even if he is with someone else...” 

“Your mom isn’t going to approve of the relationship she’s against it.” 

she expressed "My mom doesn't know anything about it..." you admitted "We..." you bit your lip and spoke in a low voice "...have been...s-seeing each other in secret..."

Himari sighed not believing you "Are you serious?..."

"We couldn't help it!" you exclaimed "I've tried hard to separate myself from him but the fact is that I can't seem to listen to my brain." your friend shook her head trying to comprehend your behavior.

"(Y/n)...if they catch you both...people are going to explode. His father will try to end you and most likely will do something so you don't see each other again! Do you really want that to happen?!" she yelled.

"No..." you mumbled "Then get away from him...the sooner the better (y/n)..." she said.

"Himari!" her mom yelled.

"I'm coming!" Himari replied, she gave you a sympathetic look and left.

Your body slid down the wall, you hugged your knees trying to calm yourself down. You felt anger bubbling up yet it made sense, you knew Himari was right.

Of all the people in the world and you had to fall for the one that was off-limits. It was a cruel world and now you didn't know if you'd be able to survive.

"What do you think about this one?" Todoroki looked over the city, his eyes focused on the passing cars. "Honey?" the young lady spoke as she looked at him with a worried look. "Shoto..."

"Huh?" he spoke and rubbed his eyes feeling his body getting tired. "Are you okay?" she asked walking over to him "Is everything alright?" one of her hands gently rested on his shoulder.

He nodded giving her a slight smile "Yeah...I'm just a bit tired from the long meeting we had."

"I'm alright Yui." he reassured her "I was asking about what you thought about the colors."

"Oh...right your deadline is tomorrow morning."

She smiled softly clinging on to him "Yeah! I'm quite nervous about their opinions but I'm confident that they will agree."

"Don't worry you have a lot of experience. I'm sure they will accept your designs right away." he said

"I hope so." she sighed hugging him tightly.

Todoroki wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. Yui smiled and hummed in happiness as she looked at the busy city.

His smile lingered for a moment before it disappeared. He was worried about someone else at the moment, even though he tried his hardest there was always someone else occupying his mind.

You were a reminder of what love truly felt like.

How will he be able to move on without you?

"By the way, your mom asked when we would be having a traditional wedding." Yui suddenly spoke breaking him out of his thoughts again.

"I thought we would wait until we were both settled down," he said looking down at her. "I told your mom that as well... but..." she stops mid-sentence and bites her lip.

"But what?"

"I was sorta...well hoping we can go forward with our plans from earlier. Before the major jobs and deals you were working on," she said, Todoroki pulled away from her grasp looking her straight in the eyes.

"You want to do the traditional wedding already?..." he questioned, "I thought you wanted to wait to."

"I did..." she mumbled "But the more I thought about it...the more excited I was getting. Just imagining that special ceremony that means a lot to your family...I don't think I can wait a while longer."

He looked at her unsure, not persuaded about her reason. He understood the traditional wedding was important, he dreamt of being able to experience it but with you...not Yui.

Even if he did have his hopes there was no way it would ever come true now.

"Let's do it then."

'No...that's not what I meant!' Todoroki thought, as the smiled covered up his true intentions.

"Really?!" she exclaimed "I-I'll talk to Mrs. Todoroki then! Your mom is going to be so excited!"

Yui quickly kissed his cheek and left in a hurry. The room was once again empty, he stood back and leaned against the tall glass.

'I'm sorry (y/n)...I'm so sorry...' he thought.

You wrapped the blanket around your figure. The night began to grow colder as the moon glowed in the dark sky. The old fashioned clock read 11:03 pm.

Todoroki had sent you a message earlier explaining to meet him at the same nearby spot. The park had become a secret place where you could meet without feeling overwhelmed with the idea of getting caught.

Butterflies were growing in your stomach as the minutes passed by. It had been a week since you both saw each other in secret. After talking with your friend and thinking about the situation you knew something had to change.

The mere thought of telling him made you nervous. You didn't know if he felt the same way and if everything you had been through meant something more than just a friendship.

A few minutes later Todoroki arrived. His hands were in his pockets, he wore a simple sweater along with a pair of dark jeans. Even in a casual outfit he still looked handsome.

He was just one of those guys who could wear anything and still look put together. Out of all men in the world and each person, you passed by your heart yearned for him. 

“Hey...” he spoke softly and kissed your cheek. The butterflies moved to your chest making it hard to breathe. With pink cheeks, you smiled small and replied back.

“Hello, Shoto...” 

There was a moment of silence, his mind has been spinning out of control for a few days now. He kept debating whether to let you know what was going on or wait to hear it from someone else. 

After talking with his sister Fuyumi, he realized it was best for you to hear it from him and not from someone else. Taking a deep breath he looked into your (e/c) beautiful eyes. 

“I need to tell you something,” he said softly, you nodded encouraging him to continue. He took a second breath trying to collect his own thoughts and put them in a way where he won’t hurt you more than he already has. 

“Listen...” he paused and looked off to the side “I have been thinking and with everything that has happened...it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.” 

The smile that grew with his touch suddenly faltered by his words. 

it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore

it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore

it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore

They kept echoing in your mind not wanting to accept the fact that this love was over. It took you a good few minutes for you to comprehend the situation. The mere thought of not seeing him anymore made a crack in your heart. 

“(y/n)...” he said, however, you were speechless to even respond to his sentence. “I wanted...to tell you sooner before that night. I didn’t want for it to come down to this...but if we don’t end it here we’ll end up hating each other and I don’t want that to happen.”

“H-how...” your lips formed into a thin line “Why...didn’t you say something earlier?...” 

Todoroki sighed “I didn’t want to hurt you...I never meant for this to go far. I thought it would go away but it never did.” 

“What never went away?” 

“The love that is growing for you.” he answered, “Ever since I ran into you that night...everything about you kept replaying in my mind like a movie. Your smile...the way your eyes would squint when the sun shined too brightly. H-How...everything about you made me feel human.” 

He moved closer, his hands were a few centimeters away from touching your face. His eyes closed as he started to feel your body heat radiating on to him “I should have put a stop to it when it began...but I kept blinding myself by saying it would be alright.” 

A tear escaped, “Then...let’s go.” 

“What?” he asked looking at you. “We can go somewhere far away and start again!” you exclaimed, “A place where it’s only the two of us Shoto, we can be in peace and live like we were meant to in the beginning.” 

“You want to...run away?” 

“Why not? This time there won’t be anything stopping us! We get to spend our days together doing whatever we want. Be in each others arms...isn’t that what you want?” you pleaded “Please...let’s go far away from here.” 

You rested your forehead against him, he looked down at your face seeing how much pain you were in. Tears kept escaping from your eyes, he wanted to say yes to your suggestion. He so badly needed to have you in his arms every morning and fall asleep beside you. 

Even so, deep down he already figured out his future. Everything was already planned for him while you, on the other hand, had a lot to look forward to. Your life was still undecided and if you keep being with him your life would get destroyed and only be filled with pain. 

As much as it hurt him, he needs to put an end to this. 

If letting you go means you being happy then with all the pain in his heart he will resign to you. 

“I’m sorry...” he mumbled pulling away from your grasp feeling the cold air taking away the last warmth he ever had of you. He placed your hands back at your sides. 

“I can’t go with you and I can’t love you anymore.” 

You stumbled back as the sobs escaped, “S-Shoto...please...” 

“I’m not going to continue this. I can’t do this to you and I won’t keep hurting you because of my actions.” he stated, “Please...go and live your life don’t think about me and don’t come back.” 

“How do you expect me to leave?! You’re telling me to forget about you and forget everything we ever did together?!” you yelled. 

“The same way that I will be doing!” he yelled back “I’m going to do the traditional ceremony, focus on the company and on my wife!” 

“I...” you tried speaking, the words never came out. 

“Hate me all you want, I don’t care,” he said. 

“I can’t hate you...that’s the worse part of all of this! I can’t hurt you...and it angers me! Why did you hang on to me so tight if you wanted to stop this from the beginning huh?! WHY?!” 

Something in you clicked you ran into his chest and kept hitting him. Todoroki tried to hold back his tears, he didn’t want you to see him crying. He knew he was acting like an asshole but this was the only way for you to get away from him. 

A chance to start over...without him. 

“I HATE YOU!” you screamed into his chest as you kept hitting him, he never once stopped you. “WHY DID YOU HAVE TO COME INTO MY LIFE!” 

Your sobs grew older while his tears silently fell down on to the beige sand. You stopped your arms and rest them beside your body. Your face buried in his chest as you continued to cry. 

“W-Why...w-why are you doing this to me...” you mumbled. 

“Because...this was never going to get better. Nothing was going to come out of this...I-I can’t...I-I can’t do this to you...” he whispered. 

“I-I still love you...” 

“I know....” 

The streets were empty, if people passed by at this hour they’d think you two were a couple. That it was normal for a couple to fight, oh how you wished this was one of those scenarios. 

Instead your world was slowly falling into a bigger hole and before you knew it the world you knew would be gone. 

“Please...be happy,” he muttered and kissed the top of your head. 

“It won’t be the same...l-living...w-without you.” 

‘You have to...you need to hate me no matter what you need to please.’ he thought holding you tightly one last time. 

[artificialqueens]

Different Names For the Same Thing (Trixya) - Chapter 3 - Pilandok

Trixie is in the middle of an emotional crisis and Katya doubles down on the idea that making-out solves everything.

AN: Category is: inconsistent chapter lengths and jumping from a G rating to an M.

Read chapter in AO3. Read from chapter one.

            Trixie needs T-Rex to stop looking at her like that. He doesn’t really understand why T-Rex insists on acting the part of a concerned mother when he knows they both have the same crass humor and prefer the midwestern brand of pick-me-ups— which is honestly more about the booze than the consolation.

            “Save it for the kicked puppy down the street, T,” Trixie deadpans. Diversions like that only work when it’s entertained and T-Rex pointedly does not stop looking at Trixie like he’s the most pitiable thing in the universe. Trixie gives up and slumps down his chair, lifting his cap to fix the non-existent hair on his scalp out of habit. T-Rex doesn’t even look like he’s going to make a joke about it. Trixie sighs.

            “Kim told you, didn’t she?”

            “You know it, girl,” T-Rex answers, finally breaking eye contact to grab his drink and take a sip. Then a little quieter,  “Shea probably knows, too.”

            “Shit,” Trixie puts her forehead on the table. The opening riff of a Dusty Springfield song echoes in the near-empty bar. Son Of a Preacher Man. Jesus Christ. He could just imagine how pathetic he looks like right now.

            “Frankly, I’m a little offended.”

            “Maybe if you visited me more often…” Trixie says onto the table.

            “Bitch, don’t even start,” T-Rex tells him, “am I not sitting in this straight bar with you right now?”

            Trixie looks up and shoots an apologetic look to T-Rex. It’s easier now that he’s not being treated so precariously.

            “Thank you,” he says, too genuinely that T-Rex looks a little disgusted as if he, himself, hasn’t been a sap all night. Trixie scream-laughs at this reaction and the people around them look.

            “Looks like our cover is blown, they know that there’s a couple of queers in this place,” T-Rex mock whispers at him, “Which is a waste cause I butched up. I wore a denim jacket.”

            “Shut up,” Trixie laughs, “I like it here! The bartender knows me.”

            “Yeah, you and your hillbilly music.”

            “She’s a queer icon!”

            The song swells into its chorus, the only one who could ever reach me, was the son of a preacher man. Trixie scrunches his face like he’s in physical pain.

            “Kim didn’t need to tell me, anyway, everyone saw that picture of you and Katya messing up each other’s faces.”

            Oh. That fucking picture. It’s the blurriest picture someone could take from across the street but it’s undeniably him. He’s always dreamed of being recognized along Hollywood Boulevard and there it is: the make-up is unmistakably Trixie Mattel and she got caught in a reddit-level scandal. And what other drag queen of that build and hair color would make out with him in public if not Katya? Trixie doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing that everyone just assumed it was Katya.

            Anyway, why does the universe always have to go out of its way to Aesop’s Fables his life? How many roundabout ways can they tell him that the moral of the story is be careful what you wish for?

            “T, I don’t know what to fucking do.”

            T-Rex looks at him, gaze softened. He reaches out to squeeze Trixie’s hand once.

            “It’s okay—“ he begins but cuts himself off, “actually, I don’t know if it’s okay. I have no idea how Katya thinks. He’s great, really, I just— I just know how you are when you fall in love. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. And he’s done it before.”

            “Don’t,” Trixie says as a warning.

            “I know. I know what happened. You forgave him so I don’t really have a right to say anything. But Trix, if you’re not going to let yourself be worried about that, let me be worried. I’ll hold that little grudge for you.”

            Trixie takes a moment, feelings of affection bubble in his chest. It’s probably the alcohol in his system but he begins to wonder if there’s an alternate universe in which he moved to Chicago after Drag Race instead of L. A. He could go to Roscoe’s and Berlin regularly to watch T-Rex host and hype him up and get drunk with him back stage. Maybe he wouldn’t be as busy as he is now and he would have more nights with Shea and Kim and all the girls that accepted him ten years ago.

            “T…” Trixie begins, her voice cracking.

            “Don’t cry, bitch,” T-Rex puts his hands up and Trixie can see the flush on his cheeks and hear the light slurring of his words, “cause I’m tipsy enough to cry and they’re gonna see that we’re sissies and they will beat us up, I swear.”

            “Ahh! Stop acting like this bar is Westboro Baptist!”

            Trixie is laughing loudly, too emotional to care when a couple of tears slide down his face. He appreciates T-Rex, really, although it begins to dawn on him that something doesn’t add up.

            “What exactly did Kim tell you?” Trixie asks after running the back of his hand across his eyes.

            “That you were fulfilling your fan-manifested destiny and slowly realizing that you were in love with Katya,” T-Rex shrugs. At Trixie’s lack of response, he squints his eyes, “Why? Is there anything else?”

            It’s a half-truth, Trixie thinks. Maybe Kim deserves more credit than they usually give him. The bitch knew what really needed to be kept a secret. Besides, Kim telling their friends is probably as much of a push on Trixie’s back that Kim will ever give him, since he’s always been too stubborn to ask for help. Trixie supposes that “being in love” is a way to summarize it, albeit misleading.

            “There’s a ghost haunting me,” Trixie admits.

            “What?”

            “And I think that he’s haunting Katya, too,” Trixie stares at a space just above T-Rex’ head, “He’s been freaking out and kissing me so much suddenly.”

            “Wait- wait- what?”

            “I don’t know, I think he knows. I think he does, I think it’s starting to manifest onto him and I guess being someone’s reincarnation can drive someone a little crazy.” Hearing himself say it out loud, Trixie recognizes the absurdity of the situation. He begins to suspect that maybe Kim just didn’t believe him after all. “I don’t know if Kim is being a good friend or a bad one.”

            T-Rex, still confused, looks like he’s about to give up on the night. He taps his bottle against Trixie’s, the clink is loud against the song fading to the end. The only one who can ever prove me was the son of a preacher man.

            “What else is new?” T-Rex scoffs, “That’s why I should have been your first call.”

            Katya knows he’s being greedy. He knows that’s it’s just selfishness when his hands wrap around the back of Trixie’s neck so he can pull him down harshly for a kiss. He knows that he’s acting spoiled when he scratches on Trixie’s nape so he can feel him gasp against his mouth, so Katya can slide his tongue between Trixie’s lips. Katya’s always been susceptible to indulgences— no need to hold back when the world is unstoppably racing to it’s tragic finish—and indulge he does because Trixie’s so hot when he has that hazy look in his half-lidded eyes and when and Katya can feel Trixie’s low moan vibrate throughout his body when he kisses him on his throat. He’s only fucking human.

            Really, Trixie should be the one with the self-control about this. As much as Katya feels sorry for burdening the boy with the mental labor, Trixie is the one who picked that role for himself when he decided to be the straight man to Katya’s performative sexual advances.

            An hour ago he invited Trixie over to “hang-out” and the pregnant pause that followed told Katya that Trixie knew exactly what he wanted. Katya waited on the rejection but the only thing he heard was “yeah, okay.” The phone call equivalent of a shrug. Katya feels like a kid being given free reign of the Chocolate Factory.

            What business does Trixie have indulging him in his whims? Katya should really be filing a complaint; this is not the relationship dynamic he signed up for. But then he hears Trixie whimper when he bites his lips and Katya can’t help but think, praise Willy fucking Wonka.

            Katya drags Trixie across the room by the lapels of his shirt. Walking backwards, he’s relying on his muscle memory of the general location of his wares so he won’t trip on a coffee table on the way to the couch. Trixie grunts, complaining wordlessly, but he moves along obediently. When Katya’s calves feel cushions, he spins them both around and pushes Trixie onto the couch and he lands with a huff. Trixie frowns at him, but Katya immediately climbs on top of him, knees on either side of Trixie’s thighs, and smashes their lips together again. He feels Trixie freeze, and whenever he does, Katya thinks Trixie is finally going to push him away and ask questions. He never does. Soon enough, Trixie’s back on the same page, and Katya feels Trixie’s fingers curl around his belt loops.

            Katya is stupidly hard against his briefs, the kind of achingly hard erection that he thinks is impressive for his age. Trixie is, too, probably, but they never go further than this. Katya is sure that that would be too far for Trixie— he doesn’t want to think of what it means if it wasn’t.

            Still, like a true hedonist, he double downs on his kisses. He knows he can make-out for hours, he loves it. Katya wants Trixie sweating under him, he wants his tongue sliding in between Trixie’s lips to press on the roof of his mouth and feel the canines of his teeth. He needs Trixie to swallow all of those questions he won’t ask. Katya knows he’s being greedy.

            In the pause of catching their breath, Katya is resting his head on Trixie’s shoulder, pressing lazy kisses on Trixie’s collar bone.

            “Brian,” Trixie whispers. Katya’s body goes rigid, he can feel his heart beat in his ears. “My jaw hurts. Can we take a break?”

            “Oh,” Katya makes a move to get off Trixie and when he plops down on to the space beside him, he begins to feel the strain on his thighs. He watches Trixie walk to the kitchen, picking up the electric kettle on his way to the sink. Katya can feel the sweat run down from his forehead. He ponders on turning up the AC but he decides against getting up. Trixie already has an unopened box of tea from the cupboard and Katya notes how effectively Trixie navigates his space— he’s pretty sure the tea is something Trixie gifted him from before. When the water boils, Trixie pours it in the mug with the bag he place inside. He waits a few seconds before turning around to face Katya.

            Katya is immediately reminded why he doesn’t like this much distance between them. It’s because Trixie looks at him like that. Like he’s looking for something in Katya, something that’s impossible for him to give. Katya hates it when Trixie has that gaze that doesn’t seem to see him but something beyond him. Something in him that deserves all the tenderness from Trixie that he never worked to earn. It’s because Trixie looks at him like that that Katya kisses him roughly, can’t help but dig his nails into Trixie’s biceps and bite hard at his earlobe. The harsher he treats Trixie, the more that Katya feels like Trixie is really looking at him. The more Trixie bites back, the further away they get from the gentle, school-boy kisses in his dreams. Katya needs this to be realer than the dreams.

            But somehow, after everything, Trixie can still afford to look at him like that.

            “Why are you letting me do this to you?” Katya asks suddenly. The distaste sits on his mouth. Still, it throws Trixie off like he wanted to and the affectionate gaze turns into a scowl.

            “Don’t be a cunt,” Trixie replies curtly.

            Katya deserves it, he’s not the one who should be asking questions. Not when he hasn’t answered any of Trixie’s unspoken ones. He sits up properly and his right leg starts to bounce as soon as his feet hit the floor. He should let it go, just enjoy what he’s getting, enjoy that Trixie hasn’t been demanding anything from him. But Katya sees the angry bruise forming on Trixie’s neck from when he sucked on it so much, he sees the slight swell on Trixie’s lips.

            “I’ve been dreaming about you, you know,” Katya breathes, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

            Trixie tries to hide his reaction by sipping on his tea but Katya sees the whirlwind forming in his eyes.

            “Tell me about them, Brian.”

            And Katya should tell him. Tell him about the dreams where he wasn’t himself but Trixie was Trixie and he was looking at not-Katya and kissed him so tenderly. In those dreams he was a different boy and made promises he swore he could keep and counted the bruises on Trixie’s skin. In that other life, Trixie would fiddle with the rosary around his neck while he’s telling Trixie he would never hurt him.

            Katya doesn’t understand it, but he knows that that’s what Trixie has been looking from him, in those longing looks. He feels like if he gives it to Trixie, Trixie will never look at him again. Trixie would only see the stupid illusion of a boy that his brain pretends to be when he’s asleep.

            “Brian, tell me about the dreams,” Trixie asks of him again, his voice cracking, “please.”

            “I was a painter in Vienna at the turn of the 20th century. I first saw you from my balcony window and called for you to come up. I kiss you and every night you would climb my window so I can kiss you some more. I never ask you about your job or your family or the sheet music you dropped that had the name Екатерина crossed out on top,” Katya says this in a rush and he can see Trixie slowly deflate, his lips pressing into a thin, hard line. It’s a lie, he thinks, and Trixie recognizes the lie. “Every time I see you, I paint a little bit of you. My canvas is starting to look like a grotesque monster.”

            After a beat, Trixie sets his cup down loudly on the counter. He marches over to the couch and Katya wonders if he’s finally crossed the line, if he’s pushed Trixie over the edge and he’s going to lose Trixie forever. He thinks that Trixie is going to slap him. Instead, Trixie grabs two fistfuls of his shirt and pulls him up to a rough kiss. Their teeth clack painfully but Trixie doesn’t stop, keeping Katya suspended, half-sitting. The hands are holding onto him so tightly that he starts to feel lightheaded. Trixie’s never been this rough with him. And he hates pain, but if Trixie manhandles him, he doesn’t mind, especially not when he can practically feel his dick pulsating in his pants.

            Trixie shove him back to the couch, the impact knocking the wind out of him. Before he can catch his breath, he’s already being straddled, Trixie grinding roughly against his concealed boner. Katya groans and grabs Trixie’s ass, pressing them down against him as he bucks his hips upward. Katya feels fingers dig at his shoulders.

            When he looks up he sees Trixie glowering over him, hot angry tears sliding down his face. Katya stops. His hands reach up to touch Trixie jawline, he feels the moisture on his thumb. He makes a move to wipe them, he wants to.

            “Trix, let me fuck you,” he tells Trixie instead.

            Trixie throws his head back to laugh a humorless laugh.

            “You’re a fucking psychopath,” Trixie says before reaching down and sliding his hand inside Katya’s pants, cupping his erection over his underwear. Katya’s breath hitches. Trixie leans forward until his lips touch Katya’s earlobe. “If we’re going to have sex, I’ll be the one fucking you.”

            With that, Trixie promptly gets up, collect his things on the coffee table, and walks out the door without looking back. The door frame shakes at the impact of it being slammed shut.

            It takes a minute for Katya’s brain to catch up with him. He finds himself alone in his living room, slumped on a couch, panting. His hard dick is struggling against his clothes, calling for his attention. But Katya doesn’t dare touch it.

[excindrela]

Ho(e)

Pairing: Reader x YoonHo (Ayno- VAV)

Word Count: 2822

Genre: AU/ Angst/ If you cross your eyes and squint hard there’s some humor & sap

Warnings: Cursing, someone gets smacked, mentions of sex

A/N: This is my first fic ever. I’m having serious anxiety about posting it. I welcome feedback (please be kind).

“Yeah so Ho came over on Sunday night”

“Shocker. What’d you guys do? The usual?”

“Yeah. Kind of. We had Daenjang Jjigae and kimchi pancakes for dinner and then we watched The Avengers.”

“Cool.”

“…and then we fucked.”

You probably should have waited to drop this bombshell until Alyssa had swallowed the gulp of Coke she had just taken, because she spit it out all over the table.

“WAIT. WHAT?? I’m sorry, say that again!? Did you seriously just tell me that you fucked your BFF of 5 years, with whom you have the ultimate platonic skinship?”

“Yep. Well, technically, he fucked me, but we’re splitting hairs.”

“We are talking about Yoonho here, right? The tall supermodel looking dancer with the light-up-a-room smile & the damaged psyche?”

“Uh-huh. That’s him.”

“Whoa girl. I want the whole story, and I want details.”

So you told her the story. …and all the details.

Alyssa sat fanning her face. “Ok WOW. I need a cold shower now. Sooo…was he still there in the morning?? I mean the harsh light of day is the make it or break it, ya know??”

“Sort of? By the time I woke up he was out of the shower and dressed because he had to run because he was late.”

Alyssa gave you the look. “Late?”

“Yeah- the dance troupe is now gone for 2 weeks on a mini tour. They were leaving Monday at noon, and as usual, Ho hadn’t packed.”

“So did he say anything?”

“No? He kissed me goodbye & told me he’d call me when he got back.”

“Like *kissed you* kissed you? Or just kissed you?”

“No….like wedding kissed me? You know: it’s a little too long & your lips are a little too soft to be platonic, but it’s not a real kiss either.”

“Mmmmhmmm….I‘m not so sure about this.” Alyssa said raising an eyebrow. “How are you feeling about it??”

Well that was the big question, wasn’t it? Yoonho had been your best friend for 5 years. He’d seen you through through a couple of your hook ups followed by glowing relationships that ended in tragic break-ups, and quite honestly knew you inside and out. You had a secret crush on him that you’d been nursing for 4.5 of those 5 years…and you might have tried to put moves on him earlier, but…it’s just that…well, Ho was a hoe.

A somewhat neglectful childhood, followed by several years as bullied trainee had left Yoonho with waffling self-esteem, somewhat emotionally needy and craving attention and affection at any cost. The fact that he was a) drop dead gorgeous and b) bi-sexual meant that he had a lot of options open to him…and he availed himself of them all. Most were casual hook-ups: one night stands or flings that lasted a couple weeks to a month at the most. His first boyfriend had been a guy who was already in the dance team when Ho joined. He took Ho’s virginity and they dated for a year or so until the guy left to go to dance for Tokyo Disneyland. Then there were a couple girls at the studio he was with for a few months, and a boy at the summer intensive he attended, and then another girl at the dance studio he dated for a few months last year- but those were the closest thing to a “relationship” he had. Really he was just a giant whore, willing to do whatever with whoever to make himself feel loved and needed in that moment.

Watching him live his life this way kind of broke your heart. He had so much to offer- Yoonho was, honestly, a great guy and would be awesome bf material…except for the whole being a giant slut thing. He told you in detail about all his sexcapades, and you made it a point to never be judgmental; instead taking any opportunity to try to raise his self -esteem, and encourage him to see his self-worth and pursue healthy relationships. It pained you to think about how good you could take care of him and how much you would cherish him…but you also knew that a true and solid friendship was precious to him, so he was unlikely to do anything to risk it.

“I feel fine”, you lied to Alyssa, “maybe we’re just moving from ‘skinship’ to ‘Friends With Benefits.’”

Alyssa was so not convinced. “Girl! Don’t lie to me! You have had a thing for him for, like, for-ever! How are you ok with this?”

You sighed. “OK. Ok. I am low key freaking out. But what do I do?? And now he’s gone for 2 weeks. So I guess I just have to overthink it for the next 14 days until he gets back & I see how he is.”

And overthink it you did. Two whole weeks to compulsively check Ho and the dance troops Instagrams…and wonder who he had hooked up with. So much time to replay every single moment – not just of that night, no- all of the last 5 years, and analyze every single action and word. You rushed to check every missed text and call in case it was him. It wasn’t. Most were Alyssa wanting to know if you had heard from him, or Music Plaza telling you they were having a sale.

It also gave you time to berate yourself and feel the gravity of the situation; and if you were totally honest with yourself: you loved being in Ho’s arms – even when it was just cuddling on the couch watching movies. Now you had finally been in them the way you always wanted, and the whole night had been as amazing as you always imagined it would be…but you had done the one thing you swore you’d never do: become one of the random animals on Ho’s fucked up carousel of fun. Not to mention that in doing so you had risked – if not completely ruined- your friendship with the person you treasured most.

***

At last, the fortnight of uncertainty came to an end when you finally saw a pic on the dance troupe’s Instagram posed in front of the studio thanking their fans for their support on the tour. They were back. You immediately felt nervous and had that slightly naustious feeling. When would he call? Would he just text? Was he going to act like nothing happened, or be fully freaked out??

Considering they had just arrived home, you weren’t surprised when you didn’t hear anything from him that day.  But you didn’t hear from him the next day either.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

Or the one after that.

Not even the next day.

On the seventh day, you gave up. It was devastating. Tears poured down your cheeks as your heart broke, and you realized that the friendship had clearly meant more to you than him. BFF’s for more than a thousand days, and he had ghosted you without a word.

****

The sound of your phone whistling a text alert at 10:30 the following Wednesday night startled you. Surprise turned to shock when you saw the message was from Yoonho.

YH: Are you awake?

Y: Yes. What do you want?

YH: Can we talk?

Y: I guess.

YH: Not like this. Can I come over?

Y: …

YH: Please.

YH: Please.

Y: Fine. When?

YH: I’m downstairs

Y: Uh,ok.

You weren’t prepared. There was that nervous sick-to-your-stomach feeling again. You silently cursed yourself for not following through when you had decided you should block his number. You took 3 deep breaths and steeled yourself: you were not going to let him know he had wrecked you. Cool and dispassionate was the plan. You’d let him say whatever it was he wanted to say, and then you’d kick him out so you and your broken heart could cry and eat refrigerator cookie dough in peace.

Three very short minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. You hesitantly opened it to find your (now ex) BFF standing there. His skin was gray, his nose was red, he either desperately needed a new razor blade - or hadn’t bothered to shave for a couple days, his lower lip was chapped and scabbed and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t had very much sleep. He was wearing a pair of old ratty track pants and a baggy hoodie…he looked like shit. You were a tad offended.

“Hi.” He rasped.

“Hi. What do you want Ho?”

He looked at the floor. “I know you’re mad at me, but please let me explain.”

You arched an eyebrow and looked at him expectantly.

“I started getting a cold half way through the tour and by the time we got back I was running a 102 fever and my throat felt like it was on fire. I’ve been down with tonsillitis for the last week. I was contagious and I had no voice. I wanted to see you, but I didn’t want to get you sick.”

You glared at him. “You couldn’t text?!?”

He looked sheepish. “I slept for the first 2 days after we got back. …and then I really wanted to talk to you in person, but I couldn’t talk so I figured I’d just wait…and then I kept being sick…and then it had been 5 days…and…” He shook his head “Yeah. I’m stupid. I’m so sorry.”

You slapped him clean across his beautiful face. The crack of your palm colliding with his cheek hanging in the air as you completely lost it on him. “YES! YOU ARE! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!” you screamed. “You were my best friend! I know you don’t respect yourself, but I thought you at least respected me. You took advantage of me and then left me hanging. I’m not one of those desperate horny bitches or fuck bois you love defiling yourself with so much. Why?! Why would you treat me this way? Seriously…why would you use me when you probably have 5 ready and willing holes you can go shove your dick in that won’t give a crap when they never hear from you again?”

“I don’t do that anymore.” He said, so softly you almost didn’t hear him.

“What?”

“I said, I don’t do that anymore. You’re the only person I’ve been with in the last 6 months.”

“I’m the only person you’ve slept with…” you clarified.

“No. You’re the only person I’ve done anything with. I haven’t even kissed anyone else.”

You must have looked confused. He walked over and sank down onto the couch patting the spot opposite him. Ho sighed and took a deep breath before continuing.

“You remember HeeJun’s Chuseok party last year?”

“The one where you got raging drunk and threw up on my date?”

He smiled devilishly. “That’s the one.”

You remembered. Ho got totally smashed, barfed on your date, and then fell down the stairs. Your date went home and never called again, and you spent the rest of the night at the hospital with Ho while he cried and got stitches.  You would have been pissed beyond reason had he not been so pathetic.

“I didn’t know you were bringing a date. …and then when I saw you there with that guy…he kept putting his arm around you, and you would smile at him…and you were paying no attention to me…and I was mad. So I started drinking. I skipped the soju and went straight to Tanqueray. But I was still mad. …and then I barfed and I fell…and then I hurt, but I wasn’t mad anymore because he was gone and you were with me and giving me all your attention.”

He laughed slightly, which started a small coughing fit. You got him a glass of water, which he gratefully gulped and sat running his fingers along the rim of as he continued.

“It was the next afternoon, when I was sitting there with ice on my head, eating the haejangguk that you had left for me when I got it. I wasn’t mad. I was jealous. I was jealous that you were with some guy that wasn’t me. I finally acknowledged that I had been lying to myself about my feelings for you. That’s when I really saw myself clearly for the first time…and it wasn’t pretty. You were the most important thing in my life…and I was damaged goods and knew I had nothing to offer you.”

He set the glass on the table, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and taking your hands in his looked you right in the eye.

“I took your advice…I am in counseling. I go twice a week. I’m working on building my self-esteem, learning to respect myself, finding healthier ways to fill my emotional needs, and generally trying to fix my issues that caused me to behave like this in the first place.” You stared at him in shock, unsure of what to say.

He let go of your hands, and pulled his wallet from his pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to you. “Even though I always wore a condom, I got tested. I’m clean. I have somehow managed to not catch something permanent or that will kill me.” You looked down at the lab report in your hands feeling the tiny knot of worry you had always had for your friend undo itself. He smiled ruefully, “I guess you might have appreciated having this information a few weeks ago. Sorry.”

He reached back into his wallet and retrieved another piece of paper. “I..uh…I went back to school. I know you were disappointed that I cancelled our Wednesday night ramen mukbangs, but I have a class that doesn’t end until 8.” You examined the paper, noting that he had 4 classes, one of which did indeed end at 8 on Wednesdays. “I got a DJ gig on Friday nights at Geumhyuk’s club… it pays enough to cover tuition for 4 classes. It will take me a couple years to finish…but I think I want to be a physical therapist”, he finished with a hopeful half smile.

It was Wednesday. “You had class tonight?”

He nodded. “I walked here after.” You stared at him incredulously. Your apartment was more than 3km from the university.

He shrugged, “I needed to see you. I knew we needed to talk. I’ve been sitting downstairs for the last 2 hours…trying to figure out what to say…this isn’t how I planned to do this.”

He slid off the couch and kneeling down took both your hands in his left, and his right cupped your cheek until you looked into his eyes. “You are, without a doubt, the best thing that has ever happened to me. I didn’t mean for all this to happen now…I wanted to wait- to make progress- confess first…but it doesn’t matter now…and I definitely didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m so so sorry.”

Looking at his face, you could see he was biting back tears. “I still have nothing to offer you...yet. I can’t erase my past, but I’m trying to be better. If you would have me, I would be yours. All yours. …and I promise I will never stop trying to be the kind of man you will be proud of.”

You stared at the tears that had slipped from the corners of his eyes and now cascaded down his face. You flicked his bangs out of his eyes, and wiped his tears with your palm. You shook your head at him. “You were always enough Yoonho”, you said as your own tears fell.

With that, he pulled you into his arms and kissed you with a passion that made you forget all of the angst of the last month. He pulled away, and from between heavy breaths his confession came. “I love you.” You threw your arms around his neck and whispered yours in his ear, “I love you too.”

**Epilogue**

6 Months Later

Yoonho’s body leaned over yours, right hand by your left shoulder for balance as he grasped your right foot and bent your knee to your chest and then rotated the bent appendage outward so your knee was to the side and your foot was near your crotch.

“Mmmm…that feels so good.” You purred. “How many more semesters of Stretching and Mobility do I get?”

He gave a small chuckle, “Two. But you get 4 more of Massage Therapy Techniques.”

“I love helping you do your homework. I knew there were benefits to you moving in.”

He laughed again. “I’d like to think there are others.”

“Such as??” you challenged.

He bent forward and whispered in your ear…and then gave you that heart stopping smile.

You grinned wickedly back. “Ooooo, that does sound beneficial!”

“Allow me to demonstrate…” he growled before carrying you off to do exactly that.

[blood-and-cigars]

moar phantom au.

You didn’t ask for more of my literary analysis bullshit, but tough luck that’s what you’re getting. Gotta stay on brand, after all.

Ok so Phantom at its core (for me) is about the transcendence of artistry, of the sublime, into monstrosity. It’s about an unwitting Faustian bargain; the protagonist wishes to dabble in the music of the angels and instead finds herself tangled in the obsessions of a very human madman.

However, Phantom isn’t a traditional “escape the murderer” story, (It isn’t a traditional *anything* the original, serialized novel jumps genres like nobody’s business) it’s equal parts beauty and the beast, or rather its older cousin, death and the maiden. There is no book if after the initial disillusionment there isn’t still a draw.

The protagonist (Christine) expects divinity but instead is faced with this overwhelming tragic monstrosity, and amid the devastation of that realization she discovers… she’s still kind of into it?

You can strip away the dressings of theatre and opera and still keep that main premise.

Frankly I was always disappointed with Phantom’s lack of truly supernatural elements, I think a Hellsing AU would actually fit rather nicely.

However some alterations to Alucard’s character and role in the story would be necessary because the titular character is indeed the villain.

The same can be said for Integra too. While I love Christine as a protagonist, she’s inherently the wilting ingenue archetype (her strength is a quiet sort) and Integra is… not that.

Seras would actually be a more obvious choice for the Christine stand in, however I interpret Alucard as being… more decent?? than to form that kind of selfish obsession on someone without their being underlying baggage to their relationship (as is his history with the Hellsing line).

Ironically enough I think Alucard is too scrupulous to put all his tragedies and emotional burdens at someone else’s feet.

Either way, if not music, I’m not certain what their fixation would be. Most likely some form of occult knowledge? Or perhaps successfully running the organization itself.

I wonder how Alucard could deceive Integra though. Perhaps it’s the fact that upon her ascension she realizes that a vampire has been governing the Hellsing organization from the shadows for all those years since Van Helsing died. (Which if we’re swapping out the Opera House for Hellsing, could be a thing that happened)

I don’t know, there’s a lot of ways to go about mashing Phantom and Hellsing together.

Lovecraft + Phantom of the Opera + House of Leaves+ Hellsing = I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

Here’s some stuff I’d include in a fic:

Arthur lives until Integra is twenty, all that time he is in charge of the organization. Although he is always withdrawn, a little sickly, and white around the eyes.

The catacombs of the opera house can be the Hellsing manor subbasements. Alucard has been locked away for three long decades. The years are incomprehensible at this point, stretching out into something quite close to an eternity.

No he’s never been released from his cell since then, but the many years of silence and solitude have made him powerful in a different way.

He is part of the basements, the mansion, the organization itself. The walls breathe with him, not a soul passes the threshold without his notice. To some extent, he’s forgotten what it is to be a person, instead of simply an extension of the shadows.

Arthur is very secretive about his duties, even as his health declines and it becomes clear they must begin thinking of succession. He mutters about demons, of monsters, and hellfire.

There is a room, on the ground floor, nestled away to the side, with the best view of the gardens. No one is allowed there. This is our box five.

The drapes are tightly drawn, but from a few cracks Integra’s been able to make out a desk and old, worn journals.

Every two weeks, Walter may go in for twenty minutes exactly, to clean without disturbing anything. Only Walter, no other staff.

When Integra asked, he told her it was once Van Helsing’s study. It is where he kept all his arcane knowledge, where he wrote out his correspondences, where he was found dead one early morning. But that was decades ago.

Arthur himself never sets foot in the place. Integra wonders if it’s out of grief. He talks about his father often, with both disdain and reverence.

During the last year, Richard comes to live with them. To be with his brother, he says. To look after his niece. He’d execute his attempted coup a tad more gracefully; after all why kill your opponent when instead you can discredit her?

When she was younger, Integra caught her reflection grinning back at her. She told her father about it, asked him why the deepest recesses of the mansion drum like a beating heart.

Arthur’s smile froze on his face. After a moment he told her, in the forced cheerful tone one uses with children, that there were spirits watching over the house, watching over them.

“Like angels?” Little Integra had said.

And her father nodded indulgently, even as he called Walter in to have every mirror on the property covered.

She is not so naive, by the time Arthur dies. Even through her grief, she sees how Richard is making himself oh so comfortable at the manor. How his smile is sickly sweet, and the way he’s trying to set himself up as her “protector.”

During the viewing, Integra stares at her father’s cold, still body and it’s like the breath’s been stolen from her lungs. She does not weep, but she is empty.

She’s not sure she cares to challenge Richard’s silly games. Let him have the organization and it’s haunted legacy.

Integra dreams she is walking along a beach. Icy water laps at her ankles with each step. There’s a figure amidst the rocks, playing a violin. And when he looks up, he wears her father’s face but his eyes are unfamiliar.

“What are you doing here, little bird?”

“I’d ask you the same thing,” she said. “Who are you?“

“I’m no one.”

She does not remember the rest of that dream.

Richard laughs when Walter explains about the study to him. First when it’s presented as his dead brother’s wishes, then even more so when Walter claims a supernatural bent to the precaution.

However, Integra is the heir, and it is her house. She will not see her father’s wishes disrespected before he’s even cold in the ground— no matter how eccentric those wishes may be.

She gives the study key to Walter and instructs him to continue as before.

Integra is looking over the old ledgers, the first time she hears the voice. No that’s a lie. She’s heard it before, this is the first time she acknowledges it.

Her father had been rather free with government funding, it seems he didn’t see much of a distinction between business and pleasure. (She shudders at the thought of an audit) At least he had been meticulous about recording his expenses.

She goes through years of accounts, and very suddenly the extravagant spending stops. Somehow Walter’s modest budgeting is so much worse.

She’s brushing away silent tears when she hears it. The voice is muted and distant, hardly discernible. She decides to follow it.

Hellsing manor has always been a strange place, where shadows flicker in the periphery and invisible hands claw at the windows.

Integra knows this. She’s been taught to ignore it.

She isn’t sure what compels her— recklessness or grief or anger but she follows the voice, down two flights of stairs and closed off staff quarters, to the forgotten basement door that leads into an even deeper section of the mansion.

There’s a strange indescribable shift, as she senses a consciousness focus on her. Something old and long slumbering, shaking off layers of dust and disuse.

Her father had told her the basement was walled off, that the door was sealed. Bricked shut, never to be opened again

It stands ajar, inviting her inside.

Any other day, Integra thinks she would have turned back. But this time she trails down into the bowels of her home.

Somehow— she thinks there is a trick involved, a few passages did not lead where they should have— she reaches a room that she just knows is a perfect mirror of Van Helsing’s study, even if she never set foot in the place herself.

On some level she knows it probably isn’t real. But she’s determined to figure out what this thing is that slumbers beneath the manor. She’ll indulge these games to see what’s behind it all.

There is someone waiting for her. Maybe something. It’s just a silhouette, with ever shifting edges. Blurred movements, darkness barely given form.

“What are you?” she asks this time. And she knows somehow, this is the man from the dream. This is the voice she’s heard from the shadows.

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at her. When she nears him he seems to reform. To take shape into something more resembling a person. But she realizes she can’t make out a face. Any face at all.

[aoifeanamadan]

I was just swaying!

Fandom: Druck

Word count: 2042

Relationships: Davenzi

Summary: David and Matteo were having a nice time until Matteo accused David of Fortnite dancing (which David did not do). It doesn't help that Matteo got it on video.

Support this work on ao3

That day, the day David swore he seriously considered breaking up with Matteo for the first and only time since they had seriously got together, had started just like any other Saturday.

He woke up, he made breakfast for Laura, he checked the charity shops on the way to Matteo’s place for anything good, he arrived at Matteo’s flat and felt everything get lighter. Matteo and him chilled in his room for a few hours. They talked, they didn’t smoke (Matteo was trying his best to cut back), they laughed, they did the kind of things you’d expect two horny teenage boys in love to do.

It was normal. It was completely average.

Well, maybe average wasn’t the right word for it. It was better than average. It was David being caught staring at Matteo and not having to look away. It was Matteo running his hands through David’s hair. It was puffy lips and ribs aching from laughing too hard and David neary crying because how did he get this lucky. It was so so fucking good.

But, all good thing must come to an end. The end of their time lazing in bed was brought on by David, like it always was. Normally it would be David needing to do something. His energy would build up until it was just too much and he had to move around. But that day, instead of it being his restless spirit, it was his traitor stomach.

His body betrayed him once again, this time by making noises loud enough for Hans to hear all the way across the flat. That was the consequence of skipping breakfast.

The noises coming from David’s stomach were enough to snap them both out of their daze.

“Oh my god,” grinned Matteo. David shoved his shoulder as he laughed. Matteo’s body nearly melted at the touch. David was shocked that just a playful shove could do that to matteo but he was not complaining.

“Fuck off, I didn’t get breakfast” he grinned back bashfully. He didn’t mentions the reasons why. The one egg left in the fridge and the one slice of bread, both of which he gave to Laura. It was Laura’s paycheck that paid for the food, and the rent, and his school supplies. The least he could do was give her the last slice of bread. She didn’t have to know that though, and neither did Matteo.

“I get the hint babe, I’ll go make us something.” David had to ignore the buzzing in his chest when Matteo called him babe to form any coherent thoughts. “Cheese toasties?”

Under the laughter David could see Matteo felt guilty for not offering him anything. Not everyone had Matteo’s stoner metabolism. They couldn’t all survive off weed and sausage.

“Yeah, okay, let’s make cheese toasties.” David smiled softly. Matteo grinned back at him.

What had he done in his past lives to deserve this boy. Matteo’s smile was enough to make David get out of bed every morning for the next eighty odd years. This boy had him whipped.

“I’m coming to help. We can’t have a repeat of the first time you tried to make us food.”

Matteo hauled himself off the bed and shuffled to the door painfully slow for David’s overly energised body.

“Oh come on Grandad Matteo,” David called, jumping up off the bed and jogging over to shove Matteo towards the kitchen. Matteo laughed as he stumbled through the doorway.

Once they got to the kitchen it was smooth sailing. They worked well together, joking and sneaking kisses while buttering the bread. Soon the sandwiched were toasting and Matteo was watching them intensely to avoid any burns.

David stood behind him, just thinking. Thinking about how nice this was. David’s life hadn’t been ideal up to this point. It had been full of screaming matches and conditional love and abandoned buildings and crowdfunding from people who liked his art and telling himself that he has to learn to survive on his own.

It got easier once he found Laura, shivering in an oversized jacket outside the place she worked. He thought he’d have to beg her to take him in but she nearly cried with relief when she saw him. He didn’t even have to ask. She already had a room set up for him. The walls were mouldy and the bed was a mattress on the floor but he nearly cried when he saw it.

Even then, it was hard. There was never any money and he always felt like a burden, but one day they’d be rich. He could feel it in his chest, deep down in his bones. One day he’d have a mansion and every room would be full with people he found on the street.

And he’d buy Laura her own mansion right next door. She deserved it. She deserved that and so much more.

That had always been his plan. But then Matteo came along and the plan had to be modified.

David didn't know if he could stretch for three mansions so he figured Matteo and him would just have to share a room. Tragic. He probably couldn't get two beds so they'd just have to share one. Even more tragic.

That was the plan, living in mansions next door, but as long as he had Matteo he could go back to sleeping in shelters where they called him ‘miss’.

Matteo was so much. David couldn’t put it into words. When he was directing he figured he could explain it in a film. It would be black and white until Matteo bursts into the frame, all flying hands and ugly jumpers and bright and colour and love and warmth and secret smiles and scrunched noses and his eyes and - David just couldn’t explain.

He let his mind wander while his body fidgeted away some of the energy that had built up while he was laying with Matteo. While his thoughts flew away trying to catalogue all of Matteo’s different smiles his body stayed firmly placed on the earth. The only thing to bring him back was Matteo muttering “oh my god” over and over again.

“What? What happened?” David snapped out of his daze, looking around, confused, for any danger. Knowing Matteo, he could’ve toasted his hand off. Instead of seeing a half cheese toastie, half human flesh monstrosity though, all he saw was Matteo laughing.

“What? Matteo? Matteo, what did you do?” David was just confused. Matteo’s eyes were crinkled and his teeth were on show. This was a new kind of smile.

“David, oh my god David, you were flossing, flossing, like a ten year old boy!” he beamed. David turned absolutely indignant in a second.

“Flossing? Flossing? Matteo, do you even know me? I was not flossing,” David seemed outraged at the accusation. That only made Matteo’s smile wider. All he could do was hold up his phone. And there on Matteo’s cracked screen was David, clear as day, flossing gently in Matteo’s kitchen.

His eyes were hooded over and he was clearly zoned out but good god could David floss. His entire body was involved. It was the kind of floss you had to practise to achieve.

“Delete it.” David knew it wouldn’t work but his first instinct was to destroy that abomination. Matteo just smiled back at him.

“As if.” He smirked. David expected the response. There was only one thing to do.

David lunged at Matteo, but Matteo was ready for it. Before David could lay a hand on him he was gone. For someone who could barely shuffle out the door ten minutes ago he was very fast.

But David was faster. He kept catching up to Matteo, nearly catching him, but Matteo knew the space better. Just when David was about to grab him he’d slip around a corner. David would get a fist full of Matteo’s jumper only for Matteo to slip his arms and head out and leave David standing with woollen cloth and building rage.

Just when David thought he finally had him, Matteo sprinted across the room and locked himself in the bathroom. David was left panting, listening to Matteo trying to gulp in air between his fits of body raking laughter.

What Matteo didn’t know though, was David had learnt somethings living in the places he had. Things such as how to pick locks, like bathroom door locks, with bobby pins, like the bobby pins you found in your boyfriend’s kitchen.

He ran to the kitchen and ran right back. Matteo hadn't been in the bathroom for more than a minute when the door swung open.

Matteo was wide eyed looking up at David from his place in the bath.

“You're so fucking cool, David,” he grinned, staring dreamily up at him. David nearly forgot how to breath for a second, which didn't make him feel too cool.

Once the bathroom door was open, it was over for Matteo. David dragged him to the sitting room and full body tackled Matteo onto the couch. After that, it was easy to wrestle the phone from Matteo’s winded, wheezing, giggly body.

“And the video is deleted!” David announced his victory to Matteo, but Matteo didn’t seem as devastated with the loss and he had hoped.

He looked up, still panting and locked eyes with David.

“As if I haven’t already sent it,” he smirked. David could just stare at him, slack jawed.

“I hate you.” David knew the words were bullshit before they even left his mouth, and so did Matteo. David tossed the phone back onto Matteo's stomach.

“I love you!” Matteo beamed up at him. Even though they were just joking and they'd said it countless times before it still made David's heart stutter as his body melt.

“I love you too, you goblin,” he smiled softly down at the boy on the couch. Matteo smiled so wide it was a shock his cheeks didn't split.

“I wasn’t even flossing, I was just swaying,” grumbled David.

“Okay babe” and suddenly the buzzing was back in his chest. He settled down on the couch next to Matteo again and wrapped his arm around Matteo's shoulders.

“Who did you even send it to?” David turned to look at Matteo, to study him. He was still looking down at his phone and he was still the most beautiful boy Matteo had ever seen.

“Just Laura and the boys.” Matteo's mouth was hungry on his before he could reply.

It never failed to amaze David. He could do this. Whenever he wanted. He could kiss this boy. And it was okay. He tangled one hand into Matteo's hair and put the other on his cheek, just because he could. He melt Matteo trying to get his breath back after all the running.

David had heard Matteo isn't before in different situations and it never got easier to control himself. Matteo was beautiful, but besides that Matteo was hot.

Before they could go any further Matteo's phone buzzed. Matteo could barely test himself away from David to check if it was important but somehow, he found the strength. David whined at the loss of contact.

The sound made Matteo want to do things to David but once he read the notification on his phone all that was out the window. Well maybe not out the window but momentarily on pause. It was a video from Laura.

He opened it and nothing, genuinely nothing, could have prepared him for what was inside.

It was a video of David, definitely taken within the last year or two, and he was dabbing. Not just one, not just two, but as many as he could fit in the 5 second clip. He was dabbing furiously, like his life depended on it. His hair was flying all over the place and he looked like a rag doll.

Matteo looked up from his phone at the boy sitting on the couch with him.

“I love you so so much, but after this you're going to hate me.” David just looked confused. Matteo could barely contain himself. He flipped the phone around so David could see.

David hardly took a second to recognise the video.

“Laura!”

[frostclawdragoon]

Prompt #13: “Feelings Under the Waxing Moon”

((A follow up to @ishgard-dragoon‘s TRAGIC SAD STORY PROMPT from earlier. :’D))

“Would you like to accompany me to--” His words got caught in his throat. He hesitated to speak his mind. “--to--”

“Yes!” She answered quickly without waiting for him to finish.

“But you don’t know what it is yet.”

She could only smile wide and sweetly, even though she knew he could not see it, she knew he could at least hear it. It was so easy to hear the sound of someone’s smile.

“I’ll go anywhere you go, Sillyman!”

Sitting beside the open window in her room, in the light of a waxing moon, that moment replayed over and over in her mind as she gently slid a comb through her hair. She had caught his hesitation. The anxiety that had crept into his voice as he searched for any excuse he could give her was not hard to spot. Not for her, at any rate. Watching expressions, listening to the slightest change in tone, the tiniest shift in posture, these were all skills she honed during her days at the okiya. She had to, if she was to survive.

But even with all her training, the truth of his words would forever elude her and she would never know what he truly meant to ask her. Perhaps she had jumped too soon with her agreement? She had a habit of becoming overzealous when it came to doing anything with him… She couldn’t help it. She had become so protective of him since he had been blinded, and in the days before that… Well…

Her combing motion had slowed slightly as her gaze softened to the fluttering sensation in her chest. She was overzealous with Silianaux because she wanted nothing more than for him to notice her like she had noticed him all those moons ago. When they had first met, he immediately jumped at her, flirting with her as hard as anyone possibly could. She was amused by him and decided to play his game. She flirted back with him, teased him and giggled at his impressive displays of strength and beauty. But that is all she had viewed their relationship as: A game. She had dealt with clients like him before, clients only wanted the soft winks and giggles, to play behind masks and reveal no true feelings.

… But on the night before Windsong left for Ishgard for the first time, she saw a glimpse of his true self. A soft, gentle and vulnerable man. It was such a small window, so brief it was gone in the blink of an eye and his mask returned and their game had resumed. He played it off like nothing had happened, and she tried to respect his wishes of not wanting to discuss his past or his weaknesses. But no matter what she did, that tender moment occupied her every waking thought. That gentle spot that he had shown her… It made her wonder how much was he hiding behind that mask?

She wanted to see that man again. She wanted to hold that man’s hand and tell him it was all going to be okay. She wanted him to be vulnerable with her. To trust her with the side of him that he never showed anyone else. She wanted to be his friend.

Rayana trailed after him everywhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of the secret side of Silianaux. Anytime he would offer to go with her somewhere, she always happily accepted. They traveled far and wide, took good jobs and weird ones. They’d seen so many places, tried so many foods, experienced so many cultures. And through it all she quietly hoped that, maybe, if she were to show him kindness, gentleness, that she was a safe place for his heart, he would open up to her.

There were times he almost did, but he would immediately withdraw. And the mask would go back up. She had toyed with the idea of perhaps using her charms to coax the truth from him, but realized that it would defeat the purpose of earned trust. She was stuck in a position of wanting to know him, but being too afraid to ask for fear of hurting him or scaring him away. So she kept playing his game.

… Until she realized it wasn’t a game anymore.

Her flirting had become real. He had cracked her mask, broke beyond her defenses and found her untouched heart and stole it right out from under her without even realizing he had done so. It had happened when they had stumbled across the Vanu of Ok’Zundu, they had saved one of their people and had been welcomed into their village as a show of gratitude. Rayana wanted to stay with them for a while, to learn of their culture and their way of dancing all the while sharing her own culture with them. Silianaux was more than happy to oblige, and the two remained in the village for what felt like weeks, living in a tent provided by the Vanu.

One morning, Rayana had awoken early as she always did to prepare breakfast for them. And there, beside her in their tiny space, he slept facing toward her. So soundly and peacefully, his ruby red hair framing his face so elegantly in the warm morning light. Her heart had begun pounding wildly in her chest, her face running hot with blush while her stomach twisted in knots. The very thought of such a simple, domestic life with him sent her into an emotional fit, one that forced her running out of the tent with her face in her hands while he slept none the wiser.

Her feelings had only grown in intensity since then with each new adventure, and it took such strong willpower to keep her knees from giving out every time he’d hold her hand or spew forth his long-winded compliments. He seemed to still be delighting in their game that was now very much one-sided, as she didn’t want to play it anymore, she wanted it to be real. He had been nothing but kind to her, compassionate and attentive, gentle and soft. He was her knight in shining armor, her beloved serpent chaser, her inspiration.

… But still that masked blocked her from his true self. Still that wall between them that, in recent days, seemed to grow thicker and stronger. After he had been blinded, a strange and painful distance started to form. Not just with her, but with the entirety of Windsong. She tried to fight against it, this distance he was putting between him and everyone else, but he seemed keen on letting it absorb him entirely. She could see, plain as day, that he was losing himself to a darkness she couldn’t face. That he wouldn’t let her face.

She loved him. She loved him so dearly and wanted him so desperately to see that. She wanted him to see that she was there for him, wanted to be there for him, wanted him to know he was safe and loved. And above all, she wanted him to know he was not alone, that she would stand at his side and protect him from all his woes… That all of Windsong would do so much of that and more for him.

Rayana sighed softly as her hands fell to her lap. At her side, a familiar round lump of fat and fur twisted around as Dumpling, her cat, looked up at her curiously.

“... I do not think Sillyman will ever trust me.” She said softly as her head lowered. “Is it because he does not believe I am strong enough to handle his truth?”

Dumpling meowed in response.

“I wish I could ask him.” She continued as she lifted her gaze toward the moon peeking through her open window. “But I am scared he will run away if I try. That he will be angry for my prying into his life that he does not wish me to be fully part of.”

She paused a moment as she thought, a soft frown forming on her face.

“Am I being foolish? Should I just come out and say how I feel, regardless if it scares him away?”

She felt Dumpling bump his head into her leg and she looked down at him, then smiled woefully at him as he returned her gaze. She carefully stroked the top of his head.

“... Perhaps… When I go to the market with him… I will tell him…” Her smile grew a bit bigger. “I will tell him the truth, and maybe, it will encourage him to share with me his own?”

Dumpling purred loudly in what she assumed was approval, and she giggled despite the immense fear suddenly forming in the pit of her stomach at the thought of her confession.

“Very well. Tomorrow then… Tomorrow I shall be brave, just like him.”

The following morning, Rayana left her room with a cautious and nervous shuffle in her steps. She descended down the hall to Silianaux’s room to wake him, only to find that his door was open and he was nowhere to be seen inside. She quickly made her way to the kitchen after, hoping to find him there already, but instead only found Nalin, working tirelessly on the breakfast of the day.

“Nalin-san…?” Rayana asked as she walked in. “Have you seen--?”

“He left early this morning.” Nalin answered without looking back at her. “Ouros was trailing after him despite his objections.”

“Ro-chan and--…?” Rayana’s voice trailed off. “Where were they going?”

“Didn’t ask and they didn’t say.” Nalin said as he stirred something in the pan in front of him. “All I heard was that Silian didn’t want his company and Ouros didn’t care.”

Rayana’s gaze lowered slightly in disappointment. “I see.”

Nalin glanced over his shoulder at her for a second, seeming to come to a quick realization of some kind, before shifting his attention back to the food he cooked. “... Would you like pancakes?”

“Eh?”

“I’ll make the extra fluffy kind, like we had in Kugane. And we’ll wait for him to come back.” He shook the pan slightly on the burner. “He does have to go to the market today, I have a list for him so he’s not going to miss it. Or I’ll kill him.” He glanced back at her again. “You’ll have time.”

Rayana smiled faintly, then nodded her head. “Y-yes. Of course.” She paused thoughtfully. “And… Yes. I do think I would like some pancakes very much, thank you.”

She quietly took her seat at the table, her hands resting on her lap as she waited for breakfast to be served. All the while she quietly wondered where Silian and Ouros had run off to...

[balladofthesadcat]

Back From The Dead

Pairing: AC’s Clay Kaczmarek x f!reader

Summary and explanations: Screw canon, Clay deserved better so here we go, angst and pain and troubles, but he is brought back to life and gets his happy ending with reader. (Y/N) means Your Name. There is a part where he briefly sings, that short line is from Monty Python’s Life of Brian (fun fact :3).

Warnings: some swearing, angst, mentions of violence and a whole lot of tears.

Word count: 10.941 words

Author’s note: HAPPY CLAYDAY2019!!!! I am late but... Let’s give this man the love he deserves! Dedicated to @ass-sass-sin-o who thought up this beautiful occasion. Also tagging @marshmallow--3 who was also really supportive. Everybody: PLEASE ENJOY! LET’S LOVE CLAY KACZMAREK! <3333333

-

You sat there, staring at the computer screen, your blood pressure reaching another peak of the recent times, just like on many other occasions during these last few weeks. Actually, it had been going on for a little over a month now. You’d find new and new pieces of evidence, traces, digital footprints and outright records of them, their exchanges, and… The remains.

It started out as just another curious vigilante exploration. You knew Abstergo was plain filth, that was old news. There were times when you had bumped into something shady which you then traced back to them and then intervened, operating from the shadows, making good use of your hacking skills, stirring up a nice little storm for them that was just enough to cut that branch off. On some other occasions, you’d even venture to sneak in to some places where, let’s say, no regular person was supposed to. You’d steal, destroy or just tamper with something to make the whole thing useless for them. So, to put it simply, you had been a thorn in their side for a long-long time now. You were the Faceless, you went by that name. If ever you appeared somewhere physically, you’d take extreme care to protect your identity, hiding your face from view, leaving no fingerprints either. If ever you contacted the Assassins, despite being on their side, you’d never reveal yourself. And even in your hacking you’d be neat and someone would have to be your exact image inside-out to be able to trace it back to you and find you at the root of all chaos to the Templars. All in all, in whatever you did, you were neat and precise. Oh, you loved dealing out a series of good beatings and you’d gotten used to killing sprees as well, but even the way you executed that was like a piece of art, a performance which only you could manage. Naturally, both sides attempted to make a deal with you and recruit you, but you would never join the Templars for you could never share their views and as for the Assassins, you felt that you could be most helpful if you remained faceless even for them, always keeping in touch, always appearing in the right moments, but remaining a myth, sort of. You were like an element in an equation that wouldn’t reveal its full potential until the final showdown, the solution, which no one knew when was to come. And this was working – you easily mended your secret life to fit next to the one on the surface. In the beginning, it was a hobby which then became a purpose, but you had the freedom to be your own boss in both, which was convenient. You could make use of your skills and the handsome money you earned when you needed them as the Faceless, providing yourself with the physical requirements - both bodily and the tools. You didn’t keep track of every Assassin, but whenever you came in contact with one or more of them, you’d gather some intel just to know what and how to say and what to expect.

When the Animus project was only starting out and they had sent him in, you weren’t as involved in this whole ordeal back then as you were now and things between you and Clay had been over for quite a while. Honestly, given what happened, you didn’t even want to get involved so that pushed you away from delving into this mission of his. Your reaction was like when seeing an unpleasant acquaintance in a café – you turned right around and closed the doors behind you, not spending a moment there. You weren’t mad anymore, you were just… Sad, plainly put. You felt a tightening in your chest and an unpleasant acid presence in your throat when seeing him or thinking about him so you just did what you had to to put an end to this – cut him off, turned right away from his direction.

You were emotionally unprepared when you met him. He was intense, always, and he was so vivid and complex and sure that it was a lot for you. That was what drew you in too. It used to be comforting, because he saw right into you and he knew just what to do to reel you in. But it wasn’t like a hunt, he just let you rely on him, allow yourself that relief, and he made you see that you could trust him, he would help you trust him, and he would show you what it meant to be in a relationship, to be – loved and wanted. You were a tough nut to crack, but he told you that he was willing, that he was able, and you wanted just that. It never reached a peak, however. What used to be comforting, turned into the source of worry and anger. You got scared of his confidence? Perhaps. Maybe you were right? You didn’t know. But you began questioning and he wasn’t responding well, he seemed distant and when he actually had to spend less and less time with you because he got seriously involved in the fight against Abstergo, you accused him and you ran. You disappeared before he did, not knowing. You buried yourself in training, earning your way, making a career, entertaining people. Fame and the picture you painted protected you, at least no one would suspect later what you did when you weren’t putting on a show. Really, you were lucky and you even laughed at it, amused by how so in the face of everyone you were, yet also hidden. Perhaps one day it would cause your downfall and you would go down in flames, but it would only be fitting for your romantic nature.

Sometimes you wondered what would’ve happened had you stayed, what could have been… But you would never know. You had your chance to at least send him a message to talk it over, but you wasted it by not acting. And then he was no more. Subject 16, Clay Kaczmarek. On some cozy and lonely nights after coming back from a trip to your home, unpacking your suitcases, looking at all the things you had bought during one of your many travels as (Y/N), as someone normal, someone the masses thought of as an entertainer, who had an image, your thoughts drifted to him, briefly playing with the idea that maybe he was your origin story all along. How tragically comical.

You then began your study of the whole Animus project, backtracking others’s steps and learning all about the machines, the goals, Clay’s sacrifice, Lucy’s betrayal and Desmond’s fateful end. At first it was very emotionally exhausting, but then you went at it with a more surgical approach, distancing yourself, knowing that you had to bear the weight in order to acquire the knowledge. So you dug deeper, deeper, even when sometimes it seemed that there was no more. You’d sneak into Abstergo’s labs to find the currently unused Animus machines and venture into the deep ocean of information stored inside it to see for yourself what Clay and Desmond left behind. It was a difficult task to accomplish, but once understanding the science of the machine as if it was your mother tongue, you unlocked more levels and planes than what you thought was possible, knowing that this was the only place that did not let you leave without a trace and you paid the price, accepting that you could only cover your steps, gritting teeth to continue this for as long as possible so none in the opposition would discover who you were. At this time, you didn’t really have a goal with this, but somehow you just kept going forward, or more like inward. There was a night when you completely missed out on sleep because of your Animus session and had to flee the scene in the morning and it was the most heartbreaking of it all. You found imprints deep inside the Animus which when molded together, showed you the exchanges between Clay and Desmond, like visions, replaying for you as many times as you wanted them to, but without the option to interact. You learned that Clay, at the very end, tried to momentarily cling to something, anything, hoping that maybe he could still come back, somehow. But he couldn’t, he was left trapped inside the machine’s depth, providing Desmond with his way out so he could leave it completely, although reaching his own end soon after in a similar heroic sacrifice. The day after was when you sent a message to Shaun, Rebecca and William, simply saying that you were truly sorry for their loss. A message out of the blue, emotional, irrational, uncontrolled, but it gave you some inner relief. No one comforted you when you mourned Clay, even if late, because no one knew, but at least… At least you could comfort them.

After that you stopped visiting the Animus, only diving into the information you took on memory cards and hacking, in the safety of your own home. But it seemed that you weren’t allowed to settle down. There was always something that caught your attention and you had to look into it. There was always more to discover about what Clay did. Even after you thought you had seen every last trace of him, there was always more. And it wasn’t comforting, because oftentimes it contradicted what you thought you had learned – the Animus deleted the last remains of his conscience, so how was this possible? There was data that suggested the opposite. You were determined not to accept it, not wanting to give yourself or any of the Assassins false hope by contacting them and then having to tell them that it was a false alarm. But you wanted to get to the bottom of this, so as much as you wanted to escape this, you couldn’t so… Back into another Animus you went, diving deeper than ever before. If Clay was still somehow alive in there, you had to find out, not for yourself, but for him. The reason did not matter, the how or why, but the fact did, so you went with a purpose.

You found the island where he and Desmond met and saw the broken remains of the gateway which no longer functioned, the loose black pieces floated around in the air in a lazy manner. You frowned, turning away, taking a good look around yourself for the umpteenth time. It seemed endless, like a void. There were islands in the distance, like the one you were on, but they did not call to you. You took slow, unsure strides forward until the very end of your feet hung slightly over the edge and your body instinctively stopped. You felt an immense force trying to stop you from what you were trying to do then and it was then that you felt the raw hostility of the Animus. It was terrifying to realize that it was trying to hold you back and sabotage the simple act of you looking down. You even panted when you finally managed, as if you were under actual physical restraints. And it dawned on you that this – this you had never experienced before because the thought never even occurred to you. Below you you saw the endless, impenetrable darkness that somehow still seemed to froth. It was alien, it was wrong, it was screaming at you to go back. Perhaps you should’ve, maybe this was to be your final gateway to madness.

- Clay. – you uttered, voice trembling, but still loud, and then you jumped, hood slipping from your head and your body falling into the darkness, tearing at your invisible restraints, penetrating into the matterless mass that wanted to push you – no, throw you back, but you cut right through it.

What was time? What was light? Such concepts did not exist here. You realized that you could see, you could move, but your brain could not comprehend the means, threatening you with splitting your head if you probed at it any further, barely able to comprehend the fact that it just happened. Were you still falling or were you floating or were you standing? There was no answer. You didn’t even know if your eyes were open or not.

- No living being should be here. – a voice spoke, seemingly close to you. You took a deep breath – or did you? – and you tried to get to the source, feeling that if you could just reach out, you could do that and…

- You are alive. – the voice spoke again in your ear and a hand touched – no, something, something felt as if it vibrated against your shoulder, or what was supposed to be that. You then suddenly felt like you were briefly spinning and then a figure, a shape, a body began separating from the darkness before you, not materializing, more like trying to tear itself away from the endlessness. It never fully formed, no colours or matter were really present and it seemed to be constantly in motion as it was trying to gain – regain? – shape, but the more you looked at it, the more it felt like it was looking back at you, until…

- (Y/N)?! – he exclaimed, terrified, and then his form found shape and colour at once. A scream sprang from your throat in response and seemed to echo all around you until being sucked into the void.

You knew. It was him. He was there right before you. Clay. His face was contorted from not knowing how, what, why this was, only knowing that somehow you were there before him.

- Clay. – you whispered his name. – Where… Where are we? – you asked, but immediately realized that you shouldn’t have because as bodiless as you were, you somehow still felt an inexplicable but enormous pain beyond all bearing, somewhere in your head, causing you to bellow like a thousand hounds, all being beaten at once. Clay’s form appeared even closer to you in an instant and he raised his hands to your head, holding your temples, making you feel the same vibrations again, registering as they snuffed out the pain, leaving your head with a dull throbbing which was, compared to the previous feeling, even pleasurable.

- You are alive and therefore you shouldn’t ask such questions, not here, because in here the Animus will tear you apart for it. You shouldn’t even be here! – his voice gradually got angrier, but it was an exhausted kind of anger which only made your heart hurt.

- How do you know? – you whispered, looking into the depths of his eyes from up close. Perhaps, if you had been outside, up there in the world of matter, you could’ve felt his breath on your lips and he yours, on his. But this place was something else.

- I no longer ask nor look for explanations. I don’t think I can, either. Life is the place for that and I have no right or way to be there anymore. But you… - the colours began fading away from him, draining from his face until he was yet again a frothing shape, getting sucked back into the darkness. Terror and pain were stabbing your heart and you were trying to grab at him, in vain. – Go. – he finished simply, and suddenly he was nowhere.

But the vibrating feeling in your head remained, growing in intensity and it felt as if you were snatched up, pulled with inhuman force and at the same time pushed, but in one direction. You felt your back hit the ground of the same island from which you jumped, but then it disappeared from under you and suddenly your eyes snapped open and you woke with a sharp inhale, sitting right up in the Animus. You looked around in fear, but nothing has changed and you were still all alone in the dim room. You hoped you didn’t scream. Your next instinct was to look at your watch then to check the time, noting that no matter how timeless your experience was, here in the outside world you were still good on that front. You palmed your chest over your heart, focusing on your breathing and trying to control yourself and calm down, your other hand pulling your hood over your eyes again, shielding your identity once again. You would delete all footage of this visit again, naturally, but still, it felt good to conceal yourself again while gathering the energy to get up, clean up and leave.

It was around 3 am by the time you got home and locked your door behind yourself. You took off your shoes and trembled your way towards your bathroom, finally able to allow yourself to shake and lose focus, not having to concentrate on stealth. You turned on the light and looked in the mirror, not even flinching at the sight. Thin trails of dry blood ran from your right ear and your nose. Perhaps you had subconsciously licked it from your lips while making your way back, but you couldn’t recall that bit. You concluded that it could only be the result of when you asked your first question from Clay and felt that horrible pain. You sighed, for now content with only hoping that you did not suffer any serious internal physical damage. From then on the rest of the night was a blur – cleaning yourself and then surrendering to a joyless slumber in your bed. But now you knew one thing: Clay’s conscience was still alive. And you were going to bring him back.

The next few days you couldn’t act yet, being snowed under with your current work project, but at least it was good for a rest. But you already began thinking of your next step. In order to bring Clay back, you needed to find him a body, which was no easy task so at first you were completely devastated, not really knowing what your options were, if you even had any. You weren’t just going to rob a morgue for one and steal someone’s son away, you would need someone whom…  Well… No one missed or no one knew where to search for. So once again you began snooping around in Abstergo’s database, trying to see if there were any unfortunate imprisoned souls somewhere, stolen from the world, who perhaps were crushed under the organisation’s weight and whose body you could… Maybe… Hopefully… Use for your quest. You figured that if you could get the body and you’d put it in an Animus, linked another to it to create a joined session and went in, you could drag Clay’s conscience back out and he’d find the body and anchor himself in it. You could program the device so that in the right moment it would overload for a snap and give him an electric shock to kick-start the heart. And maybe, just maybe, all that together would be enough to… Bring him back to life. You were no surgeon, no medically versed person but even if you were, you would have strong doubts. This was madness and quite impossible. But with all that happened, Pieces of Eden existing and all that wonder, all that magic, all that danger, you thought that if you didn’t give it a shot, you would be no better than the Templars. You heard him yourself, he wanted to come back. And he was a good Assassin too, he deserved to. So, not for yourself, but for him, you were going to try.

You released a long sigh from your lungs, not knowing you were holding one in. It was a beautiful, warm day and you were currently buried deep in one of Abstergo’s many servers, looking for your unknown target. What you ended up discovering though, you really weren’t prepared for.

„Clay Kaczmarek, former Subject 16 of the Animus Project - REUSED”, the title read on your screen.

- Reused…? What the… How the… What? – you mumbled, shaking your head, blinking erratically. But the text did not change. You gulped and moved your cursor over it, clicking after a moment of hesitation. You immersed yourself in the detailed report, reading everything carefully, even though most of what was there you had already known, it was basically his story written down. But at the end there was an update. Your heart almost skipped a beat. Reused. They recovered his corpse they had previously dumped. Using a Piece of Eden combined with a device – the operation of which you skipped reading about for now – they reversed the process of decay it was naturally going through and were now harnessing it for further genetic memory. They wanted to use his knowledge about the Assassins against them and incorporate the techniques into their own training. The body was now kept in Berlin in another one of their secret labs. Location, condition, everything was there.

Reused.

You spun your chair around and stood up, walking extremely slowly into the kitchen. You opened your fridge and took out a tiny jar of your homemade yogurt, ready to be consumed as a treat, finding the cinnamon as well and sprinkling some of it on it. You stirred it with a spoon, licked that, then poured the whole thing into the sink and ran back to your computer. Your skin felt like it was on fire and your brain was basically frying in its place but you never felt more alive. With this information, you hadn’t another moment to waste and you wanted to act as soon as possible. You didn’t even think it through, you just did what your instincts were telling you to do.

You worked furiously to locate Rebecca and her team and Lady Luck seemed to be on your side still, because you found them in Europe. You contacted them in a message, telling the necessary details about your recent discoveries and your plan. The events then followed each other in a rapid pace. Their response came quickly and you engaged in a serious conversation and by the end of the day you had your and their trip organized and covered to Berlin. The plan was to meet up there and infiltrate the lab, follow your mad speculation of resurrecting him through, steal the Piece of Eden, blow up the lab as a parting gift and get the hell out of there. Simple. Easy. Madness.

You cleaned up the yogurt incident in your kitchen with a pounding head, struggling to believe that all of this was happening. Of course, going through with this would mean revealing your identity to the team and thus, the Assassins, by getting into the Animus – no way they would just stand and wait while you were out cold and not lift the hood from your eyes to see who you were. But this didn’t bother you as much as you expected. You came to the conclusion that it had to happen at one point for whatever reason and that seemed to be now, with this. But you needed the help, this wasn’t something you could do alone and if you succeeded… You did not want to be left alone with Clay, you realized. You did not want to be the one to explain it all to him and then sit through the awkwardness that would surely follow, maybe even have your past brought up. You wanted to hand him back to the Assassins and disappear, returning to your role as the Faceless, allowing them to know you but still keeping your distance, functioning as a ghost to the Templars and as an ally to the Assassins, just doing your own thing, leading your life the same way as before until it came to a close, no matter how violent that may actually turn out to be.

You made sure nothing and nobody would bother you until you conducted this brave venture. And soon enough, the fateful day to meet the others finally came. You arrived to the hotel late in the afternoon and claimed your room key, booked under a fake name. The agreement with the others was that your rooms were to be booked right beside each other and you would meet once you were all settled. You didn’t bring too much and you didn’t bother to really unpack, not needing to. You finished that energy bar you were munching on on your way there and then walked out to the balcony, noting the walls dividing each room. You leaned on the railing and looked out over the city, breathing in. You were somewhat tired, and anxious, but you still wanted to follow this through. Thoughts about what was lying ahead and memories flooded your mind and you allowed them to consume you, taking you through pleasant and unpleasant times, only resurfacing when you heard soft chatter from your right. Leaning a bit further out you looked in that direction, spotting the familiar trio. Nodding to yourself, you returned to your room and then left it with the same drive, stopping at the neighbouring door and knocking. There was a light murmuring inside and some shuffling and then the door opened, revealing a slightly uptight-seeming Shaun Hastings who looked quite surprised.

- May I help you, miss? – he asked.

- I don’t suppose you have an espresso machine in your room, do you? – you asked. By your agreement this was to be your code to help them know it was really you. Wordlessly, he stepped aside to let you in. There was the natural surprise and some questions about if and how you knew Clay but you brushed those aside, stating that you would not talk about the two of you. Your eyes betrayed you and displayed exactly how much sadness was churning inside you. But you all had to keep going, you weren’t there to relax. So you sat down and discussed your approach, every step. Infiltrating the underground lab at night would be easy and you decided that destroying that one level where you were to conduct your experiment would be enough, it would destroy all evidence and throw Abstergo off your possible trail. Deciding on whipping up an electric fire, you have discussed everything and got ready.

From then, it all turned into a crazy dream. You wouldn’t call it a nightmare, but it was quite strange nonetheless. Your heart was definitely not beating as it usually did, the closer you got to your ultimate target. And when you were standing in front of the capsule-like object which housed Clay’s body, you realized that you were terrified, the fright was clawing at your tissues from the inside. But you didn’t fear failure, you were actually prepared for that. You feared success, you feared facing him, even if for a minute until you would have to get going and get out of there. Your heart, after all this time, was not ready. You did not want to analyze what you were feeling nor face it, at all. You forcefully pushed on and helped the others set up the connection between the machine and an Animus in which you were supposed to go. Shaun and Rebecca were absolute geniuses and you experienced a short relief while you marveled at how quickly and seamlessly they familiarized themselves with the strange device, discovering how they could produce that overload in the right moment that was to serve as the defibrillator and how they could remove the Piece of Eden after it was all done – successful or not. Now that Piece of Eden, it was a strange artifact, really. It was made of the same material as the Apple, but it was shaped like… It really reminded you of a traditional Japanese teacup. It was thin, but the „cup” walls weren’t that high so it could barely hold any liquid if used in such a way. It emanated a strange sensation and an unearthly, soft but unsettling sort of light and when you gazed at it for a bit longer, you felt a familiar buzzing inside your head. It was situated behind Clay’s head in the device and with a bit of tinkering it could easily be removed as you could see.

Clay… His body was in excellent condition, the river’s toll taken on it nonexistent. He looked like as if he was only sleeping – he just wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating. He was as beautiful as ever, you thought with fondness, but you violently tore yourself away from that and turned your back to him, settling in the simplified Animus device beside him. It wasn’t made to be comfortable, you noted, but it was the easiest to transport and it would serve the purpose. Once everthing was ready, the others settled down and you went in.

Snooping outside the regular planes inside was now your forte, you could say, and finding that desolate island was easy. You floated and treaded with purpose and even though you could sense the resistance of the system – trying to push you back from reaching the place where you weren’t logically supposed to be because it was actually trying to protect you, even if aggressively –, you slowly but surely made your way to the edge once again. You peered down into the impenetrable depth and knew that you were attempting the impossible again. How could it be impossible if you had already done it once before? But it was, it really was, because you knew that this time you might not be so lucky and come back. Or you would, but without Clay’s conscience. But whatever awaited you, you did not care, you had to go, you had to jump, you had to cut through, you had to reach, you had to find

- Clay. – you said his name, Clay, Clay, Clay, Clay---

You did not even notice when you began your intrusive descent against and into the womb of hostility, but suddenly you just knew that you were doing it. You couldn’t tell when you arrived, if ever, but you just had to trust your gut that you were, somehow, there – wherever that was. There was silence, but it was a peculiar statement to make because what really was there was the nothingness. You still had to try, somehow, to find him. You had to. He must still be there. But unlike the first time, he did not come. In an instant, you were panicking and you had to mentally pressure yourself to snap out of it and stay focused, to not get lost.

- No living being should be here. – you whispered, just like he did the last time. What were you hoping for by this? You honestly had no idea, you just made an attempt so that maybe, just maybe…

- I am no longer alive. – his voice, exhausted, dismal, called somewhere near you. You tried to turn in his direction, wherever that was.

- Maybe not at the moment. – you said and swallowed a huge lump in your throat. You began hearing the loud beating and throbbing of your own blood in your ears. In that moment, you suddenly knew, just knew that you had to be swift now, there was no room for fooling around. You could hardly make out the frothing shape of a body, the image of a man who once was.

- What do you mean, (Y/N)? – he asked you, and then you lunged forward – you hoped you did, but this place wouldn’t let you be able to tell. Your mind, however, was dead set on executing these actions. You looked in front of you, at the unreal figure and extended your arms, wrapping them around him, not knowing if you were actually feeling him or not, but you prayed to all deities that were and were not that you did.

- You are coming back, Clay, you are coming back with me and you are going to return to your body and you are going to live, you are going to live, you hear me?! – you screamed, voice shaking with the tears that never escaped when you parted those many years ago but threatened you now.

The Animus attacked you then. You were attempting to leave and take something with you that you were not supposed to and the system didn’t want you to do that. You felt winds of cold and dark stab and tear at you, attempting to pull you apart, but in response you just dug your nail into the mass of Clay’s conscience you were enveloping. Invisible and unreal electrical charges shot through you, but you just pushed closer, focusing on only one thought: returning to the world. Everything was loud and silent, you felt sensations that were impossible to describe and nothing at all, extremities held you that could not be and you could not tell what actually was and what was not. You could only hope that you were actually moving, somehow escaping, but you also felt lost and you had no way of telling.

In the room, Rebecca, Shaun and William were watching over the two of you. Five minutes had passed, ten, fifteen, twenty… Frustrated sighs left each throat, one after the other. They felt like it was all in vain and they should try to pull you out before you were lost.

But then your vital signs changed abruptly. Your heart was beating twice the speed of what was natural and acceptable in your tense state, your blood pressure was at the same time extremely low and your fingers were twitching, although the rest of your body wasn’t jerking. It was alarming and they all jumped to their feet, but before they could forcefully end the session, the Piece of Eden activated itself as well, the alien light that was softly coming from it quadrupled in power and filled the whole room, coating everything, causing the glass of Clay’s case to crack an then completely shatter, covering him in the softest layer of glass shards – all so quickly that they barely had enough time to register it. But it was obvious that they had to act now. They launched the overload and Clay’s body convulsed from the shock, continuing to twitch wildly, the alien glow making it seem like a lucid dream.

Then, with no warning, you sat up, sucking in air as if you were a second away from drowning and this was your last and unexpected chance to save yourself from suffocating. At the exact same moment, Clay’s body stopped twitching and he himself also raised into a sitting position in one swift movement. Just as you both raised and your eyes were trying to refocus and regain sense, the Piece of Eden’s light died down. For a few seconds you were debating whether you were dreaming, dead, or if this was real and you were back out, alive. You bit the insides of your cheeks and when you felt the familiar unpleasantness, you nodded, accepting the fact that you were alive. You slowly, timidly, turned your head in the direction of the other device to see whatever you had to see there. As if on cue, mirroring your movement not a millisecond late, Clay also turned his head and then your gazes met. Time really felt like it had stopped then, only the beating of your hearts was heard, a thousand tiny needles picking at you inside your veins. You were in a trance, but you desperately wanted to break out, so you began fighting yourself, mentally beating yourself, all in the matter of seconds, to make yourself snap out of it and…

- Come on, let’s pack up. Shaun, help Clay up and William… - you heard Rebecca speak and that was your salvation. You sprung to your feet and frantically pulled your hood over your head. From then on it was another crazy blur, but one thing you could constantly feel – Clay’s eyes upon you. You thanked the fact that he was still too weak to speak to you – or whatever the reason was, really, you were just glad as you were already at the end of what you were able to handle without shutting down. You gathered your tools, Shaun safely removed and wrapped up the Piece of Eden to take it away for further discovery, all footages of your presence were erased and you successfully started up the fire, making sure that it would destroy everything behind you and cover your escape. Shaun and Rebecca took Clay with them in the van while you and Miles senior took a different route, the five of you meeting once again back at the hotel, careful about your re-entry, not to cause a stir and seem suspicious.

You told Mr. Miles to go forward and you went to your own room first. Since you hadn’t unpacked, you only had to wash up and fix your attire and you were ready to leave. You grabbed your bag and entered the other room from the balcony. You walked over to the team, your breathing measured. Clay was sitting on the bed, seemingly fine and Shaun and William were explaining the details of the time leading up to this day to him. When they noticed you, Rebecca greeted you with a tired but warm smile and stood to step towards you but stopped, seeing your bag hanging on your shoulder.

- Don’t. Please. I just want to be short about it now. – you got the start of any protest, taking in one shaky breath before continuing, straightening your posture. - So, everything is as we discussed, you have your contacts here and disappearing once you are ready should be easy. I hope I have provided you with enough financial support. Please, treat yourselves well with however much is left – I hope it’s a lot, I really didn’t play it shmuck. Yeah, all that and… Take care, see you around sometime. Let’s continue to stick it to the Templars. – you finished, striding to the door with only one intention – to leave.

- (Y/N). – Clay called out to you with such a tender voice that you almost choked on your own breath and that halted your hurried movements. It was the first time in years that you heard his actual living voice and it nearly made you collapse, they could see your legs bump together, making you stumble.

- I beg of you! – you struggled out with trembling lips and wildly shook your head, not looking back. – Guys, I am really not proud of what I am about to do and I will forever try to atone for it, but… This is all I can bear now. I must return to what I was. You know who I am now anyway. I… I cannot do this, Clay. – you breathed out the last sentence and then dashed towards the door like a wild animal escaping confinement.

And with that, you were gone.

You then began your longest hitchhiking of your life and made it across the border. That much caution was excessive, but you needed the therapeutic effect it held. Sleeping in cheap motels, not speaking to anyone besides giving the directions and saying a polite thank you when paying for your food. You had time to start burying this whole experience in yourself and build your walls right back up, protecting your heart, mind and soul.

After the last bit of traveling, you resumed your life back home under your real name, continued working and took some time off from being the Faceless once you have made sure that Clay, Rebecca, Shaun and William were all fine as well, but without contacting them of course. After a month of this, you knew though that you were prepared to open up that part of your life again. You caught up with what was happening at Abstergo and happily noted that they still, even after a bloody month, had no clue what the hell happened in Berlin. It was a serious blow to them which threw them back a great deal.

Life was relatively normal for you and even though you were prepared to be bombarded by the Assassins, in thought you mutely thanked the guys for – you guessed – spreading the message that you preferred to continue operating as an ally, solo. Wherever you went, you knew that when a stare was too long and too strange, it was from these hidden ones, but you were thankful for them respecting your silent wishes. You had your hands deliciously full, so to say, because you were never bored, you always found something to deal with, a way to stir up some trouble for the Templars.

Your heart returned to its dormant state that was oh so familiar from the previous years and you thought that it would now stay that way forever. But on a cold, autumn day, you felt your breath stolen from you once again. Of course, you couldn’t expect to never see him again, but not like this… You were sitting at a table in front of a café, almost empty paper cup of melange in hand and book in the other when a figure took the seat next to you.

- Hi. – a curious male voice greeted you and you looked up at him, blood draining from your face then. It was Clay, Clay Kaczmarek, sitting right there beside you, looking as alive as ever, looking… Looking beautiful, healthy, everything he deserved to be, a brown leather jacket over a hoodie with a pair of dark jeans and boots keeping him warm and simply stylish. His eyes were stormy, however, but you didn’t stop to wonder about the reason behind that.

- Is it something concerning Abstergo? – you whispered after a few moments of trying to compose yourself. You saw him shake his head.

- No, nothing of the sort. I wanted to talk to you about… - he began, but you dropped your coffee and book after his first word. You ran, once again, forgetting your book there, only caring about escaping him. You did everything, tot he best of your abilities, to lose him, arriving home quite a while later. Your legs gave out once you closed the door behind yourself and you fell to the floor. You were breathing heavily, loudly, fighting for every inhale, trying not to pass out. It took quite a while for you to calm down and then you shakily took off your shoes, still lying on the floor. You trembled, almost collapsing when trying to stand up, but with enough patience and determination you managed to stay up and get out of your coat, now just staying in your pants and cozy turtleneck. You took a few steps towards the kitchen when you heard the soft creaking noise of your door as it opened and then closed and your keys were turned in the lock. You were frozen in your spot, one arm raised halfway in front of you as you wanted to thread your fingers through your hair but stopped before you could due to these sudden noises. You couldn’t move so you just waited. A few steps and then the intruder was right behind you. A hand slowly rested on your shoulder – strange, it wasn’t menacing at all and it was oddly familiar.

- (Y/N), please take deep breaths. I do not want you to panic. I locked the door just to be safe, but not to trap you. You can still send me away if you wish. But if you don’t, I will keep my distance, but please, give us a moment to sit down so I can talk to you. And just… Just listen, please. That is all I ask of you. – Clay spoke slowly, clearly, careful not to startle you even further or cause you to react in a way that you would harm yourself. You followed his request and consciously took deep breaths, keeping a steady rhythm. You then slowly moved away from his touch and walked into the kitchen, sitting on the first chair beside the table you saw. Clay, after quickly getting rid of his shoes to be polite, followed you and carefully took a seat in front of you on another chair, keeping a respectful distance between the two of you.

- Alright, I’ll… I’ll listen. – you mumbled, chancing a quick glance into his eyes but feeling a sharp pain in your heart so you immediately averted your gaze. There was no escaping now, it was going to happen.

- So… - Clay began, trying to choose his words carefully. – I… Won’t ask why you did it, but I… I still want to thank you. – He hummed, scanning your face, your form for any sort of reaction. – Yeah. And I… Actually, you know, I am just so damn thrilled because even though I still remember everything, the visions no longer haunt me and I haven’t slept better than since you brought me back. – his sudden enthusiasm seemed to die down here and he looked down at his hands. – Although something’s still missing and… Damn it, (Y/N), I want to talk about you and me, pick up the problem from where we left off, you know? – he confessed, looking right at you again.

And that’s when it happened.

- I ca-, I-hi-I, I ca-, I can’t! – you struggled to spit it out through a series of wild, tearful hiccups, feeling a sudden shortage of breath. The barrier finally broke and the tears you forced down your throat all those years ago after running away from him, in addition to all the frustration and exhausted pain you gathered since then in connection to him, now finally escaped your prison. You wept, hollering in pain as your suffering felt too much to bear and there was no other way for it all to escape. It felt like you were going to explode if you tried to keep it in any longer. Your body hunched forward, your forehead on your knees, your hands clinging to the sides of your thighs, surely bruising your own skin under the pants. Every nerve in your brain and every cell of your body was on fire, was hurting, and you had nowhere to run from this feeling. The tears kept coming like a monsoon’s downpour, completely soaking your face and your clothes. Clay was in fact afraid of such a heavy reaction from you, but he didn’t expect this volume. He debated whether touching you in this state would make it even worse for you but when he saw you slipping towards the floor from your chair, he dropped to his knees and caught you, locking you in his arms. You barely even registered, but you wanted to fight him, to escape his hold. This pointless struggle caused your weeping to increase and you had serious trouble breathing now, threatening you with passing out if you couldn’t calm down.

- (Y/N), listen to me! Focus on my voice! – he said loudly and sternly, hoping to drag you back from your helpless frenzy. – You must reign this in! Step by step, okay? But you must, you have to calm down, for your own sake! – he released a frustrated sigh, his defined brows knitting in the moment of desperation. – Please, I do not want you to hurt yourself even more!

He held your body even tighter to himself, elbows pressing your arms to your sides as his hands he then paced on your temples, making you angle your head so he could get a good look at your face. It was a mess of tears and some mascara, a troubled land in the midst of a war.

- Breathe with me now. Just come back. I am here. Find me, (Y/N). – he attempted to bring you back again. You had your eyes shut tightly and sounds of struggle and hurt were still spilling from you the same way as your tears were, but at least, slowly, you were regaining control over your breathing and as heavy as it was, you were no longer in danger of passing out from the lack of air. Clay held you through it and continued murmuring soft and sound phrases to you, helping you find your anchor back in reality. He was devastated that he could not prevent this, but at least calmness born out of weariness was still better than more turmoil, he thought.

Slowly, you rain out of tears and when you did, your first real thought appeared again – you wondered if that was even possible, but it seemed so. You turned your head, facing away from him and, as if on cue, he stood with you, helping you sit back on your chair. He walked over to the sink and you heard the water running, still not looking in that direction. Soon he was back in front of you, gently dabbing your face with a wet cloth, cleaning as well as refreshing it. You flinched at the first touch but then relaxed, the gentle treatment actually making you feel better. When he was done, he handed you a glass of water and waited for you to drink it all before taking it and the cloth back to the sink.

- I bet you have your answers now, whatever your questions were. – you said dryly. Clay looked at you with a confused expression but you still refused to meet his gaze.

- What do you mean?

- I’m embarrassed, Clay! Just look at what just went down. I’m practically mad so whatever you wanted, I’m sure you don’t want it now. – you sighed in frustration.

- Oh, for fuck’s sake, (Y/N), you should’ve seen me when the bleeding effect got worse and I was acting under the effect. That was madness and fucking ugly. Now this… - he sat down in his chair in front of you again. – This is all me and this is ugly, but not for the reason you think. – his voice softened by the end and he leaned closer to you.

- I want to sit back on the floor though. – you said flatly, already sliding back down to the kitchen tiles. This small act of yours made Clay smile genuinely, it was so undeniably cute even in such a problematic situation as the one you were in at the moment. But he loved your little quirk nonetheless.

- You always liked that. – he noted, joining you, one knee almost up to his chest and his other leg stretched out.

- Yeah.

- I remember it well.

- Aha…

- You often behaved like a cat. This, too, made me think of that.

- I guess.

- It’s cute. – he said, eyes searching your face. You didn’t respond with words, but you folded your hands in your lap. He moved his into your field of vision, aimed at the floor, showing you his palms as a sign that he had no vile intent. When you didn’t retreat, he closed the distance and placed his hands on top of yours. – So… Let me talk to you? – he tilted his head and your bottom lip twitched, but you nodded. – Okay. – he took a deep breath. – I just realized that I probably fucked this up greatly but… I know you probably don’t want to say too much yourself and I did want to let you rest but I do have questions… But anyway. – he chuckled awkwardly, shaking his head. It was a cute gesture and you looked up at him shyly, trying your hardest not to look away again when he locked his eyes with yours.

Whatever he was going to say, ask, you wanted not only to hear but also see that he was honest in it. You often forgot to blink when you were doing this, when you were so deliberately looking for this proof and he remembered that, noticing how your pupils changed in size, registering all your tiniest signs and understanding their meaning.

- I started doubting you. – you suddenly said before he could speak up, surprising both him and yourself. – You were always so confident, so sure, you had everything in you and you were the whole goddamn package and more – did you even realize that? – your lips trembled momentarily, but he stayed silent, wanting to hear you finish this, knowing how important it was. – You were – you are – handsome, smart, strong, but you also had a personality and when I learned that you even knew what suffering meant, how difficult it was to… To rise above a messed-up family background, I felt more connected to you than ever. To know that you would understand me changed everything! And you even said it when I voiced my concerns, you said that it was – that it was okay, you would help me see that and get through and over it and… And I wanted that, I thought that finally, finally someone… But, but then you… - your hands stiffened under his. – You began becoming distant and… And I wondered – he has been through hell and he came out victorious, why the hell would he ever want to do it again with me, suffer through the same by being with me? He didn’t need that trouble, did he? So I… I couldn’t understand anymore why you would ever… And you were even behaving differently so I… I just left because I… I didn’t want to be left. And even if your change in behaviour was caused by your blossoming involvement with the Assassins, I… Even today with a name to myself and success carved by my own hands, I would do the same. Because… Why would you ever… You need someone who’s not loaded with a problematic background and I don’t want to be… Left… But making it work with me is way too crazy so… - you shrugged, losing your energy and not knowing how to finish it so you just stopped. He’d think whatever he wanted to. Sure, you were horrible for saying all of this. But at least he got his explanation he could never ask for. Surely that was the only thing he came for. And even if now he thought you were a real bastard for thinking so horribly of him, it would be… Just okay. You were drained, ready to just accept it.

- So you lost your faith in me? – Clay asked carefully, his voice not giving away anything.

- Sort of, I guess… – you nodded, finally blinking and having to keep your eyes closed for a good minute as they watered painfully. – It was nice to toy with the idea, but you and me together wouldn’t be a heaven-made match, I think. And even if I’ve grown, I’m still the girl with trust issues and a strangely rising and lowering self-confidence inside. And even if I understand the lives we live now and I’d know you were coming and going because of it, the same with I, I just… I couldn’t do it. I’d run, because I’ve always did and… I’m a distrustful coward and I cannot expect you to fix that. Because you shouldn’t. That’s my job and probably a certified and trained therapist’s.

- You’re right about some things but you’re astonishingly wrong about others, (Y/N). – he said, laughing quietly.

- What…? – you tilted your head.

- Sure it’s not my job to fix everything for you but when we met, I didn’t say what I did just to get into your pants. I knew what I was in for, just as always, like with Abstergo. – he spoke clearly and unwaveringly, keeping you focused and unable to look away from him. – And I was ready to be your support, your crutches if you will. Even your home therapist if you wanted. I was willing to cut myself if it meant I could patch you up. Because I knew that you were someone who wouldn’t keep it one-sided. You were always giving and fair so I was never afraid of getting too deep. I wanted to go there. So when I said trust me, let me, allow me – I meant it all. All of it, (Y/N). – he sneakily slipped his hands around yours, fingers intertwined, and gave them a firm squeeze. – Healthy or not, I don’t give one single shit. I never did, I don’t. Because I knew, I know, that the reward was you and me, us. We’re definitely not a heaven-made match but don’t you remember? I’m a hell-hound. – he winked at you, bringing back old memories which you couldn’t fight and you… You blushed furiously, cheeks so red that he had a hard time resisting the urge to kiss them endlessly right then and there. He smirked, but it was not predatory nor scary in any way, it was hopefully confident even if he knew that he was still walking a tightrope with all of this. – Life’s a piece of shit when you look at it… - he half-sang that one line and it made you laugh, so suddenly and freely that it felt like the first deep inhale of fresh air after leaving a smoke-filled house. The sound was beautiful to Clay’s ears and he raised your hands to his lips, kissing each before noticing your gasp ending the laughter. – It really is, but there are some good things in it. We still haven’t lost the big fight, we still have our free will, coffee smells good, tigers and lions are just as silly as tiny housecats but like equipped with murder mittens, you are one kick-ass woman and now that I have another chance, no way in this damn world I’m wasting it. – he pulled you closer to him and you let him. – Can I say something? – he asked and it didn’t really seem to make sense, but you wanted to understand so you nodded, though frowning slightly.

- Sure.

- I’ll tell you what I think you should do. What I want you to do. – he began. – But you have your options, I just want you to trust me on this. I know that it will work if you give it another go.

You breathed in sharply.

- I won’t disappear again, not without you. I’m changing the game because I’m fed up after how it went down last time. We either go together or we go nowhere at all. I want you back with me and I want you to take me back, (Y/N). I will face whatever insecurities stir up some trouble for us and I will weed out every last one of them. You’ll be so sure of everything that you won’t ever feel that horrible pain here… - he released one of your hands to touch the side of your head gently - … or here. – his touch now rested over your heart for an extended moment before retreating but still hovering in front of you. – Just like I said all those years ago, I’m still standing by it today. I don’t care if it takes years, I’m willing and able to do it all. So you should just… Just dive right in. Trust me on this. You’ll see that I’m right, because I have it in me and you have it in you too and… If we just put that together, you’ll be in the best love you could ever find. I bet you couldn’t even write up such a story where it would surpass this.

- Clay. – you breathed his name.

- Nobody else could ever make me feel this weak by saying my name… - he admitted with a smile, the hint of shyness in it, grabbing your chin with his free hand, the other still holding yours. – I want to write my story, I want to tell a different tale and I want you to be and stay in it. I want… - his own composure was breaking now and he just started listing everything that he so missed. – I want you to say I’m yours and I want to say the same, and that you are mine, and I want to punch every bastard who looks at you wrong. And then I want you to scold me for it but feel it in your embrace afterwards that you love it when I get possessive. Then I want to talk it out and agree that I don’t have to go that far, only in extreme cases. I want to go on missions with you and kiss the damn breath out of you after you shoot a bad guy in the head because I’m so amazed and proud and I bet you are incredibly sexy when you do that. – his hands were suddenly all over your arms, rubbing them up and down and groping with growing fever, but still restrained from venturing to the rest of your body. – And I want to argue with you and then fix things because I know we can. And I want to watch you work and be your greatest fan. And I bet we’d almost get kicked out of a cinema because we’d laugh at the most inappropriate moments again during a horror movie. And I want to go to bed with you, I want to watch you shower and see you almost slip when you notice me so I can catch you and keep you safe and unharmed, I want to make a show of me undressing for you, and I want to be anything and everything you want me to be because you already are for me and I want you to know that if you just take that leap of faith… With me… We’d love each other so much that it would be so fucking good… - his hands stopped at your shoulders, gripping you there. Now, it seemed, it was his turn to cry. His sigh was so heavy, it held the weight of a whole world and his tears were even hot, matching his heated skin.

You couldn’t really speak while he talked. It was a lot to take in. But the more he went on, the more you felt different… Better. Hope somehow opened its eyes inside you and Clay’s momentum took you with him and soon you were drinking in his words like a desert’s wanderer the first source of water after the longest walk. And now that he was done, just watching you with silent tears and still holding you, you made your choice.

- Can I call you mine? – you asked timidly. His reaction was everything. He threw his head back in glorious, liberated, joyful laughter and pulled you into his arms. He leaned back against one of the table’s sturdy legs, keeping you tight against him.

- Yes, baby, I’m all yours and only yours and you can announce it to the whole world.

You were still unsure so only after he gave you his answer did you sneak your own arms around his waist as well. – Mine. – you stated, lips slowly stretching into a genuine, loving smile.

- Tell me if I’m wrong but… Mine, so mine that you’re nobody else’s. – Clay said, rubbing slow circles on your back and waist. You just nodded, confirming his claim. – I love you, (Y/N). – he confessed, nudging you so you would look up at him again.

- I—

- No rushing, babe, no need. We’re together now. – he cut you off.

- Never interrupt your woman, you uncultured possum. – you teased him, earning yourself a grin from him, which you easily mirrored.

- A’ight, ma’am.

- I love you too, Clay. – you finished, and in that moment, you felt better than ever.

- And now I’m going to kiss the life back into you because that’s what you get for loving me. I just need to do this in a more… - he suddenly stood, gathering you in his arms and making you wrap your legs around his waist - … comfortable setting, there we go. You’re really in for it now. – he said in that darling rascal of a tone of his, drawing a bubbly, easy laughter from you as you held onto him.

He took you through your house, doing an unintentional, quick discovery until he found your bedroom and after turning the lights on, he gently but playfully threw you on the bed, climbing in with and then over you.

- I bet your couch is nice too but I figured this would be much better for it. And then a nap, which we both undoubtedly need. And whatever else you agree on. – he winked down at you, caressing your cheek and your throat with unmatched tenderness. – If, of course, you don’t mind me staying over…?

- Please. – you said, wrapping him in a firm hug, keeping him close, enjoying his weight on you. It was reassuring, it spoke of comfort and safety and uninterrupted time without words.

- Good. Now… Let’s get this eternal love going. – he announced and his lips finally crashed down on yours.

That night, after you fell asleep in each other’s arms, you were still together even in your dreams. You met on the same unearthly plane of minds and knew that this time… This time it would stay this way.

[sombrz]

Please imagine me just delivering these on a platter to ur sickbed: akira, minako, ochako, iida, (tries to think of a marvel comic person) uhh flash

thank you, thank you. who needs cough medicine when you have shipping.

(edit: i’m 99% healthy. it took me that long to finish this mess.)

AKIRA: okay, i think i remember telling you how i was pretty chill with akira ships. like, if done right, i don’t mind any of them, except for futaba (because they’re siblings, fu). besides our collective issues with atlus and their inability to not be weird when it comes to the girls. also, i feel like what makes the p5 kids feel the most like actual friends is also what makes it harder for me to fully invest in any individual dynamic - they all meet throughout the course of the game (even ann and ryuji aren’t close friends beforehand, and there’s definitely no drama between them) and they help each other heal and get past their abusers so that they can have a fresh start and feel free to be normal teenagers. so there’s little to actually grab onto when searching for….anything layered? like, compared to the p3 kids who have so much inner turmoil that they take out on each other - or the p4 kids, who can’t be completely truthful to themselves or each other. the p5 kids do have baggage, but not with each other. which makes for healthier bonds but also more boring ship dynamics lmao. all very cute and fluffy, but not a lot of substance. 

point is, i don’t really have much to say? like akira/yusuke is fun and silly. akira is eccentric and cool enough to go along with yusuke’s antics, and even though p5 always gives us an option to be mean, i can’t imagine akira ACTUALLY thinking that kind of stuff? like, he’s a weirdo too so he just. gets it. yusuke basically takes akira out on dates during his social link. they lend themselves well to model/artist headcanons and aus. they don’t realize they’re dating until a few months into their relationship - one of the others had to point it out and yusuke’s like ‘oh? is that what this is??’ and akira’s like ‘thank god’ bc he was too awkward to bring it up himself. futaba makes fun of them a lot.

akira and ryuji are cute too. i’ve gotten a bit fond of the boner squad (br)ot3 too. just ann/ryuji/akira being dumbasses. or ann/shiho+ryuji/akira being dumbasses while going on double dates. there’s also not really much to it - just the usual persona teen boy ‘no-homo-bromo-but-it’s-actually-homo’ fare. ryuji’s less possessive and repressed about it than yosuke is, though. which is good (ie more healthy) bc it’s more like akira found himself a human puppy jock boyfriend, and it’s cute! ryuji instantly decided he liked akira and started planning their secret handshake and selecting their cool delinquent hangout spot. and akira just smiles through it all bc he’s charmed. morgana gives akira the most judgemental stare ever when he finds out though. 

i like akira/haru bc she’s who i dated in my playthrough. they’re soft and sweet and i think a slow relationship built on patience is good for both of them. and they have the most obvious phantom thief couple aesthetic, tbh. they also have the ‘demure wallflower by day, trigger-happy hellion by night’ thing going on. i love the idea of them opening up a coffee place together (their futures align! this is the SO that sojiro approves the fastest lbr!) and akira being haru’s trophy husband (let this man be someone’s trophy husband).

akira/goro’s the one with the most depth lmao as our boy akechi gets the short end of the stick re: what everyone else got - to defeat their abuser and come out the other side a new and improved person. INSTEAD, it’s all about deep-rooted envy and what-ifs. when i replayed p5 for my friend’s benefit, she kept being like ‘wow ok akechi’s got….the most obvious crush on mc. why is he always here? why does he talk like that? omg?’ and my sentiments exactly. AKIRA’S thoughts exactly, tbh, bc what else is he supposed to get out of some of the things that come out of goro’s mouth. but it’s like….he DOES like akira, but he also resents his existence because akira gets to have real bonds and happiness despite the crappy hand dealt to him. and their own bond is based on careful lies and observing each other for any cracks in their armour. but there’s that undertone of wishing that they’d met in other circumstances, where they COULD have a normal relationship and get to know each other in a way that’s not ‘we levelled up our relationship when you shot me in the face with the intent of murdering me and framing me for my own death but really, i tricked you and you didn’t actually kill me & now we can defeat you and your dad! ha! checkmate!!’ but i love that that’s actually part of the dynamic so lmao.

MINAKO: you know, despite minako and minato being considerably different (both their external personality/appearances > emo boy/preppy girl  - and the changes in their dialogue choices > again, minako is a lot more confrontational and energetic), i pretty much just ship them with the same people?

the only exceptions of this being i ship minako with shinjiro and yukari but can’t really fathom either of them with minato. (it’s bc yukari is a lesbian and shinji does not deal well with sullen people. like, what’s he supposed to do? pat minato on the back?) 

i will also warn that it’s been….forever since p3 so i’m kinda fuzzy on details. 

anywhoooooo, AIGIS. main protag ship is aigis. idc which protag, but i must give atlus my once-in-a-blue-moon compliment because they kept aigis’ social link and her blatantly romantic feelings for the protag the exact same in portable. so minako/aigis is just as canon as minato/aigis, buahaha. anyway. robot girlfriend who starts off being somehow programmed to feel protective/indebted to minako but then starts developing real genuine feelings as she explores her humanity, minako wanting to show aigis how to enjoy herself while putting the emphasis on aigis’ feelings and opinions but also being so amazed and grateful for aigis’ love and attention. also, the difference between protags here being that while minato is silently intimate, minako is loudly loving. the utter tragedy that is aigis not being able to save the person she cares about, the imagery of minako’s head in her lap while they wait for the end is….A Lot. i think in a lot of tragic robot/human romance fiction, the robot gives up its life for their human partner so i like the reverse here - with aigis having to experience the emotions of loss and depression and overcoming that because she truly loved mina(k/t)o and now they’re gone. it’s heavy! it’s a lot! i just remembered i never finished the p3 movies! i should do that!

there’s ryouji. again, don’t care which protag - just like the idea of our mc flirting with death. literally flirting with the avatar of death. the double sides of the ship: goofy teenage flirting vs warning of impending doom. ryouji just being like ‘yeah just kill me it’s for the best i’m actually here to destroy the world or w/e’ to his gf (or bf) out of nowhere on christmas eve lmao. it’s fun, idk.

yukari! honestly, taking out all the forced hetero ship teasing made me ship her with minako more lmao their social link was just better! no offense! and their personalities mesh better too - i feel like yukari would get way too frustrated with a closed-off partner and i love concept of: the huffy takes-no-shits girl being soft for her cheerful outgoing gf. also, i spent way too long imagining the answer with minako - the aigis/minako/yukari would be heartwrenching and we deserve it. 

shinjiro! can i start off by saying it’s a good thing shinji was in p3, which did the best job of showing the characters apart from the protagonist and main plot (prob bc on the other hand, it did the worst job with social links seeing as none of the guys had them) - i feel like in p4 or p5, we wouldn’t have gotten to know him nearly as well before he died. anyway, his social link with minako is really sweet and a romance between them hits my ‘tsundere/flustered boy not knowing how to deal with affection from pretty girl he respects a lot’ checkpoints. and i need to talk about this: i feel like the decision to make him comatose instead of dead if you romance him was a double edged sword disguised as a blessing lol. because he was still DYING before he got shot, and also he wakes up just in time to find out his girlfriend died! fhdhfgdjd! 

                      —————————————————————– 

uraraka……okay: i ship her with tsuyu, bakugou, iida, mina and toga. 

oh, here’s a story. before i got into bnha, i stumbled on a bunch of deku/uraraka amvs and they were so precious. like, really, deku and ochako are the cutest goddamn things in this series. seeing them side by side makes me want to channel my inner grandmother and pinch their cheeks. it was, like, the only thing i knew about bnha at first, so i just figured i’d end up shipping it whenever i eventually got to watching it bc i’m easy to please like that. but ha. nah. it’s sad bc i love their dynamic when it’s focusing on their actual friendship but then the actual romantic hints made me want to roll my eyes so hard. it’s so BORING if you take it at face-value, and i’m so boggled by it if you look deeper bc i don’t understand what hori’s planning here. it’s irritating bc even uraraka admits that her borderline obsession (and that’s what it is, since it’s compared to TOGA’S CRUSHES…y’know, our resident yandere serial killer?) is detrimental to her growth as a hero. and i know it’s partially bc she’s a teenager but its blown so out of proportion. it’s a crush!! relax!!! like, compare to deku’s crush on uraraka where after he got over his initial anxiety of talking to girls, he - at most - just blushes a little when she stands too close or dresses extra-cute. every other time, he treats her no differently than any of his other friends. but then uraraka’s crush is treated like. this weirdly twisted admiration she doesn’t even WANT. she relates to a villain’s desire to imitate and become the person they like, she gets ridiculously jealous every time he looks at another girl, she keeps fucking up because she focuses too much on him and how to be like him. it’s weird. idk. typical fiction tropes lead me to believe i’m supposed to root for them to get together (and bnha will end with an epilogue where they have a child named after a food) but the story i’m being told makes me want to root for uraraka to succeed at getting over those feelings! idfk!!!

also, i have to laugh at the way horikoshi decided to tell us and uraraka herself that these feelings were romantic. by having aoyama just be like ‘oh you were thinking what would izuku midoriya do? could it be you love him?’ when we see multiple male friends of deku’s (iida and todo, in particular - hell, even aoyama himself) have similar WWMD thoughts and he, in turn, instantly imitates bakugou whenever he hits a roadblock (taking inspiration from to downright copying bakugou’s moves, trash talking his opponents, etc). am i supposed to see only uraraka’s feelings as romantic? why? because she’s a girl and deku’s a guy?

i like it better when iida’s involved. both iida and uraraka are so sweet and enthusiastic to counter deku’s more nervous personality, and they’re a very good trio! i tend to prefer them as a brot3 but as i said, i do ship iida/uraraka seperately! i don’t have any big reasons for it except i enjoy how contagiously energetic and silly they are around each other? dramatic too - remember the ‘REACH FOR MY HAND’ scene when all the UA students were freaking out? it’s just a simple best friend dynamic like what they have with deku but there’s no weird one-sided jealousy/competitiveness involved (luckily, iida got over it after the stain arc haha). they don’t end up feeling bad or unworthy of the praise they get from the other - which is great, because they’re very complimentary towards each other! iida is so understanding (his immediate reaction to uraraka being self-conscious about her reason for pursuing heroism) & uraraka is usually the one who vocalizes how cool and talented iida is (while also giggling her ass off whenever he gets all extra-dramatic)! tbh, curse their aborted moment after iida’s match with mei! let them praise each other!!! i like that their seats are so close to each other too - i wonder how horikoshi decided on the seating plan. but uraraka’s tendency to shake iida by the shoulders is precious & i bet you he breaks his staunch ‘follow-every-rule’ mentality when it comes to uraraka writing him little notes in class. also, maybe uraraka just deserves a sweet+rich boyfriend. it’s that easy. lmao.

i already talked about bakugou/uraraka. it’s great, dripping with potential, needs more canon interaction. i only trust a portion of its fanbase to do them properly. but this is the case for almost every big ship. (where’s that one fandom meme where one of the questions was like ‘what do you hate seeing in fanfic/content for them’ bc NOW THAT I’M ACTUALLY READING FANFIC AGAIN, LEMME TELL YOU. BEING A MULTISHIPPER IS HARD.)

tsuyu and uraraka are just genuinely a good match? i like the contrast between uraraka - who is emotional and upbeat - and tsuyu - who is calm and rational. but they’re both very perceptive? their first night at the dorms is a good indicator of how their dynamic works. the others are quick to accept that tsuyu doesn’t want to play along with the room competition, but uraraka both provides the excuse and lingers behind with worry. she probably had to convince tsuyu that it was okay for her to vocalize her feelings to the bakugou rescue squad, and volunteered to be with her during said confrontation. compare to the forest where tsuyu sweetly and calmly offers uraraka her hand because she sees her friend is scared, without actually needing to say anything else. they’re sweethearts. i absolutely adore them. oh, and i dig their earth/sky + pink/green aesthetic clash.

uraraka and mina are based on two things: 1) they’re always hugging and hanging out in official art/sketches (mina even has a selfie of them hanging on her wall of pics in her room) so i can only assume they’re super-close gal pals that should kiss, 2) i love shipping silly idiots together and it’s hard to find ships like this that are f/f but these two fit that specific chaotic mold!!! and 3) AESTHETIC DREAM!!! PINK SPACE GIRLS!!!! DO I NEED ANY OTHER REASONS? NO. NO, I DO NOT.

HOLY SHIT, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT’S OFFICIALLY CANON THAT TOGA HAS A ROMANTIC CRUSH ON URARAKA? again, i could write an essay on coding and how frustrating it is for characters like toga to usually be bi/pan. but no one’s claiming this a win for rep. and i’m FASCINATED by this dynamic. toga loves stain-sama for his ideals and how that enables her nature to kill. she loves deku-kun out of curiousity for his ideals and the fact they met when he was beaten to a pulp lmao. and she loves ochako-chan because she sees herself in her - she thinks that they share ideals. again, i have no idea what the long-term meaning for this development is but it’s clearly pitting them against each other? and adding a romantic element to that is hmmmmmmmmm. we’ll see, we’ll see. and like i mentioned above, it’s shocking and worrying and makes me ship uraraka and toga more that uraraka ALSO sees the similarity between her and toga. she’s horrified by the implications of it but she hears toga’s spiel and tries to fruitlessly deny that ‘yeah, she’s right. that’s how i am. we’re the same.’ if i were to ever write a traitor!uraraka fanfic (which i would if i could ever FINISH a writing project), it’d be uraraka/toga and uraraka trying to convince herself she’s better than toga, that she still has a moral code and her reasons for joining the league have more weight to it, and she doesn’t!!! care!!! what toga thinks of her!!! and expecting a rivalry but toga doesn’t meet that head-on because instead, toga wants to be close and connected to uraraka. toga has this kind of mature soft side we’ve seen before (with twice) that shows how she can see you at your core (her fight w/ uraraka also showed that) and i want to see uraraka to be on the end when she thinks she doesn’t deserve it and doesn’t trust toga and just being frustrated and confused over it all.

                        —————————————————————– 

iida…….i think deku, todoroki, uraraka and aoyama are my biggest ships for him. also, i don’t ship it myself but momo/iida/todoroki’s rich kid squad is A REALLY FUN DYNAMIC AND OT3.

LET’S BE REAL: IIDA/DEKU IS SO UNDERAPPRECIATED IN THIS FANDOM. ALL IIDA SHIPS ARE BUT….IIDA/DEKU. iida’s goddamn….tucked deku into bed. threw his hat in the ring of rivals. there’s official art of iida giving deku a shoulder ride. he punched him to make him see how his actions are affecting him - “haven’t you thought about how *I* feel [about you putting yourself in peril]?!” like. bro. okaaaay. i still laugh that they got on the wrong foot initially - deku was so scared of iida sjfhhf like he was equally worried he’d be stuck in the same class as iida as he was about kacchan. thankfully, iida’s a sweetheart who cares with all his heart, and he sees all that there is to admire about deku, so they became instant friends after that. and iida means SO MUCH to deku. i pay a lot of attention to how future!deku talks in his narration, because he normally interrupts the narrative to move the story along - by talking about minor time skips, the movement of the villains, etc. but he also tends to wax a bit poetic about his friends. like when he interrupted everything to give us a side-story about how and aoyama became bffs. so we can assume that aoyama’s friendship means a lot to adult izuku. or how comforting and important it is to me that even as an adult, he refuses to stop calling bakugou ‘kacchan’. it’s sweet. in that same vein, it strikes me that deku still holds an amount of guilt for not supporting iida better during the whole ingenium-stain debacle. it ended….much better than it could have, and that experience was what strengthened iida/deku/todo’s relationship. yet as an adult, deku still wishes he could have done more. offered iida the help he needed before he went rushing in. hoo. but anyway, yeah, they’re cute! wholesome nerd boys! cute height difference! also yeah, i’m glad that iida got over his sports-festival-era feelings of inferiority towards deku. deku loves competition, but you can tell that he didn’t want that out of his relationship with iida (compare to how he outright covets a rivalry with bakugou and accepted it from todoroki w/ his head held high). it wasn’t based on healthy feelings and they’re so much better as supportive bfs.

iida and todoroki have a lot of stuff in common as legacy heroes who were trained from childhood to be heroes - with the major difference that todoroki faced horrifying abuse that prevented him from having a close relationship with his siblings and made him want to reject his legacy, while the iidas are good folk and iida’s brother means the world to him and he’s so far one of the only heroes we know to reuse a superhero identity based on legacy. and even the painful bullshit (like the ‘take out your muffler and a new, stronger one will grow in’ thing) was something that iida went through on his own accord and with warning. and todoroki’s words of encouragement during the stain arc were based on his own life lesson! they both come off as very serious and abrasive elites at first glance, but they’re actually dorky and socially awkward! but i think they get each other - i imagine they have a very calming friendship, no need for pretenses and judgement, and they deserve that! they probably think the other is hilarious too even though absolutely no one else gets the joke! they had a lot of cute moments recently since they were paired in the same 1A vs 1B match. like iida can just…tell the minute differences in todoroki’s expression and demeanour apart and knows when there’s something wrong. and they’re just so humble and sweet and can’t handle the other being self-deprecating. they’re good boys, brent.

already talked about iida/uraraka. they’re cute, i love them.

AOYAMA THOUGH. knight boys! they were so good during the exam! it really got me that aoyama didn’t even consider the idea that iida might not abandon him, might want to help him and win together instead of just use him to get ahead himself - and iida didn’t even really get the emotional realization aoyama went through there but he was still like ‘YEAH WE DID GOOD! I’M GLAD YOU FEEL BETTER! THUMBS UP! :D’ they’re both very dramatic and - i don’t know how to describe it….they pose a lot, talk with their limbs. they’re silly, is what i mean. and maybe aoyama ALSO deserves a loving, rich boyfriend. MAYBE IIDA SHOULD BE EVERYONE’S LOVING RICH BOYFRIEND. but in this case, aoyama’s boyfriend who will carry him bridal-style everywhere, much to aoyama’s glee lol. except when he’s dragging him along via his cape. whatever works.

also, side note, i find it kinda interesting that fandom pairs him up with girls like mei and camie - when i just….feel like he’d be so out of his element and sooo overwhelmed? i’m wincing just thinking about it lol poor iida.

                        —————————————————————–

i’m glad you specified marvel bc if you’d just said ‘comic’, i would have assumed you meant THE flash and i would be forced to sit here and think of every dc speedster ship…..well, it wouldn’t be as bad as spidey ships (honestly i’m very basic with speedsters - it’s just like ‘speedster/their spouse’ with the adults (even wally - linda or bust, tbh) and ‘speedster/their best friends’ with the teens), but we’d be here longer. 

BUT FLASH THOMPSON? i already mentioned my two big ones, with venom and peter but i’m def willing to talk more about them.

 flash/venom, a man and his gooey alien husband. i love that it’s a relationship based on self-growth and healing from past hurt and stopping destructive habits and cycles (both that cause self-harm and harm onto others). one of my favourite panels is still where flash pleads with peter to not let his anger seep into venom because venom’s gotten past all that. he’s a better person (being. alien. thing.) now and doesn’t want to turn to feeding on rage ever again. and that’s true for flash (a victim of child abuse who bottled up all that sadness and rage and took his aggression out on other kids) as well. it’s just so….nice. and venom credits all this to flash. and a thing i find about venom is that its unhealthy dynamics are all about control - you’re just its host, it possesses you against your will, you become an out-of-control villain. but with flash, venom sees a partner and home - they need and belong with each other, they communicate and cooperate, they became a superhero. also i love how they’re seriously affectionate and intimate - that’s just kind of a given with venom, i think, because you have to invite & accept it as part of yourself. but flash is so soft with venom - while he’s not as….hm, vocal about it as eddie ‘ooh my love my darling~’ brock is (he’s also a bit less obsessive haha sorry eddie), he’s so protective and likes giving venom headscratches and kissy faces to the point others react to it like they would witnessing PDA. i just want flash to be all cute and smooch his husband when they’re not like. one singular entity. CAN YOU BELIEVE THE HEALTHIEST DYNAMIC FOR FLASH TO BE IN IS WITH A SYMBIOTIC ALIEN GOO CREATURE? I CAN. AND I’M THANKFUL FOR IT.

 i also ot3 them with eddie for the sake of my peace of mind where everyone’s happy. where venom’s not torn between two loves, and eddie doesn’t feel the need to think things like ‘it’s tough being someone’s second best’ and ‘i’d like to think he’d do the same for me but part of me knows that would be a lie. it’ll always be flash.’ and having those thoughts because he literally FEELS that pull towards flash? like he inherited those feelings, he KNOWS what it’s like to love flash thompson. LIKE, YO????? GIVE ME THAT SYMBIOT3.

then there’s flash/peter, the funniest super/civvie id love triangle in the world. flash having the biggest hero crush on spider-man in high school - so many superheroes to choose from but spidey is the best, because he’s an underdog, because he gets pushed down and refuses to give up, because he’s SO GODDAMN COOL - while simultaneously thinking peter is frankly, the worst? but in that terrible way where he fixates on peter even when he’s not part of the conversation. waiting for him to leave school so he can be mean to him, feeling frustrated whenever he tries to be nice to the guy and peter either ignores, rejects or insults him in return. peter just being like ‘Sigh’ whenever flash insults him by gushing about spidey, but that’s also why he can’t dislike flash no matter how bad their relationship is. how can he hate spidey’s biggest fan? and also he probably gets a good amount of pleasure out of flash’s gf liz allen having a crush on him. peter also does this to johnny and his gf, dorrie evans - they’re frienemies in high school and kind of obsessed with each other,,,,’heRE’S MY LIST OF 500 REASONS WHY I HATE THE HUMAN TORCH’ OK PETE RELAX. so yeah, peter, despite having genuine feelings for betty brant, hits on liz and dorrie whenever they cross paths and lets them use him to make their hot blond boyfriends jealous. (peter, maybe you ARE the worst. stop it.) and then when they get to college and end up in the same friend group, flash slowly realizes that peter is like. hot now? and like, kind of a cool dude who went through a lot! like, he thought peter was a jerk in HS but he’s actually really nice when he wants to be and is always in your corner! ‘wow, i really like and respect pete! i’m proud to be his friend!’ flash thinks while staring at peter’s biceps. meanwhile, peter has no idea what’s going on because he keeps expecting flash to turn back into a dick (and steal one of his girlfriends lmao) but instead, he just keeps proving he’s a great guy! and keeps confiding in him! and uh, complimenting him a lot? and still fanboys over spidey and that’s really endearing! and oh, he’s really gonna miss him whenever he’s on tour and the idea of flash dying is unthinkable and he really likes being his roommate and he’s who he wants to be his best man and he doesn’t get why flash doesn’t seem to realize how great he is, and welp, he just punched captain america in the face for not telling him flash was agent venom. anyway, bottom line: i like dynamics that are very….long-term and constantly changing? so i tend to fall for the enemies/rivals to friends to lovers thing. or friends to enemies to lovers. but this is a former situation for sure.

also, i’m convinced every corner of the college crew pentagon happened. flash and harry MUST have at least made out once and neither was sure how to deal with the aftermath of that for a couple of months. he’s kissed and casually dated gwen AND mj - but i find it interesting that it seems like neither girl really ever considered him a contender. gwen cares about him but sees him as a shoulder to vent to about her issues with peter, and mj has a lot of fun with him but also considers him the male version of her (outgoing and bright but unwilling to commit and act serious). and he interestingly backs down quickly when peter decides to make a move on the girls. like, compared to his love triangle with liz and peter where i feel he was pretty resistant to letting her go - especially to someone like puny parker, he responds to peter’s accusations re: gwen and mj with ‘hey, relax. it’s not like that. i wouldn’t do that to you.’ i take it as him growing up and not feeling the need to overcompensate to impress his dad and also maybe the fact that he’s a bit more aware of how closeted he is. but it’s weirdly different with harry (*cough* cause it’s the first dude aside from peter he had any romantic interaction with *cough*) so he just……..dances around those feelings (on top of both of their feelings for peter) until harry starts dating liz (BECAUSE EVERYONE DATES EVERYONE IN PETER’S CIRCLE OF PALS, I GUESS) and he’s just like ‘???????????? well okay then’.

i like his dynamic with felicia as much it also pains me - that felicia went into it thinking she could use flash to hurt peter (’i’ll break your heart like he broke mine!’) but then ended up legitimately falling for him and started hoping for a normal life with him. also that they liked hanging out in terrible workout clothes. nerds. (alas, it didn’t last bc….FLASH, BUD….BUDDY….I CAN’T BELIEVE MARVEL HAD FLASH SAY THAT AND THEN PROBABLY SAT BACK AND THOUGHT ‘YUP PETE’S BEST BUD FLASH IS TOTALLY STR8′) and i need to read more of him and betty to get a handle of that but. what i’ve gotten from the panels i’ve seen that it’s very dependant on the writer and has the same problem flash’s relationships with liz, gwen, mj and felicia had where there’s a lot of love there but the actual romantic element is….lacking? falls short? fizzles out? where he seeks out a connection to peter(/spidey) through his romantic relationship with a woman peter used to be involved with and pushes said woman away when she starts getting in too deep?

anyway, that just turned into an essay about how flash thompson has been gay since his conception and only like, 20% (maybe less) of writers in charge of writing him have actually realized it.

[alternatecode]

Fools

AkaKuro Day 3 (April 13) - Target | Intuition | Yonder Quote: “I’m not leaving you behind.”

This time I’m posting late for a different reason. That reason being, I got carried away. So I had to smudge the end to make it on time. TBH idk what happened here.

Enjoy some tragic prince/knight AU.

“Protect the Prince!”

“The assassins have back up, get ready!”

“Shit, where did these bastards come from?!”

Loud, louder, louder, the screaming got, echoing throughout the castle's stone walls as the fighting went on. Shortly thereafter, all the sudden, it was quiet. The crickets outside were no longer chirping like they were just hours before. Instead, the sound of  footsteps running around outside the door was somewhat more chilling than the the sounds of clashing weapons.

How far away were they?

How close?

It was only a matter a time, and they would soon be found.

Here in the farthest reaches of the castle, is where they hid. It was a special room. One that meant a stronger meaning to them than the royal crest does to the royal family. It sounds doubtful but it was true. They would know, since, after all, Akashi was the prince.

He was the prince of kingdom ruled under a oppressive monarchy led by his controlling father. The two were on bad terms, as Akashi wanted to find a way to break their people free and let them live better lives whilst the king merely sunk into the greed and power his position offered. Naturally, their people hated the royal family, especially the king, as a result. Now, as a repercussions of the royal family's actions, a rebellion was underway. A revolt to end the monarchy.

Their only choice now was to hide, and what place better than their secret room. Well, the location wasn't a secret, but more of what happened inside.

The place where they first met and the place their relationship changed forever.

They couldn't let anyone find out. It'd bring shame to the family. No one could ever know that the prince and his knight were lovers.

Kuroko suddenly found himself being pressed against the prince's chest, the man holding almost too tightly. He wiggled in his grasp and allowed himself to gain some air, though the grip barely let up.

He shot an irritated glare toward Akashi, his voice reaching the lowest of whispers, “Akashi-sama, I'm supposed to be guarding you. Not the other way around. Please let me do my job.”

What surprised him was the distressed expression on his beloved’s beloved’s face. Akashi was notorious for keeping his cool. Given the situation, Kuroko could hardly judge him, but the fact that this one expression hasn't changed since the start of the rebellion meant something.

“Forgive me, Tetsuya,” he apologized, letting Kuroko out of his arms but kept a hand intertwined with the other’s. “I just fear that if I let go, then…”

“Don't think like thatー”

Kuroko ended up cutting himself off when his eyes found their way of a red stain spreading on Akashi's side, just above his waist. It was large and smelled of iron. Akashi was bleeding, and by appearances, it could very well be fatal. All in all, whether they successfully stay hidden til the end or are found, it's likely that the prince will die.

“Akashi-sama, we must get you help immediately!”

Before Kuroko could get very far, Akashi used their entwined hands to pull him back. His other hand applied pressure to his aching wound; he body shaking to stay up before succumbing to pain, legs collapsing and bring him to the floor.

Quickly, the knight knelt down to reach eye level with Akashi, worry reflecting in his blue orbs. “Don’t overwork yourself, Akashi-sama.”

“Today, Tetsuya, don’t call me that,” the prince replied, voice weak. “Just for today, call me by name.”

“.....Sei...jūrō…”

A soft yet wistful smile crossed Akashi’s lips. “I love you so much, Tetsuya. You have always supported my decisions to try to fix my family's wrongs.”

Sudden shouting and knocking outside the door added to the tension in the air.

“What are you saying!?”

Voices yelled out directions as objects began ramming the door.

“You are the one that made me want to become a better person. You're the reason I could take anything my father threw at me. I love you.”

“Seijūrō, stop!”

“Hush now, Tetsuya, you'll lead them right toward us.”

“But-!”

“Listen, I'm their target,” Akashi said, interrupting his lover. “Tetsuya, leave while you can.”

“I can’t do that.” There was no way he was going to escape on his own. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let Akashi suffer at the hands of an angry mob...alone. Besides a knight stays loyal to their word. “I love you, Seijūrō.”

“You're a fool, Tetsuya.”

“I know. However, didn't I promise you that I wouldn't leave you behind?”

The prince managed out a shakey laugh, reaching over to kiss his beloved one final time.

“We’re both fools.”

The door is finally broken open.

Five times now, Kuroko has seen this same boy lounging in this room, reading one of the many books that were scattered around the room, no more space on the overflowing bookshelves. He was there nearly everyday and everyday he was reading a new book.

He had once taken an interest in what the the other was reading and discovered they were far more advanced than what someone around twelve years old would normally be reading. Just who was this boy?

Today as well he went to take a peek, cracking open a rather fancy looking book that the boy had read the other day. However this time, he got caught.

“You there, who are you? You're not allowed in here.”

Turning around, blue eyes met with red ones for the first time. For whatever reason, the boy didn't say thing after that, making Kuroko wonder if he was straight up repulsive to this other kid. He was the son of a simple maid, after all.

To his shock the exact opposite happened.

“Do you like books?”

“Y...yes.” Not that his reading skills were all that great.

“I'll teach you how to read, if in return, you sneak me into town.”

This aristocrat looking boy knew who he was after all.

And he kept his promise, years later they had successfully snuck out and back when they were sixteen. By this time they learned a great deal about each other, the kingdom, and of course their status. Their friendship would be forcibly broken by the king if he were to ever find out, thus turning the old stashed away library room into their special place.

Every time they met there, Kuroko could see the prince growing as a person. He was cold and isolated himself at the start, but has softened over the years. His eyes would never leave the prince's form whenever they snuck out after the first time. He was entranced by Akashi as he danced with the commoners whilst in disguise. It was a strange but beautiful sight.

The way he saw Akashi changed after that, which the prince easily tricked him into admitting one night.

That was the start of it all.

It was the night of Akashi’s 18th birthday and they managed to sneak away from the never ending dinner party the king hosted for his son. They went straight for their special room. Finally some they spilled into laughter,  each sharing the funny moments they experienced that night. They only wished that they could have experienced it together.

Akashi fell quiet after awhile. The stories coming to an end, and Kuroko could feel the prince's gaze on him. He nervously tried to turn his attention to the garden just out the window.

A hand prevented that.

Akashi’s hand.

It felt warm against his cheek in comparison to the cool air that drifted in from the open window. It also forced him to met his prince’s eyes.

“Ryouta said something interesting this morning.”

Of course Kise was to blame.

“He said that you're in love with me.”

Kuroko never felt his cheeks warm up so fast, casting his gaze in another direction. “I don't know what you're talking about. Kise-sama was mistaken.”

“He said he heard it from you.”

Curse Kise’s ability to be both a great and horrible confidant. Curse Akashi’s straightforwardness.

Frowning, Kuroko pulled away, nearly slapped the prince's hand back in turn. “So what of it? Yes I love you. My best friend and the prince. Ironic isn't it? Do you hate me now? You have a fiancé anyー”

For the first time, Kuroko found himself speechless as his sentence was cut off by soft lips pressing against his own. Several minutes had to have passed before he really registered what had just occurred.

“Akashi-sama, what are you doing! Someone could have seen that!”

The prince waved away the concern with a laugh. “We’re safe here, besides I just couldn't hold back. I've always been hoping to hear those words from you.”

“What? There's no way. You have a fiancé.”

“Broke it off.”

“Your dadー”

“Doesn't matter.”

“I'm just a servant, Akashi-sama, andー”

“Tetsuya, become my knight. My personal bodyguard.”

“What?”

“Daiki will train you.” The tone he spoke in prevented any room for arguing.

“Aomine-kun knew about this?”

“He is the one that informed me that you planned on leaving with your parents when the resign in a week. Why didn't you tell me?”

The pained expression in Akashi's eyes right now was exactly why. That and because Kuroko never dreamed that the prince would ever share his feelings.

“Forgive me, Akashi-sama.”

“You can make it up to me,” he began, bringing the back of the servant’s hand to his lips, “by becoming my knight so you never have to leave my side.”

Pink colored Kuroko’s cheeks.

Akashi leaned his further until they were merely inches apart. “Promise me that you will never leave me behind.”

Nodding, he slipped a hand into those red locks and pulled the prince closer, sealing the deal.

They would never have predicted that this where they first met, and eventually had their first kiss, would also be where they'd meet their end.

[knowthyselfrp]

             AGE RANGE: 26  // OCCUPATION: RED DRAGON LEADER // PRONOUNS: he/him

You were just a goofy kid trying to make it through the complex time that high school was when your grandfather revealed your fate. They called themselves the Red Dragons, needing to defeat the evil that were the Huntsclan. You thought it was the most exciting thing to happen to you, after all, what child didn’t dream of wanting to grow up to be a hero? However, you had no idea how dangerous this life was. Training came first, before friends, family, and relationships. Despite your grandfather’s efforts to discipline you further, you only learned from when you messed up and even after all the terrors you’ve seen, it’s admirable you’ve still kept your humor. Maybe it’ll be the only thing you’ll have left.

Rose Martinez- You had always admired her both in secret and outloud as you lamented over her to your friends. In highschool, you two were so much closer than you were now. You both blamed it on starting university, but that wasn’t much of an excuse when you two attended the same school. No, it was the fact that she was the very person you were being hunted by that ruined whatever fragile relationship you two had. Of course, you wish to reconcile but it’s hard when the stolen looks you take are simply that: a moment meant only for yourself because it seems like you both aren’t who you used to be. It’s only a matter of time before you realize she’s more ruthless than you can imagine.

Arthur “Spud” Spudinski & Trixie Carter- You three have been childhood friends for as long as you can remember. Despite all the lying, sneaking around, and sketchiness, they both still have stayed loyal by your side. They’re the only ones other than your family that knows about your secret and helps you with your cover. Sure, they don’t approve of your methods and they’re not happy that you put yourself in danger just to defeat the “Huntsgirl,” but they know it is for the best. They’re not your sidekicks, but more like your partner in crime and it’s comforting to know they will always be by your side.

You amuse the Creator with your funny jokes and silly catchphrases. But He is far too excited for the Big Reveal, and perhaps He wants the entire town finding out how dangerous you really are. After all, you’re His favorite little Dragon and that can only mean more entertainment for Him. You hope He has a much grander idea than what you have been dealt with, and perhaps that is even more tragic: the fact you think you are here for anything other than Him.

Ludi Lin

run my child. sprint through town, your first skateboard in your hands. smile because you are a fire blazing, burning every passerby with your excitement. reach the park, try to start learning before your mother catches up. but she’s suddenly plopping the helmet on your head, warning you of dangers, and then off you go, falling and laughing and filling your world with light.

( do not notice your mother’s worry transforming her face.  do not see the man watching the two of you from afar.  do not lose this light, not just yet. )

~

you’re much too loud according to all your teachers, but what are they to expect from first graders? they rule the land, though, and you are subjected to the corner once more, mouth pursed and feet swinging as you are instructed not to jump from the chair.

but you are not alone for long, as another joins you in the prison, and when you ask their name, the response spud sends you smiling, smiling, smiling. you latch onto him, and then another soon joins, trixie pixie and all her wit, and the three of you are a force that no teacher or townsperson can break.

all of you grasp hands and run head first against the threat of growing up and all it entails. it starts as scraped knees and whoops of glee, then transforms into frustrated groans and pencils scribbling along homework. it is one supporting one another through troubles with other classmates, or fights with parents, or even arguments among each other. but you are all facing similar battles, and as you all enter high school, the three of you navigate the first two years, and everything seems perfect. there are still challenges, of course, and you understand life isn’t meant to be easy, but you are happy, you are content. and that is so, so wonderful.

( and you, jake long, didn’t you wish for it to last?  did you know that wishes are useless in a place like this? )

~

you are helping your grandfather, tinkering with the devices that are brought by customers desperate for someone to fix their belongings. you’d rather be mixing music back at your house, but you are a good grandson, putting aside your wants and needs for family. but your grandfather has been gone for a long while, only his dog keeping you comfort at the front desk.

and the minutes tick by, and at some point, you need help, so you begin searching all around. and your curiosity spikes where it shouldn’t doesn’t it? you pick at something at his desk, and the shrine to your grandmother shifts, and oh, you are a match falling down the hole.

when your grandfather finds you, hands running along masks and weapons, there is shock and a touch of awe in your voice as you sputter, “are we part of some ninja clan?”

                ( oh you poor, poor fool )

~

one, two three, and you slam your face-first against the floor. gasp all the air you can, this is your only chance of rest.

  “up!” commands your grandfather, “again!”

     push yourself to your feet, raise your fists, one, two, three, on the floor once more.

        “up! again!”

               get up, get up, raise your fists, one, two, three —

                    “UP! AGAIN!”

  stretch your mouth wide this time, unleash that guttural scream, swing your leg out, one, two, three, get up, GET UP —-

your grandfather groans on the floor as you stand, breaths uneven, chest heaving. but your grandfather is smiling wide and despite yourself, the flame of pride burns, burns, burns.

                                                            “good. again.”

~

it’s trixie who finds you tucked behind some building, blood pooling around you, and she’s screaming for spud to call the ambulance, but somehow, someway, you convince the two of them to carry you away from where the hunstclan are prowling.

and you try, you try so hard to keep their hands from becoming bloodied, but you are too weak and the two of them are crying, and you are crying, and this, this is all a mess because of your own poor choices.

and they have to know what they’ve involved themselves in, and when you utter your family’s secret, the two of them offer their support and their care, and ‘we’re meant to face the same fears together, right? somehow, someway?’

but you know one day they’ll leave you, don’t you? you know that you’ll have to let them go, right?

and yet you smile and crack a joke anyways, because what else are you to do?

                                                  ( you’ll learn soon enough )

~

there is a girl who you think will stay, but she fades from your life as you enter university, and the future leader of the red dragon is not supposed to be wounded by something like heartbreak. you know this.

and still you pour what little energy you have left, and use time you definitely don’t have to construct a song that is not your style, that does not fit the profile you once created in high school, and you think ‘maybe, maybe.’

you don’t release it. it sits on your laptop, finished and prepared, but you leave it be.

you have to leave it be.

~

the day of your university graduation is the day your grandfather announces you are to take over his position, and you try, you try so hard to feel pride in this. to feel joy that he trusts you enough, that you are finally seen as a true successor.

but as the doors close and the congratulations have long fallen to silence, you close your eyes and wish over and over and over again.

                                                                  ( haven’t you learned? when will you learn? )

~

you stumble into your household a week before you leave, after one of the worse interactions with the huntsclan, scrambling to hide your wounds from your younger sister and your father. you struggle to finish the wrappings, cursing under your breath, and suddenly the light shines and the color drains from your face.

but it is your mother standing in the kitchen, lips pressed together. she strides forward, gathering your hands in hers, finishes wrapping you together again. and when she steps back, you want to launch forward, hug her tight. but the two of you remain silent until your mother raises a hand to swipe across her cheek.

“i tried my best to shield you, jake.” she is so quiet, and this scares you. she cradles her wrist with her other hand, and she closes her eyes. “i don’t want this life you.”

~

some days, you are fading like the fire is so close to dying. you are suffocating from your own smoke, and you can barely navigate your way to safety. and other days, that fire burns so bright that it blinds even you. what are you to do now with this flame? how will you control and treat it with what it deserves? jake long, red dragon, what will you do?

( i suppose we shall see, won’t we? )

the first and only custom skateboard helmet that he himself crafted. it’s rough in looks, his amateur handiwork obvious in the wobbly lines of chinese characters and creative designs. but it is his own, something he doesn’t need to share with anyone else, and when he places it on his head, the weight of what that means soothes and comforts. as if it can protect him from every danger, not only the one that comes with falling from a skateboard.

[irondevilpunisher]

Joy Meachum & Iron Fist thoughts

So while waiting for the Punisher I’ve had time to marathon the Marvel shows again before the new series dropped. And lets just say rewatching Iron Fist I got a better insight into who Joy Meachum is. It surprises me she isn’t as beloved in this fandom as some of the other ladies in the marvel tv universe. Then again Karen Page for the most part suffers from the same absurdity; guess that’s what happens when the actress plays the part so well. I mean Jessica Stroup is damn good as Joy and gorgeous as hell. She brings a lot of depth, intelligence, integrity and complexities to the character and commands the screen every time she’s on. Its not really shocking to me as her previous works in other shows have been outstanding. But I think for me Joy Meachum is by far my favorite of Stroup’s characters.

Joy is so unique because she can go either way; bad, good or somewhere in middle. Either way Jessica makes you feel for this person because underneath that tough, sophisticated business woman exterior is a tortured soul; damaged and broken which is ironic considering her name. I’ve come to realize of all the characters on Iron Fist, Joy is the only one who wears a mask [metaphorically]. In many ways she’s very much like Karen. All her life she’s put up walls, refused to get close to anyone and strictly kept her mind on the company and her family. She even wears her clothes like armor to protect herself. Unsurprising. Joy didn’t exactly have it easy or a normal upbringing. Her best friend and his parents supposedly died in a plane crash when she was 10. She lost her father to cancer at 13. And we know nothing about her mother. The only person Joy could count on was her older brother Ward; a man keeping secrets of his own. 

Ward and Rand became Joy’s entire world for the past 15 years. She’d never formed any other relationships or interests outside of that. It kinda makes you wonder about what Joy fears. Her hardened closed off persona tells me she’s severely afraid of getting hurt again; of being loved or loving someone outside her blood.Though she loves her brother wholly and tries to help him and do right by her family; Joy deliberately forsakes herself from anything or anyone else and that’s what makes her such a tragic figure. I mean she spent years trying to live up to what she thought Ward was on top of trying to exceed her father’s expectations. she put so much effort into the company and for the most part made it better than what he father had done.

This was an ongoing trend for 15 years then BAM! Danny Rand comes back from the dead and throws her whole world out of wack. Just as Joy is content with the life she’d built for herself, someone from her past whom she loved and thought was deceased suddenly shows up. What’s her reaction to this? Terror and hesitation. If you really think about it Joy pushing Danny away no matter how much he screamed made sense. She’d already mourned him once and considering all the agony she’d gone through after the Rands’ and her father’s death these were just old wounds she wasn’t prepared to reopen. This woman literally thinks she’s seeing ghosts when he strolls up to her apartment. Nothing good had come into her life, why would it now? So Joy’s immediate response to Danny at every turn is to reject him. 

But here’s the kicker, no matter how much she tries to drive him away in the beginning there’s still that twinge of hope in Joy, a part of her wants to believe him so badly. Even after she and Ward drug Danny and have him committed to a mental institution, Joy still finds herself searching for answers regarding his arrival; if he’s telling the truth and where he’s been for the past 15 years. First she goes through old photos to see if the kid she remembers resembles anything like the strange young man spouting things off about her life.Then Joy does the one secret thing only Danny [her friend] would know about, sending him a package of M&Ms to see if he dissects the brown ones like they use to do when they were kids. Sure enough he does and Joy knows without a doubt in her heart its Danny. 

So what does she do afterward? Joy is torn between her loyalty to her family, the company and her feelings towards her childhood best friend. Sure she’s glad he’s alive but at this point Joy still feels she can’t afford any attachments. She doesn’t think there is any room left in her life to include Danny. And She’s convinced herself the girl he knew is long gone. So she resorts to push him away again this time at Ward’s behest by restricting Danny of his Rand name and rightful place at the company. This is the first time Danny glimpses the cold and cruel side of Joy which he doesn’t like at all. In fact her actions succeed in that he finally renounces any semblance of the bond or trust they once shared together; which ends up stirring him into Colleen’s direction. 

Unfortunately for Joy she can’t keep up the act any longer. Seeing Danny alive has already messed her up, but now its severing anything decent left inside her. Joy doesn’t like this as her conscience ends up getting the better of her. So on the day the Meachums meet with Danny and his lawyer to discuss a settlement, Joy goes behind Ward’s back and gives Danny the only evidence of his identity. A fingerprint under an old pottery key-holder, she’d been using, that he made for her. Ward of course figures it out right away, knowing his sister still holds a soft spot for Danny. It couldn’t be more obvious. Joy’s been living in his family’s old apartment, surrounded by photos of them as children. She keeps extra photos of them in a box at her desk; along with packages of M&Ms. Everything that reminds her of Danny is there in plain sight. Without realizing it Joy has been harboring her own personal Danny Rand shrine. She is either absolutely in denial or completely unaware of what she feels. But they’re there hidden deep.

Its funny because in all of Danny and Joy’s scenes together, the armor seems to crack. He somehow manages bring out Joy’s vulnerable side that she feels comfortable enough to confide in him. Danny is just so full of light and kindness that it cuts through the darkness Joy finds herself shrouded in most times. She tells him about her father’s death, what she went through since his family’s plane crash; things she hardly discusses with anyone. Not even Ward as close as they are which tells you something about the kind of friendship Joy had with Danny growing up. Now enter Danny trying to adjust as 51% shareholder of the company. He’s not very good at it but can you blame the guy? He was raise by monks for 15 years in a mythical place. At this Joy takes the opportunity to help him a little, maybe even get to know him again. For the most part they start bonding, Joy even smiles and laughs again in his presence. Gahh I can’t get enough of Jessica Stroup and Finn Jones’s beautiful chemistry; they’ve created this fascinating connection between the two characters. I live for that. Anyway they are however interrupted when a gang of assassins tries to kidnap Joy thus further straining any ties she has with Danny.

Now we get into the big stuff involving Ward and their father. In the midst of the Meachums being ousted by the board at Rand [something altogether painful for both siblings], Joy suddenly stumbles on her brother’s giant bomb that Harold had been resurrected and that he’d been forced to keep it a secret from her. Which means Joy had been living under a decades old lie. Danny of course found out earlier and only agrees to keep it from Joy to protect her from the Hand. This burdens Danny as he doesn’t enjoy being dishonest with her anymore than Ward. Joy is so conflicted, confused and shocked about her father she doesn’t know how to handle this situation. And strangely she’s more angry with Danny about the lie than at Ward, who kept her in the dark for years. Yet despite Ward’s continuous warnings that Harold is dangerous, Joy can’t let him go. Because like with Danny, Joy’s hope has been rekindled. And why would she regard Ward at this point after the lies and chasing him down for his drug habits? Joy sees her father alive in front of her. She wants that relationship again because she misses it. She needs it. 

As much as Joy wants to be happy her father’s alive she can’t be. Something prevents those feelings. And Joy starts noticing Harold’s dark, more sinister behavior. It scares her. He gets physically violent and short-tempered easily. And he tries to screw over Danny’s right to the company which Joy whole-heartedly objects to. Then there’s Harold’s dealings with the Hand which put Joy smack dab in harms way. By the end of Iron Fist’s first season Joy’s more damaged than ever. But its not the bullet wound that has her in agony its the betrayal of all people she loves. Her brother. Her father. Danny. All of them let her down in ways she can’t discern. And because of that she’s officially closed the door on everyone. On the verge of making irrational decisions based on emotion; something she doesn’t do being as logical minded as she is. Its landed Joy  in the cross-hairs of Davos’s feud with Danny and no doubt he will do whatever means necessary to take advantage of her fragile state.  

I found that Davos/Joy cliffhanger interesting because it was unexpected. You’d think he would’ve tried manipulating Colleen or Ward but no he went right for Joy. Why? What purpose does this serve him? What is he standing to gain? I mean if Joy isn’t that important to Danny why not seek out someone who is? The Answer is because Davos wants to hurt Danny and what better way to do that than use someone else he cares about to do it. Just think of the chaos Davos could create pushing Joy’s buttons as she plunges further into darkness and pain. And believe me I expect a world of pain ahead for Joy in season 2. But will she accept his offer? Her feelings for Danny are already conflicted enough to hate him or at least try to. We’ve yet to know Joy’s head space at that point nor how she even met Davos. One thing is certain though she’s hurting badly. Its gonna take more than hugs on Ward and Danny’s part to bring Joy around. 

Also why the hell was Madam Goa there? What’s she planning? Too bad the Defenders writers didn’t think to give us a tease on that.  

All and all I’m pretty excited for what S2 brings. Anyway these are just my Joy Meachum thoughts for the day. 

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, CAS! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE with the faceclaim of ANYA CHALOTRA. What is there to say, really, about Vasylia? What isn’t there to say? She’s marvelous. She’s everything I wanted in a WOF app that I felt was necessary to display their conflict, which is centric to who they are as a character. You hit every point, you crossed every T, and you sure did dot every single I you came across. I kept on thinking that it couldn’t get any better, but the farther I scrolled, it did. You have put, on full display, someone who is rotting from the inside out and is helpless to do anything save for watch, and I am genuinely overjoyed to have you with us. Vasylia has such a broad stroke of potential -- I can’t wait to see what you do with her.

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OOC NAME: Cas PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 22 TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: BST / I tend to work during the day and write at night, but that suits me since everyone else tends to be a good five hours behind me TMZ-wise. As I’ve recently learned, I’m not actually very... quick when writing haha but I log in every day and try to post a reply at least once every other day. Always around and contactable on Discord for plotting and chatting! I’d say 7/10. TRIGGERS: N/A ANYTHING ELSE?: I tried to write around The High Priestess as much as I could but given they’re responsible for The Wheel of Fortune’s way of life it was difficult to avoid her, so happy to revise any details with the player. Also my background is so long I’M SORRY but tysm for reading uwu This application includes mentions of death, child death, self harm, blood, strangulation and suicide ideation.

IN CHARACTER SKELETON: The Wheel of Fortune NAME: Vasylia FACECLAIM: Anya Chalotra, Diana Silvers, Victoria Pedretti (in order) AGE: 35 (appears 12 years younger) DETAILS: I think what drew me to The Wheel of Fortune was that it would be easy to make their character all about Necromancy. About this sickness they can slowly feel settling into their bones. But they’re a person too, with a name and a history. Their relationship with magic is more complex than feeling the ache of it and the decision to stop it. There’s a heaviness to their story, a burden that they must carry, and I had fun experimenting quite how far that extends beyond the weight of their abilities. I believe it’s important for them to be a person before all this, because they have to have something to return to; there has to be something pulling them back from numbness, from giving the pieces of themselves away. The skeleton is a mirage of contradictions: numbness and intensity; resignation and sheer will; anxiety and power; death and life. I’m always enamoured by characters who inherently contradict themselves. Who, try as they might, cannot reconcile themselves to a single thing. The Wheel of Fortune has clearly shifted between these opposites their entire life, sometimes without even knowing it, and in spite of this dizzying dance from one extreme to another, there are moments where they feel paralysed. I find that so compelling, because as a card The Wheel of Fortune is all about movement, change - and yet, I can’t think of a better way to characterise them. Dealt upright, the card is chance, opportunity, destiny. Reversed: misfortune, disappointment, the loss of one’s way. All these facets are scattered in their body, and this will continue to be so until they carve out their way. They are always in the grip of a power they can’t quite reconcile themselves to, seized by the piercing thought that only lifetime after lifetime of static numbness awaits them, and that they must endure it alone. This power of theirs is a balancing act, and balancing requires commitment, devotion. They’re a conduit, almost, for this raw energy to pass through, and it takes its toll. Already, they have carved out a space in their own heart and, very slowly, it is being filled in with black, rotting dust. You’d have to be a monster not to feel for them; after all, they spent much of their childhood spilling their soul into things that didn’t matter because they were told to. Because they had no idea of the consequences. Necromancy in this world is such a profound experience, at once ingrained in the very essence of humanness and the severing of any real feeling. It goes beyond that, even; some lose their fingers, their limbs, and some are forced to drag their body across this world until the Undying God finally takes them. What does it feel like to feel the movement of life, the very energy that creates animals and people and worlds, the soul of everything, pass through your fingers? It must be one of the most intense feelings in the universe - and yet, it’s deadening. After a while, that raw power can no longer be felt merely in your hands. It’s floating in your body, your hands cut from you, and now all you feel is the heaviness of it, with nowhere to store it except between your chest. This skeleton really resonated with me. I really believe that without passion and heart and intense feeling, the world would be a very dull place. I like the idea of The Wheel of Fortune being totally stifled by this process, swallowed up by uncertainty and receiving very little support to navigate that. It’s a fate they accepted for themselves, willingly, and just as Necromancy lingers hesitantly at their fingertips, they’re not sure they have the strength to pull away. Even further, they are not even certain that’s what they want. Out of gratitude or for their own sake, this is the path they’ve chosen, and it is one they feel obligated to complete. That is the truth they choose to stomach: learn, without sacrificing who you are. Be both. But they’re slipping through the cracks; hesitation hangs at the back of their throat and chokes them. It’s a frightening thought to think that you must simply swallow the void, because all of this must be weathered. All of it must be endured, because that is the price you pay for power. Tldr; they’re a deeply tragic character but, like their card, there is opportunity for change. Their soul has been chipped away, bit by bit, and the weight of their power is beginning to settle into their bones. But it doesn’t have to be that way. The beauty of The Wheel of Fortune is that, with enough tenacity, their future is their own. Stay, leave; give in, break away. All depends on which way the cards are facing! BACKGROUND: I. THE FOOL, UPRIGHT innocence, new beginnings, free spirit The first thing a child sees in its life is its mother, and you are no different. The first thing you know is her, penniless enough that your infanthood would have been nothing short of unremarkable but provided for enough that she could have kept you if she’d wanted to. She has had children before, and she’s felt the billowing warmth that childrearing lends her, but you are stealing something from her. Your mother cannot quite place the feeling, cannot understand what it is you’re doing to her, but when she holds you in her arms she feels her limbs growing heavier, her muscles deaden. You must be, she determines, a punishment - so she resolves to rid herself of you. More important than that, she resolves to make an offering of you. The woman makes the long, arduous journey from Tyrholm, averts road bandits and street beggars and pardoners swearing by religious forgeries; she pushes herself halfway across Markholm with only her conviction to drive her. She commits you to the Temple of the Undying, and this is something she wants known. She wants the great, bipartite deity to know that this largesse of hers is an immolation, a symbol of her devotion. In return, she would have the punishment lifted. And you never see your mother again. The temple names you Vasylia, assuming the role of a strange, distant mother who plucks the word from between the stars. You have no surname and therefore no genesis, nothing to remind you where you come from and who you are. Of course, as you well know now, none of that matters. As soon as you pass the threshold of that sacred place, it forges an identity for you. (Your heritage is a secret that tucks itself away from you, like a shadow that shies from the light. You are the result of a union between a travelling merchant and a beautiful, beautiful woman, and this is all your mother has to protect her in life. Those who covet beauty, who wish to steal it away and display it among their wares, are always equipped with a lie or two. The lie is this: he loves her, he does; devotedly, honestly, purely, and he wants her to join him. To travel with him over pale waves and into the cove of pirates. Perhaps he’d believed in that at first, but it ends as all things end; in fiction. He leaves her as all men leave her, with an enormous pouch of gold. Your mother settles in a village at the border of Volkan Forest. You do not live there long. You never learn your mother’s name. Her name is Estrid.) Life at the Temple is, for the most part, simple. Dull, pedestrian, but simple. Abandoned, you are raised as one amongst many, a single child amidst a whole throng of neglected children. It quickly becomes clear to you that some wield magical abilities, shielded from a world which harshly forejudges them, and some arrive with nothing to them at all. Like you: not even a name. Some of them are sickly, a few of them are malnourished, and far too many of them are the reluctant offspring of poverty, charily offered to the Temple by parents who lament of their penury. But you are not sickly or malnourished or magical, even. You wail out in the dark of night for a mother who doesn’t want you, but which child here does not? At least at first, there is nothing particularly special about you. You are still a child waiting to grow into yourself, and, well, there is nothing unusual about that fact. Your childhood is, in a word, unremarkable. The Temple does its best to inspire loyalty in the offspring yielded to them - you are, after all, an opportunity for life-long indoctrination. Your earliest days are structured by a conformity which they shake into your bones: the Temple teaches you of the wolves and the snakes and the annihilating body they make as one. On magic, their position is less clear. Messages are mixed. Necromancers are a chosen, sacred few. But the other magi are being punished, cursed for a cycle of blasphemy and adultery and theft and anything else they can conjure up. As with all children, you assume the first thing you hear as gospel, but as the years gallop past you, you find yourself cordoned off by a low drone. The Temple is not so united as it seems, and there are people who whisper in disagreement. You think you are beginning to notice the resentment growing around you, but you are still a child - you know nothing. You determine that it is safer to be ordinary. You cannot quite be called pious, but you rise with the morning light. You work hard. You devote time to your prayers and you comply with the codes of silence which linger between them. You restock ink and parchment for the Clerics working sedulously at translation. You trim the rose bushes at the edge of the forest. You are untroublesome and, for the most part, amenable; shapeable. You offer a hand to help wherever it may be required, because that is what you’ve always been taught to do. You are nothing much like some of the other children, boisterous and ambitious, hungry for stories of politics and warfare. Hankering to feel the weight of a bronze rapier in their hands, to run their fingers through enemies’ blood and call it an act of cleansing. The Temple is not cruel, but it is cyclical, and the pattern is not enough - for them or for you. But you do as you’re told, your life moves in a progressive rhythm, because what else is there? You have always needed a hand to guide you. When life drifts in a sequence it all blurs into one, so you find solace in the small things. You revel in the sanctuary of the forest. Its trees keel into spirals, bent by the weight of their branches. You like the stillness of the air, the way that the birds settle on the branches so completely at peace - unaware of the eyes watching them. You learn that silence is not solitude, that the reticences observed by the Temple do not always bring you peace. In fact, they rarely ever bring you peace, and at times they have the tendency to strangle you. You marvel at the way the water refracts in the moonlight, bending with the shape of its brilliance. It moves furtively and secretly, as if beneath the surface there is buried a whole other world that it hopes to keep concealed. You are never the sort of girl with fantasies mirrored from the vellum of a fairytale book, and you never touch things so delicately that you look to be afraid of them. You would never call yourself a dreamer, but there’s an intensity to you which makes it hard for you to stop staring at things. There are only a couple of children in the Temple you ever feel particularly close to, and when you think back, they are the only things you feel are worth remembering here. Curled up on a stony ledge, watching a religious darkness fall over the ancient rock. Organising altars and scrubbing floorboards and observing silences with a dash of humour. You have never truly felt like you belong anywhere, except when you lay down in the grass or you sit on the cold stone and run your fingertips through the water, imagining that you are somewhere else. It makes this place feel a little less dull. II. THE HIEROPHANT, UPRIGHT education, knowledge, beliefs It is perhaps no coincidence that it’s during your sixteenth Summertide that you first raise an animal from the dead, completely by accident. A butterfly, crushed beneath the weight of a snow which is only now beginning to thaw. You cannot describe what brought you to pick it up. Beauty? You have always looked beneath the surface. Macabre as the very idea of it may be, you cannot not help but take it into your hand. You feel its limp body balance in your palm like parchment: you want it to be beautiful again. And as if by magic, it shifts in your palm, it wakes. Half-amazed and half-afraid, you watch how its wings unfurl themselves and its body cracks and distorts itself back into shape. But you are overcome by something strange: the insect sits in the centre of your palm, learning about the world again, but if you were blind you wouldn’t know it. You can’t feel it there. By instinct you clasp your hands around it and bring it into the Temple and, perhaps foolishly, you show them what you have done. The Temple determines that it is no coincidence that your gift for rebirth, the very echo of Summertide, should reveal itself now. It’s an ancient celebration of renaissance. Fate twists, and the Temple has two Necromancers already, devoted to the craft and resolved to educate you. Educate perhaps puts it generously: they test you, push you, assign you tasks to complete without any tangible goal in sight. They never teach you what it takes, what you must sacrifice, what it truly means to excavate that void between life and death. This is the truth of it: you have been chosen by the Undying Herself and this gift is yours to own, but as with all things we take, it demands sacrifice. A piece of you, snapped off from bone; it lingers there at your side. They teach you that you are different, you are special. The other magi can manipulate solid matter and regenerate limbs, but you are sacred. They will not see twenty-five years, but you? You can live for hundreds of years. Your schooling begins small. Insects, mice, small woodland creatures. But it’s a demanding, exhausting process -  still, you continue to work hard. When you’d brought back that butterfly on the third day of Summertide, it had seemed so easy. A case of simply wishing and being. But things are not so easy now. You find it difficult to pour that same longing into the creatures put down in front of you; you are more sophisticated, less candid. But you do as you’re told, make as many successes as you do failures, and for whatever end goal the Necromancers have in mind for you, you progress. Then, as if you have not already experienced enough change, the world spins carelessly on its side. You are eighteen and you have been under the tutelage of the Necromancers for just under two years. You feel you are drifting away from the green beauty of that first instance, the first time you bartered with the universe and it chose to answer you. But you are still just a child and your teachers have lived for hundreds of years. Unfortunately, you learn that Necromancers are dangerous, they’re volatile, they’re lethal, and that includes you. It takes little more than the impetuosity of a boy sat next to you at dinnertime, for him to waggishly swipe the bread roll from your plate - as children are mischievously wont to do - for you to wreak tragedy. The action irritates you, infuriates you, even, because you have less patience for things now. You snatch the roll from his hands. Without warning, he collapses, body limp on the floor. You are puzzled at first, you’d scarcely touched him, but as the Brethren roll his body over on the stone, you realise what you have done. The boy is dead. The boy is dead, and you’re learning your emotions have consequences. But this you’ve forgotten. You’ve scrubbed it from your skin raw, as if that will absolve you. Things are accelerating. You perform your lessons largely in isolation. You are kept away from the other children, particularly those who hope to take vows, because you are dangerous, you cannot be contained. Your tutors take the opportunity to teach you more diligently, more industriously. Your accomplishments are growing: frogs, small birds, rabbits. But the hours are slipping away and you don’t understand what it’s all for, bringing back forest animals contentedly buried beneath the moss. Nevertheless, you move forward. You think you are getting better at this. When you have lived for twenty years, they bring you live animals; they show you how to drain them, how to cleave to your youth. The work you are performing is an honour. You have always needed a hand to guide you. Something has changed in you. The forest recedes from you. You wake and you learn and you perform and you dream empty, hollow dreams in an unbroken cycle. More often than not you lie awake for hours, allowing your eyes to rest on a rotting mark in the corner of the ceiling. You smile still and you try to laugh, but as each chuckle worms its way up your throat you feel it strangle you in the process. Sometimes you cough up blood, thick and hard, and you stare at the red spot in confusion. One day, you catch your hand on a piece of shattered glass and feel nothing. You don’t even flinch. At the wound you simply stare and, out of curiosity perhaps, or a pointed desire to hurt at something, you pick up a shard of glass and feel the weight of it in your fingers. And with all the force you have, you burrow it into your flesh. That, you feel. You drop the glass, wincing, and a hot tear rolls down your cheek. You lie in your bed and wish on a comet for somebody to steal you away from this place. You whisper it into existence. But in the morning you wake and everything is the same. A blur settles into your bones. Things are a cycle, so much more so than when your life had begun. But you know nothing else. You stay. III. THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, UPRIGHT change, cycles, inevitable fate In your life you have learned much. How to raise animals from the dead. How to canalise energy away from the living and into your bones. You have learned that things change, of course they do, but they also stay the same. For people like you, life motionlessly moves from one event to the next. You remember the day that your life had spun so carelessly on its axis once again with such precision that, at times, you are sure that you are back there. You think that you are back at the Temple, raising rabbits and drawing the lifeforce from dandelions. You think that the clouds are weeping into the earth with salted rain, and the chill of your salvation buries itself into you. By now, you know she is not your deliverance. There is nothing holy in her but power, and how she revels in it. The woman alights on the Temple without a horse, without a thing to carry her here, and if you had ever been a foolish sort of girl you might have assumed she’d undertaken the journey on foot. But you have never been a fool. You are twenty-five years old. A solemn cold which seems to swell in her at once brings you a much-desired quiet and chills you to the bone. To your surprise, all bow to her. Cower from her. Even your teachers are beneath her. With purpose she pulls you aside, ungloves your hands and takes them in her own, and she promises you that the two of you are the same. She does not fear you, and you have no cause to fear her. You are cut from the same dust and made from the same bones - there’s divinity in that. Like you, she can raise the dead, and what’s more: she’s good at it. Perhaps for the first time in your life you are asked what it is that you want. You feel like the decision is yours. She offers you an ultimatum: remain here, raise rabbits and mice and crows, be nothing; or join her, learn the craft, study beneath her, become something. While you are torn between your desire to flee this place and a thick, breathless lump which lingers at the back of your throat unexplained, it is never really a question. It is an answer. You pack up everything you own: garments, mementos, fear and desire, all. You accept willingly, unthinkingly, blindly. You pass through the egress and step into a shimmering new world. Even now, that is the only way you can think to describe this place. This new world you have chosen for yourself coruscates beneath the light as if in dance. It’s a world that winks like glitter - Castle Tyrholm is so unlike anything you’ve ever known. By now you are so accustomed to rough hems and the bland taste of food on your tongue that you have forgotten there was anything else. You only know things bland and bloodless, humble devotions. But here? Here, they dress lavishly. Here, they eat lavishly. Here, they live lavishly. You stand at the fortress’ great, impressive windows and you contentedly watch the way the pale waves lick at the black stone, the way the castle bends over the waves and balances on top of the rockline. It’s more than regal: it’s thunderous, luxurious, rich. Of course, you know a little better now. You know that glitter catches in the corner of your eye. It has the tendency to blind you, to force you to look at things between the sequins of a kaleidoscope, all twisted and torn out of shape. You have been under The High Priestess’ tutelage for two years now, and you feel your life bisecting into two distinct worlds. You must reconcile yourself to that. Statesmanship has very little in common with religion, and unfortunately, that’s all you know. Religion is devotion, fidelity, constancy. Whatever fidelity you see before you has been rigorously shaped, re-wrought in the shadows for years, and that is the only constant here. Still, it does not shake you. Your first lesson is this: you must cut the history of yourself out into stone. You do. You become a silhouette which cleaves to your mentor’s side, a thing that can’t be shaken. Like a shadow you observe the way your mentor manoeuvres; the way she holds her tongue and the way she weaponises it; the way she plumes and crows and deceives as if she’s been doing it for a thousand years. You watch the way that King Septimus’ hands move with hers, shifting in mirrored gestures - like she has attached strings. You become an accepted prerequisite at her side, a creeping outline which follows her devotedly. Part of your status, you brush shoulders with some of the king’s most trusted advisors - you attend assemblies, convocations gathered in the throne-room. You are so far from home now; wherever your home is, wherever it was. You are beginning to learn the meaning of diplomacy: one keeps a knife permanently unsheathed beneath their cloak. Your instructor resolves to fill in the gaps that the Temple left barren: you learn what you must give up for this gift, you learn of all the grief it has caused you. This is a magic you watch her lean into so deeply at times you think she’ll splinter apart - but, of course, she never has. Never will. This is a truth that lies uneasily in your stomach. It lies heavily on your lungs and it chokes you. You can feel your heart climbing up and down your windpipe - you aim to seize it in your hands, to still it, but you can only retch at it. You’ve lost count of all the creatures you’ve poured yourself into, and you wonder where all those pieces of you are now. The fading feeling of your bones makes sense now, at least; the universe is a glutton and it has been stealing from you. You never even knew the rules of the game. The king’s physician brings you animals to practice upon. The High Priestess teaches you the most painless portions of yourself to sacrifice: you learn the things you need and the things you can go without. Your abilities are growing, and with that you feel the weight in your chest shift a little - things are becoming easier to swallow. You learn the importance of giving back: to creatures, to people, but also communities, dynasties. Yours are regular faces in the Farmlands which edge on Tyrholm. Here, you resurrect animals, livelihood; they are indebted to you both. One day, a farmer’s son slips from a ladder, cracks his skull open on the coarse ground. The High Priestess takes the opportunity to teach, to have you bring him back. But too much of you clings to the Temple, the way its cold was settling into your bones. The High Priestess’ dissatisfaction is evident. You’ve been studying beneath her for three years now, and still you have not raised a body. She wants you to look at this world without Necromancy directly in the eye: destruction, death, misery. You cast your eye down to the boy and swallow the lump growing in your throat. Grief. As painless as breathing, your teacher brings their son back. The world is better with Necromancers, she has resolved. Dutiful, devoted, you have resolved that as well. You have always needed a hand to guide you. As part of your schooling, you ride out with your mentor and Tyrholm’s great military army. To squash rebellion, to quell revolt. The two of you are never far from each other - you are a shadow clinging to a shadow. There’s something about the way that you both sit, regal and harrowing above your white horses, lingering like death at the rear of Septimus’ forces. You are a lethal sight, but your power is not enough. Not yet. You arch over the body of a fallen soldier, but something is stopping you. You try, you really try, but you fail. Half-alive, he blinks back at you. A lungful vibrates at the back of his throat. His chest rises and falls with air, but is nothing in his eye to suggest he recognises the figure bending over him. It is half a failure - but half a failure is still a failure. You have given him nothing human. As if flowing over water, your mentor dismounts her horse and puts an end to her experiment. She doesn’t look at you. You don’t look at you. Sometimes, you can’t bear to. But your failures do not last forever. When you are thirty-two, you animate a body. At last. It has taken you seven years, seven long years of unlearning the Temple’s way, but at last, success. Of all the places you manage it, it is on the battlefield, and you are in your element. Surrounded by blood and warfare and death - ah, always death. You are getting better at this. At night, you rest your head down on your pillow and you dream. You dream of your hands, reaching out. The Undying God reaches back. You feel you are becoming one with Her. IV. THE HIGH PRIESTESS, REVERSED repressed intuition, confusion, dissonance You are a vault of fears, but you have spent these last ten years bent on throwing away the key. For the last decade you have been following your mentor indiscriminately, almost blindly, and while you are finally beginning to make progress, you are also beginning to feel that haze gather around your fingertips, weighing down your wrists. You feel yourself swallowing the sensation at times. You don’t like to close your eyes. If you do, you think you are back at the Temple, raising creatures injudiciously, feeling your soul taunt you in the air between you. A cold is settling into your bones again. Your dreams turn themselves inside out and empty themselves when you finally fall asleep, and when you wake in the morning you are confronted with a sense that your emotions have slipped out of you in the night. That you have slipped out of you in the night. Your fingers pressed to rotting flesh, you decide that the bodies you have brought up in halves are warnings. As their eyes roll demonically back into their skull and the listlessness of their breath catches at the back of their throat, you cannot help but think that your half-failures are warning you. That this is what awaits you should you consider to amble down this narrow path. Not death, but instead life: long, death-defying, rotten life. A life of nullity stretches out in front of you, like a void that opens its black mouth and eats you raw. Impassibility is creeping into you, settling into the spaces between your bones and lungs. The taste of blood in your mouth has recently returned to you, though you only notice it when you can taste at all; you cannot determine whether being able to feel it flip thickly over your tongue brings you a sense of peace or horror. When you slip your rings over your fingers, heavy with all the ore you could never have afforded when you were young, you can’t feel them there. You feel ancient impressions dig their way into you. Perhaps you have been foolish. You have been believing that carefully handpicking the parts of yourself to sacrifice can go on forever; that you will never feel the weight of your earliest years again. And while that’s true, you have been slicing off the most unforgiving parts of yourself and offering them up to the Undying God, you feel yourself recede from Her. They are determining that these pieces of you are not enough, and They would have you offer more. When you travel out with Septimus’ forces to quell revolts you feel eyes on you: The High Priestess’ eyes, impatient. In the battlefield you are anxious to stop your hands from trembling. Perhaps you can’t bear the pressure. Perhaps you can’t bear yourself. Your teacher is always left to clear up your mess, always left to do the brunt of the work, but she is never cruel about it. Sometimes you wish she was. Then, you might be better. And yet, you are not all failure. In the last two months you have successfully resurrected five bodies, breathing and seeing and living, and that in itself is commendable. The High Priestess brings you to orphanages, and it is there that you set about your reanimations. While, like always, your mentor bears the brunt of the work, you manage to resurrect four bodies. Three girls, three children, and a boy who has been bound to these walls for too long. At Koldam, much to your own mystification, you bring back another. A Lieutenant, a real piece of chainmail in the king’s military armour. When his undead eyes finally settle upon your face, noticing the way that you lip quivers at your achievement, he breathes a sigh of relief. He looks at you as if you’re an angel, sent from the Undying God to rescue him. You are sent by Her, this you concede, but you are no angel. Whispers of a coup have been present for as many years you have been beneath The High Priestess’ care, but they are thickening now - they are becoming more difficult to ignore. Still, you ignore them, as you must. You are not ready for Septimus to be toppled, you are not ready for the throne to keel over into the pale waves beneath the black rock. You don’t want to watch it drown, you don’t want to watch it to be torn apart like some; more than anything, you want it to stay put. Every time you squash a rebellion, every time a coup fails, you allow your heart to settle in your chest again. But it only lasts a moment, because treason is always being whispered, mutiny is always being accounted for. What you think of Septimus is irrelevant: you aren’t strong enough to fight for a place in whatever new world results from it. There’s still so much you can’t do, so much you don’t know if you want to do, and even now all you want is balance. It is a line you have toed your whole life and it has always got the better of you: religion and politics; life and death; permanence and impermanence; the girl you were and the girl you are becoming. You want the world to stop spinning. You want stability. You can’t know what you want if everything you know keeps changing. You are only loosely beginning to learn the sort of vacancy you have inside you. Perhaps if you knew better, if you were better at knowing what you want, you would say: the world is creeping away from me, I am creeping away from me. Do you still need a hand to guide you? PLOT IDEAS: METAMORPHOSIS: What she wants is stability. If she will live for centuries, she must have something to endure with her. Vasylia’s loyalty is very intricate. She doesn’t quite block out the throne’s transgressions in the same way that Temperance does, but there’s still a degree of selfishness to her fealty. She calls herself a Loyalist not because she believes Septimus is genuinely deserving of her love, but because her body cannot bear the instability. I’d like to see that shift very gradually, though. She can’t cling to this dream of stability forever, not when the path she’s chosen is so weathered by impermanence - and the dream will only become more impossible to uphold if Septimus grows in cruelty. I’d like her to realise that slowly. It begins small: she focuses her attention on those who bear the brunt of his mistreatment. I can see The Star, The Hermit or even The Hierophant factoring into this. And then it grows - whispers intensify. The king’s mistakes become impossible to ignore. Maybe he orders heads to be put on spikes on the castle barracks. Turncoats are beaten and hung as if crucified in the main hall. Equally, it could have nothing to do with violence at all. She may simply determine, like her mentor, that the throne doesn’t suit him. Either way, I’d like Vasylia to move with the developments of the game. She wouldn’t fight for Septimus, but she does tend to ignore whispers of coup. Right now, she is trying to balance the parts of herself she feels at war with; she can’t handle another one. Nevertheless, I want her to be forced to grapple with the fact that this is bigger than her and that she may have to act. I don’t know whether she’s likely to have confided in Vasylia of her intentions (depending on the player), but should the divergence become evident, questions of loyalty would certainly be pulled into the fore. Would she follow her mentor into revolt? There’s an opportunity here for conflict - but also for growth. Growing into the person The High Priestess wants them to be: willing to fight, to take, to reconcile yourself to your powers, hardened to the consequences. I want to see her really become a part of this war rather than hesitating at the edge of it. NO MORE FALSE HEAVENS: The High Priestess never hesitates, she leans into this gift as deeply as her body is able without prying itself apart, and Vasylia believes that this has always been her way. The same can hardly be said for her, though. She is hesitant, at times she has misgivings, and the sight of a corpse almost always makes her tremble. The High Priestess has been guiding her for ten years now and in that time she’s discovered a lifetime’s worth of arcane knowledge, twice as much power as the Temple ever bequeathed her, but there is still so much she can’t do. What causes her to fail is hesitation, placing one foot in the art and one foot out of it. I suppose this is an alternative to plot #1, depending on which way things develop, but I’d like to see Vasylia turn away from The High Priestess. When she looks at her, at The Sun, she recognises what she might become. It is a fate she wishes to escape, and if she is truly committed to that, she may be forced to act. It’s no easy feat to kill a Necromancer, even one as wavering as herself, but severing ties with The High Priestess could breed disaster. She has always needed a hand to guide her in life, but it’d be fascinating to see her break away from that. The world opens its jaw and waits to swallow her whole, and The High Priestess is certain that without her guidance she’ll falter, but she needs to make herself more than what other people have made her. I’d like to develop her self-sufficiency, her willpower, but most importantly, I’d like to explore her desperation, to develop the recklessness which would no doubt begin to grow. Leaving The High Priestess’ tutelage is a make or break moment: and unless something considerable changes within her, it is likely to be the latter. Over time, she needs to determine whether she wants to be a Necromancer or a human-being. How far is she willing to go to excavate that small part of her, and is the act her genesis or her epilogue? THE DARK MARK OF ME: As a Necromancer, she’s used to instilling at least a bit of apprehension in others. The Lovers’ eyes scan Vasylia’s skin for evidence of a pulse, a suggestion that, even now, she is alive. More importantly, though, The Emperor goes out of his way to make himself available to listen to her. Listen maybe isn’t the right word, to have his curiosity sated is probably more apt, and in moments of weakness, her secrets spill out of her like a river. He’s used to getting what he wants, and she will not stand in his way. But the very act of this is dangerous; it could breed conflict, consequences, even bring about Vasylia’s death (!?) should information fall into the wrong hands. I don’t think Vasylia has shared her hesitancy to continue down the path that The High Priestess has forged for her with her mentor - there’s no need to, it’s as easily distinguishable as ink spilled on skin - but there could be disastrous consequences should her concerns spill out. Not from The High Priestess, I don’t think, because I don’t see her as having an aim in mind to destroy Vasylia. Her resolve at least appears to be motivated by cutting away the thorns and making space for her prodigy to grow. Yet, Vasylia’s vulnerability is a weakness, and weaknesses can be exploited. While the dynamic between The Emperor and The Wheel of Fortune is… by far one of my favourite character dynamics you’ve written, perhaps The Emperor’s player would like to use this to his advantage in some way. The Emperor certainly isn’t The High Priestess’ first choice for the throne. So, I’d like to see these words come back to bite Vasylia, to further complicate her oscillation between this path or that. She’s no fool, but she by no means has the experience of her mentor. She studies underneath The High Priestess and lauds her propensity for manipulation and schemes, and while in her experience she’s picked up more than enough tricks, her hesitancy is weakness. She sacrifices her feelings and anxieties freely - because he coaxes it out of her, but also because she needs to purge. Over time, I’d like to see Vasylia’s actions breed consequences, over and over and over, to the point that she can’t run from them. She can only follow them blindly down a path she was always meant to. Maybe this is less of a personal plot point and more of a worldbuilding idea, but given that Necromancers have the ability to kill, I’d like Vasylia to dabble in that in the future. It’s something The High Priestess can do as second nature, as if she was born with the gift, and while Vasylia is better at drawing life into her than pouring herself into things, it’s not something she’s easily reconciled to. Still, I’d like to develop her skill here, figure out if it could be of use to The High Priestess or Septimus (because she serves the former first, the latter second). There’s an opportunity here to flesh out a dynamic between Vasylia and The Sun, who of course kills for a living, but I certainly think it’d be an irreversible path for her to walk down - one that, should she give herself over to it, solidifies her fate. Again, more worldbuilding, but if The High Priestess is the type to gather secrets in her plotting against Septimus, it could be interesting to have Vasylia drop by places such as The Rosewood Maiden in disguise. To gather secrets in a place where secrets are spilled like blood. She wouldn’t even need to disclose her plans to Vasylia if the player didn’t want her to, but I’d love an opportunity to branch out beyond the castle. Much of her life has been limited, either by the Temple or Castle Tyrholm, and it’d be interesting to feel her form an opinion on the ‘outside’ world; to get an idea of the sorts of people she’d be fleeing to should she leave The High Priestess’ care. Alternatively, it could be a good way to turn Vasylia away from her neutrality/loyalty and into the company of revolters. Depending on how things shape up, I’d love to see Vasylia finally become an advisor. Perhaps not to the same degree as her mentor, but in some shape or form, I’d like to have her officially offer advice to the Crown. While The High Priestess’ intentions in extracting her from the Temple are, of course, ambiguous, it’s what she’s been training towards. What would make this even more interesting is: who will she be advisor to? To Septimus? Well, that spot is already taken by her mentor. The Emperor? Well, that depends whether his father can hold onto the throne until he dies. The Chariot? The World? Two vastly different options, but I suppose it depends which of them The High Priestess hopes to install on the throne. Vasylia is already quite content with the notion of serving The Emperor, and that could breed conflict, but it could also change. While Vasylia is getting better at nominating the more sacrificable parts of herself every time she uses it, the sickness is spreading. She’s heard rumours, though. Rumours of a mage with the inexplicable ability to draw from two bodies of magic. I think The Moon could be a source of real fascination for Vasylia. If she fears anything, it’s that she’ll turn herself so irreversibly over to Necromancy that she loses the essence of who she is. Given that The Moon’s abilities lie in healing, I’d like Vasylia to investigate. If there is a possibility of regeneration, she wants it. It could be an opportunity to rehabilitate her self-image, to reconcile herself to this fate of hers, or even to break away from it - depending on what she discovers. CHARACTER DEATH: It depends on when, but yes! Given there’s opportunity for development. WRITING SAMPLE (This can be purely hypothetical if it doesn’t fit into character interpretations and histories, I just really like the idea of Vasylia being at Koldam and bringing someone back on the battlefield!) The air rings with the song of swords, each clang and crash a melodic note copied from a manuscript soaked in blood. Koldam’s men fall like flies and Vasylia watches them from a distance: stumbling backwards, defending themselves clumsily, raising their swords above their heads in such a sweeping motion that she can only think them pitiable as The Emperor’s men bend beneath them. She watches how, as if in dance, Tyrholm’s forces encroach upon their wildly underprepared assailant with efficiency and onslaught. One by one, in a diagonal line, the soldiers thrust their swords into bellies, eyes, hearts, throats. She watches the revolters cry out in pain for a moment and then fall, limply, to the grass as corpses. The grass here has been dry for some time, Vasylia can feel it. It’s been reaching out to her, entreating her, but now it can drink at last. It feasts on blood and looks all the better for it.        “You were right,” Vasylia muses, as if she had ever doubted it, her words melding with the sound of clanging horseshoes and battle. The two women hang at the back of Tyrholm’s defence ahorse, side-by-side. There aren’t many of them in the field, only thirty or forty of The Emperor’s most trusted paladins thrust into the fray. The magi will lend a helping hand should it at all be asked of them. Vasylia would try to lend a hand. She would try to wash past failures from her mind, she would try to think of only life and death and the space that lives between it. “You were right,” she repeats, “Some of them are only boys. The Emperor will bring the King of Koldam’s head to the block and strike it from him.” Her words don’t warrant a response. It’s a statement, an echo, even, of words already made sensible to her. For a moment, The High Priestess is silent. She only reins her horse into a step and around the edge of the battlefield, lingering like the stench of rotting flesh. The woman has been grimly quiet this campaign, like the muscles she no longer feels in her face are holding something back. A thought, a point. Vasylia thinks nothing of it. It’s not unusual. By way of nature, like a shadow she follows.        “That is what you get without careful preparation,” The High Priestess answers, not quite to her apprentice. An ode to the fallen men, a lament to blood staining grass and gore hanging from swords. An afterthought dedicated to the revolters who deigned to dream. By now, Vasylia is well acclimated to her teacher’s manner of speech. There is a sense that her words are not made for the likes of men and mortals, that they’re fashioned for the Undying God, cut out by her tongue like a knife. But the two of them have not ridden out with The Emperor’s forces to remark retrospectively on shortfallings of men, on dead husbands and sons and lovers. There will be enough time for that. What remains of Koldam will pen songs to parchment with their legionaries’ blood and perform them to a pile of ashes and rubble. They are here to resurrect. To bring back what few men they expect to lose, to ensure that such a resounding victory is marred by nothing, not even death. Vasylia has been doing this for years, now, hovering with her mentor at the rear of a military army like two prophets of death. Watching over men who breathe their last breath, selecting those who will rise up from the dirt again. Vasylia supposes that neither of them are much needed here: while they’ve ridden out to clashes of arms that have certainly relied upon life made anew for victory, the swing of bronze here is decisive. Still, The High Priestess had insisted. She has eyes everywhere, but sometimes there are none better than one’s own. Vasylia is familiar with battle by now. Somewhat absently, running her fingers through Hel’s pale white hair, she watches as the blood alloys with the air and she ruminates on her failures. It’s a shortfalling of hers, she thinks. She’s been getting better at raising bodies, at blowing her own breath into the mouths of corpses and watching them animate. The last body she’d brought back had only been an orphan; a girl. As it were, she’d seen a piece of herself in her. A fragment, locked into the body of somebody else, long gone from her. Vasylia’s mind turns; towards failure, towards her own incompetence. She had been in a battlefield not too much unlike this one once, her hands earnestly pressed to the chest of a soldier long gone from this world, blood still seeping from his porous body. One might call it a half-success, she supposes. He’d lived, technically. But what is life when you are nothing more than marrow and bone, flesh and muscle and blood? She had watched in horror as his white eyes rolled up into the back of his skull, how they stared at nothing in particular: the way the clouds had swept through the sky that day and cut into it like an executioner’s knife, opening up a rain which poured down on the earth in judgement. Half-alive, Vasylia was bringing back bodies and never souls, and for a time that simply looked to be her way. The fighting would go on until Koldam was broken and mastered, the hooves of their war horses galloping on the dirt until the ground became a wasteland of torn earth. This is what it takes to hold on to a crown, she thinks. This is what it takes to keep Septimus on the throne, she rephrases, fitting the words into her mouth. Vasylia hopes that such an unambiguous victory would bring her some peace, some balance. But the throne seems to swing perpetually off the bank of a precipice; as if it delights in the sensation of feeling the world ripped from underneath you, suspended in the air. She would pray for Septimus to keep his throne, for The Emperor to inherit it on his death. There was a sense of permanence in that, in things being passed down in natural succession. Vasylia stares in the distance as The Emperor slams an enemy with the flat of his sword in one hand, winding him, while slitting the throat of an enemy with a knife in the other. He’s a strong fighter, a strong warrior - she hopes that when his time comes he’ll be a strong king, too. The air shifts. Out of the corner of her eye, Vasylia watches one of their Lieutenants pierced through the chest with a long blade of steel. Rolling from his horse, he falls motionlessly into the dirt. Something stirs in her. Patriotism? Determination? Grief? Whatever it is, she feels a strange sensation inherit her body and, as if predestined, she dismounts from Hel with such sheer force that the horse almost bolts from her. Vasylia feels the hem of her dress drag through the dusty dirt and, by the time she has reached the man, well, he’s no longer a man at all. Whoever he was, he’s nothing more than a body. Vasylia feels the stare of The High Priestess sear into the back of her head like molten iron. She is watching her, as she always is. Curving over his body, Vasylia breaks apart the chainmail which covers the stab wound, tears at the linen beneath it. She presses her hands to the torn flesh, trembling. On contact they still themselves a little, as if this is where they’re meant to be. She winces as she feels a piece of herself crawl out of her lungs, up her throat, like a sharp, piercing thing with black lacquered claws. When she raises her hands from the corpse they’re painted red in blood, but she has achieved nothing. Determinedly but, as always, with hesitation, she pushes her hands into his chest and tries again. She feels the same claws ladder in her throat, but this time its nails are ice cold, as if turning her insides fleetingly to stone. Is this magic or is it hesitation? Vasylia falls silent for a moment, her hands still planted in the breastbone. She feels the stare of her mentor still burrowing its way into her skin. But then: a splutter of red, a gasp of air which extends infinitely into lungs, eyes, flinching open. Vasylia rolls the body over in the dirt to avoid the soldier from choking, keeled over the body, breath bated. The soldier takes a moment to naturalise himself, for his eyes to come to terms with this foreign world again, for them to peer past the blur and see her. As if by divine providence, a heavy rain descends upon the site and Vasylia feels the thick mud form around them. When the soldier looks at her, blinking away the rain, really takes her in - he does not seem afraid. As a matter of fact, he sighs in relief, allowing a weak chuckle to escape his throat. He takes her wrist in his calloused hand, non-threateningly, as a silent moment of appreciation. Of gratitude. His grey eyes look at her as if she’s an angel, as if she had descended from the Heavens to become his deliverance. But, she thinks, what sort of angel has black wings?        “Lady,” he says, “You ought to cover yourself. You’ll catch a cold.” Vasylia cants her head to meet his gaze through the slit of his helm, eyes the colour of gunmetal grey. She’s drenched in rain; she smells like salt. There’s something animal about the way the salt of his tears creates a tincture with sweat and blood, and though she has seen it many times before, it provokes something in her still. Vasylia is stirred from a pithy moment of intimacy by the tolling of swords and shields, the metallic ringing of warrior’s voices calling for blood. By now, almost all of Koldam’s forces have fallen. Her vision blurs a little as she makes out the figure of The Emperor, whetting his sword on stone. One of his soldiers strangles Koldam’s king at the neck, towing him through the dirt. His crown had fallen from his brow long ago, buried by the bodies of his own men. Vasylia turns her head back to the Lieutenant. She has felt things colder than this. She feels it now. “No,” she hums in response. “It’s only water.” EXTRAS Pinterest board here and mock blog here. Any headcanons which involve other characters are purely suggestions and can be adjusted or removed if they don’t fit! I was gonna make a playlist too but ran out of time but just… just know that I listened to Florence + The Machine’s discography over and over while writing this. The only info u need to know. 01. When Vasylia stands, she does so straight and imposing, but her posture lacks the peremptory impression of The High Priestess. Nevertheless, when she walks through a sea of people they tend to part for her, hesitant to brush hands with Death Herself, perhaps, but this all depends on the vanity of the pool she is passing in. Vasylia’s mannerisms have always been subtle, and that hasn’t changed. You must look closely at her body language to interpret her: wooden shoulders when she’s paying attention, a cant of her brows when she’s interested, the twist of a half-smile when she’s amused. The way that she wrings her wrists at the side of her thighs when they tremble. Many consider her perplexing, at times even inscrutable, as if buried beneath dirt. The High Priestess is perhaps the only person cognisant enough to truly read her, to truly translate her, but for many she emits an air of strangeness. For the most part she keeps to herself, but exceptions have been known. Her language is at its most colloquial when she speaks with her mentor, but it never loses its inflected formality; having lived a life first of religion and second of statesmanship, she has always been like this. When she points things out she rarely indicates with a finger, but rather nods her head towards her subject. Eye contact with Vasylia has the tendency to feel intense, as if her bright eyes are burning into you, but this isn’t a corollary of her magic; this has always been her way. When she speaks, she has the tendency to tap her feet in uncertainty, and when quiet falls between them her breath grows almost silent. More imprudent nobles may have cause to wonder if she’s still breathing. At her most nervous, Vasylia bites at the dead skin of her lip, but this is never done in the public eye. She wears lipstick at all times: red in battle, pinks for stately events, and neutrals in-between. When she passes you by, you think you detect the scent of bergamot following her; only slightly, never distinctly, as if day-by-day the fruit shrinks in size. 02. Marking five years under her tutelage, The High Priestess bestows Vasylia with a glass pendant, shaped to look like a coffin. Inside is a rose which moves cyclically between life and wilting and death entirely of its own accord. The High Priestess reminds her the sequence is an echo of their power, the ability to make and unmake life as easily as breathing. The rose itself is the ensign of Undeath, a blend of snakes and wolves. Vasylia wears it around her neck at all times, as devoutly as a married woman wears a ring, and it marks out her powers.  +  This is something The High Priestess’ player is more than welcome to discard if they don’t see it fitting their interpretation, but I think The High Priestess could be so much more to Vasylia than a mentor. Her motivations in stealing her away from the Temple are clearly self-serving - the possibility of shaping a Necromancer from their youth, making them in some way indebted to you, is just too delicious - but I could see her attempting to make the connection between them more intimate at least. Whether that’s borne out of narcissism or something akin to affection (as much as she’s still capable of the feeling) could be something we could discuss. 03. Vasylia is only able to syphon energy from plants, animals and human beings through touch. Perhaps this is something The High Priestess can do as easily as breathing, as simply as being around life and feeling its energy burrow itself into her, but Vasylia isn’t so capable. She has to make physical contact with her source. It’s what made her mother’s bones feel so heavy when she held her in her arms, it’s what caused her mother to surrender her child. It comes easier to her than raising the dead, than sacrificing a piece of herself and returning it to the universe, but she still has much to learn. 04. For the last ten years, Vasylia has ridden out on the same horse to join The High Priestess and Tyrholm’s military forces: a pale white horse named Hel. She wears a saddle and bridle of deep blues and golds, Valmont’s grassy sigil ironed into the side. The horse learns quickly but stirs at danger - still, she’s been a constant, a companion to her these years under The High Priestess’ tutelage, and she’s fond of her. She thinks her thing worth sacrificing a piece of herself should she ever need to. 05. Vasilya certainly feels the damage sustained to her body, but it’s slight. She occasionally loses the sense of taste; when she coughs she has the tendency to choke up a little blood with it, and this is an effect which has only recently returned to her since her tutelage at the Temple. Vasylia’s sense of touch is at times limited, but it returns as quickly as it leaves her. Her tear ducts aren’t completely dried out, but sometimes in a fit of melancholy her face scrunches up as if in tears but no water flows. Her sight, sense of smell and hearing are all unaffected, and she bears no physical disabilities or wounds. At night sleep often evades her and she rarely manages to achieve more than four hours or rest per night. She feels a great big hole carved out in her, and while that is a sensation she cannot ignore, it isn’t a permanent development. She endures enough that the consequences of the path she’s chosen for herself becomes evident, flaring up to remind her, but she has not lost herself. Not yet. 06. In the Temple, as a result of the incident in the dining hall, Vasylia was forced to wear gloves. Not out of cruelty, but for all their holiness, children blessed with the gift of Necromancy are dangerous. The gloves are made of leather and they protect other members of the Temple from her touch. As she’d quickly learned, emotions have consequences - they would ensure that she wouldn’t have to pay for any more of them. When The High Priestess steals her away from the Temple, she strips her of them. She teaches her never to limit her power, but to control it. 07. In her more introspective moments, Vasylia is wont to visit the castle’s Greenhouse, sitting amongst the foliage. For practice, or perhaps simply by habit, she pushes the blossoms around her over the barrier and back through it, watching them fluctuate between death and life. They’re a small, insignificant feat, thus they rarely sap much from her. Sometimes she simply sits, admires the growth of life. Here, she can think of everything and nothing, and she answers to no-one.