#it is vile these people are taking advantage of those who actually want to help sick or otherwise in peril animals and people

[monsterqueers]

HOW TO SPOT DONATION SCAM POSTS

Tumblr has had a longstanding scam bot donation post problem. From sick dog posts using blatantly AI generated images to Gaza refugee aid blogs accidentally sending the pornbot script instead, it happens.

So how do you spot them?

Here is a quick guide to spot the most obvious scammers;

Step one: Actually read the post. Does the information all agree with itself? If they post a picture of their medical readouts are those readouts things that make sense for a conscious living person? Does that dog x-ray have 7 toes and too few ribs to be real? Are there obvious photoshop signs? Do the pictures ACTUALLY prove anything? Do they reference a law that does not exist in the country they claim to be from? Is the amount asked for around what it would cost for what they are claiming to do with it? Is what they are asking for money for a feasible thing? Are they using emotionally manipulative language that gets you to panic or feel upset and make rush decisions? Do they imply that if you do not post the post you are responsible for suffering or death? Did they send an ask instead of putting it on their actual blog as a post? Does the gofundme match the post?

Step two: Reverse image search the images given. Do they come up elsewhere in posts by other people? Do they come up in other donation posts with different names and monetary amounts?

Step three: Quote search the script minus URLs and names. Is the script used in many other donation posts with different names and values?

Step four: Examine the blog that it is from. Is it a 'blank' blog? Is the donation post their ONLY post? Have they made multiple donation posts with different names and amounts? Does google searching their name cause you to come up with many different asks sent to people that have different names and money values and images in them? Is this a reskinned porn bot? Are the posts on the blog consistent with the information given in the donation post? Do they not talk about themselves at all, just have 5 random posts reblogged in the last week and then a donation beg? Does the account link to other accounts on other platforms that look like real people? Is this obviously a person outside of the donation post?

Step five: Examine their IP address through means such as Statcounter. If you don't already have it on your blog, you may want to get it if you get a lot of donation asks. Is the IP address within the location they claim they are in or are close to it? If they are using an eSim some eSims have a fixed IP address (Hong Kong is a common one). A Hong Kong or USA address is not a strike against them in this case. An IP address in Belgium should be instantly suspect as there is a KNOWN scam ring from there doing Gaza aid scams.

If everything checks out, you've done a decent cursory check on the donation post. That does NOT mean it is for sure legitimate, but it is not OBVIOUSLY a scam at this point.

Q: I can't do all this work!

A: Then have someone you trust on a PERSONAL LEVEL (not a random tumblr blog who says they verify things) verify with these steps, just ignore all donation posts like this from people you do not know personally and only donate to specific charity organizations that are reputable, or accept you may be posting and donating to scams.

[nothankyousirnotme]

I have never been more disgusted, disappointed, hurt, and sad about something I've seen on the internet than after Shubble released her statement. Not only have you all shown that you have extremely thinly-veiled rooted misogyny, but you’ve also all revealed that you live by the rule of supporting victims until you don’t want to believe the allegations are true. Until the abuser is someone you personally don’t want to see as a bad person. The fact that most of Wilbur Soots’ community has gone to babying him, crying and throwing tantrums, blatantly denying actual evidence and what is right infront of your face, is fucking disgusting. And I sincerely hope that it pains you as much as most of you are whining about on the internet. This is not your child, this is not someone who cares about you in any way, shape, or form. This is a grown man who has leached off your money and actively uses parasocial relationships to his advantage and has for literal years.

Imagine being a victim of a long-term abusive relationship, being consistently mentally and physically abused, having physically convinced yourself that it wasn’t abuse, only to be strong enough to talk about it, seek help from your friends and other professionals, and realized that you were being abused, just for an army of teenage girls who treat your abuser like the human messiah to come forward and do disgusting things like threaten to harm themselves if what you’re saying is true, run to your abuser and coddle and reassure him, and whine and throw themselves on you talking about how if it was really him, you would’ve made a statement. Like it’s not already beyond fucking nerve-wracking to speak up about your experience with your abuser breathing down your neck and his army of fangirls watching your every fucking move.

Shame, Shame is really all I feel at myself for being part of this community at a certain point. Genuine fear and shame, to watch a million teenage girls succumb to their own internalized misogyny of caring for abusive men. To swaddle and mother men like they are fragile and untouchable. It is disgusting, vile, and to make someone else come forward with their story of this abuser just to cry about how much them speaking up hurt you? That is not the behavior of someone who cares about those around them, not the behavior of someone who genuinely supports women or believes in making abusers own up to their actions. And to those who are choosing to romanticize or even go as far as to fucking sexualize this situation, I genuinely hope you one day realize how undeserving you are of even hearing about this entire ordeal. To those who are choosing to go as far as GO AFTER SHELBY, you are genuinely terrible people and I hope you will one day look in the mirror and not feel like the only way you’ll love yourself is if this man who has no care in the world for you notices you. I genuinely truly do.

I’m so sick and tired of seeing people call it drama, you have been slapped in the face with the truth and you are taking it like a genuine baby.

Go send words of support to Shelby.

Bye.

[scifrey]

Listen.

If you've read my fics, you know that I love history. I love pageantry. I love symbolism. I love beautiful clothes, and art, and jewels. I love going behind the scenes and seeing into castles and manor houses. I love parades, and the hidden meaning behind coronations, and the fairytale unreality of the lives of the gentry.

I believe, however, that all of these things should be ARTIFACTS.

I believe there is literally no point in upholding a monarchy or commonwealth any more.

Allow commonwealth countries become republics. Allow Scotland, Northern Ireland, and Wales to return to being seperate nations if they vote to become so. Allow those republics to create their own network of mutual support, should they so choose to. There's no reason to not keep up Commonwealth ties and festivals even if there's no Commonwealth.

Repatriate artifacts, art and jewels to their nations of origin. Offer monetary compensation/support for cultures violated and impoverished by colonialism. Help establish democracies where needed, and butt the hell out where they're not. (And especially don't establish puppet democracies, ew.)

Let the British royal family become symbolic tourist attractions, let them fund their own charities, and throw their parties, and knight their artists, and uphold their royal orders of garters and baths, and maintain their personal properties--and make them do it with their own wealth and real estate investments. They're multi-billionaires. They can afford it. They'll be fine.

But remove them from the machine of governance. Detach them entirely from public spending, dependance, or influence.

And if they do participate in traditions of parliament (like the Opening, which is actually really cool and fascinating panto, which I quite like and hope they WOULD continue), man, do it without the silly hat. If the King wants to wear the silly hat, make him pay for the upkeep of the silly hat out of his own pocket. It's HIS silly hat, after all. It's not like we all get a turn with it, even though we do pay for it.

(Actually, the Crown Jewels are owned by the British Public so like... if they want to take them along when they go, make the royal family buy them. And then let them charge museums a fee to loan them for exhibition, just like privately owned paintings by famous Masters are loaned to art galleries.)

Let the royals continue to do all the things the royals do, if they want to do them. Just… make them pay for it themselves. Dissolve the Sovereign Grant, and use all that money to pay for things like restitution, repatriation, and hey maybe increasing public spending on health care and social infrastructure.

Turn the public-owned properties into, yeah, tourist attractions in part (gotta fund their upkeep somehow). But also put public offices in there. Maybe some social housing. Maybe hospitals, with well-paid front-line staff. Event spaces. Seniors care homes. Something.

If Hampton Court Palace can do it, so can Buckingham.

Balmoral and Sandringham are privately owned, there's lots of land and buildings for the family to occupy. They won't be homeless.

Keep the royal family, if the royal family wants to be kept. Include the royal family if the royal family wants to be included. Just make them pay for their own stuff with their own money. And do BETTER things with the savings.

Yes, I'm aware that this may be wishful thinking.

Yes, I'm aware that unscrupilous people may take advantage of monetary support given to commonwealth nations and keep it for themselves. (And I'm not unaware that it would happen in ALL the nations, yes, even Canada where I live. There are a LOT of currently-serving politicians who are vile, scummy, self-serving arseholes.) Yes, I'm aware that mutual support between nations of the commonwealth is all that is preventing famine or religious war in some places.

Yes, I'm aware none of this is as easy as I'm making it sound.

But I think it's time to stop celebrating and upholding centuries of brutal militaristic colonialism and the destruction and subversion of so many beautiful cultures for the sake of some tourist bucks. I especially think it's time for the public to stop PAYING for it.

I love history. I love symbolism. I love the stories of royalty and treachery and gallantry and seduction. I love the architecture of great houses, and the meaning behind golden spoons from over a thousand years ago, and the fascination of birthrights and bloodlines. I love paintings, and balls, and the gorgeous work of exceptionally talented artisans that go into making all the amazing silly hats.

I write historical romances for goshsakes.

And I also think it's time to stick it all where it belongs -- in a museum.

[sleepingdeath-light]

Re: an anonymous hate message I just received

as a forewarning for anyone who might read this, below the cut are some pretty awful statements and foul language directed towards me from this anonymous individual. these accusations are why i’m placing my full response under the cut.

but as a tl;dr — someone says awful and upsetting things, death is rightfully upset.

I’m also assuming that this individual is coming from the ‘toh’ fandom based on their statements — which is incredibly disappointing but oh well.

This is the complete message, which I will be breaking down and responding to point by point — so you can see that I’m not editing it to mince anon’s words.

now let’s get on to the breakdown.

————

INTRODUCTION

I’m sure that I don’t need to tell anyone that this isn’t a good way of introducing your point. Right? If anon is trying to get me on their side or show themselves to be a sympathetic or genuinely concerned person then this is going about it the wrong way entirely. You’re immediately presenting yourself as antagonistic and making yourself not likeable as a speaker.

But don’t worry it gets worse.

————

POINT ONE

They’re not real people, anon, they’re fictional characters. It’s effectively the same as when you take two dolls and make them kiss (as I’m sure most kids did at some point).

I draw the line at rpf or at sexual fiction of characters played by real children/real minors because that’s way too far. For example, smut of the IT (2017?) cast is vile to me in concept and execution.

What you’re talking about is me writing about drawings — lines/pixels with a voice actor — being in sexual situations. Fictional characters can be aged up because they’re, by definition, not real.

And besides you’re definitely in the minority opinion here as the vast majority of requests in my inbox are for hunter. Don’t you think that says something?

————

POINT TWO

Ah yes, non-con. That old beast. Its a dead dove topic and whenever I or another writer in my circle depicts it, it’s done with plenty of explicit warnings about the contents therein.

Again this is fictional content we’re talking about. Dark fiction has always been a thing and will always be a thing.

I’m taking a literature course at uni and we discuss media depicting rape and worse regularly because it’s part of literature. Writing about something doesn’t mean the writer condones that act and you shouldn’t make assumptions of character based on what someone writes.

That’s like critical media analysis 101 — you sound like you’d go after whump writers and call them murder fetishists or something lol. You’re just really not helping your case AT ALL.

Fiction is fiction; repeat until you understand that principle.

————

POINT THREE

Anon has a good point here, actually! Like their phrasing was terrible and accusatory, but if they’d led with this I’d probably be open to discussion. But burying it beneath two accusations and two insults (at minimum) isn’t going to make someone want to actually discuss the error of the system they’re using.

Of course I’m aware that people lie on the internet. I’m not an idiot — we’ve all clicked on the ‘yes I’m 18+’ pop up on dodgy sites before. I’m also aware that most smart minors will lie about their age to begin with because putting anything smaller than ‘18’ in your bio/pinned is basically a bright flashing neon sign shouting that this person is easy prey for a nonce or something along those lines.

Similarly the use of anon is dodgy and the trust system I use with requesters can easily be taken advantage of.

But what you’re incorrect about is that if I have proof of someone telling me that they’re an adult then I will not be at fault for what happens. If a minor lies to get access to an adult space and gets hurt, then that minor is liable for their own hurt — which is unfortunate but inevitable.

I’m not going to force people to give me their government issued I.Ds because I’m not a complete nutter. That would be dangerous for everyone involved and also probably doxxing. Which is, again, a big no-no.

So for as unfortunately dumb as it is, I’m going to be sticking with the honour system for requests for now. If I find a better, safer way then I’ll use that — but as we don’t have that yet, I’ll use what I’ve got available to me.

Thanks for pointing it out though! Like genuinely this is the only good part of this message lol.

————

SEND OFF

You’re already accusing me of being a nonce mate — and over fiction, at that. And to add to it all you didn’t have the gonads to do it off-anon, which is unfortunate but inevitable of this sort of person. And besides you know nothing of my tastes and attractions based on the requests I write.

To be perfectly frank out of all the characters from TOH, I’m only attracted to Belos and Alador. Most of the ‘characters’ that I end up attracted to are played by people much older than me and, also, not cartoons! Like most slashers, the avengers, and hell even Pierce Brosnan in Black Addam lol.

But that’s irrelevant. You shouldn’t come in to random people’s ask boxes accusing them of horrible things and speaking so cruelly. And if you ever do this in the future I’d recommend having the confidence in your statements to do it off anon. Or admit that your opinions are clearly in the minority.

Oh! And as a final note: no this wasn’t ignored and deleted, you got a full response. But you’re right that I don’t care, because you’re spouting complete and utter nonsense.

But oh well, since you want to be deleted so bad, I hope you enjoy your block. Have a wonderful day, anon. I hope you learn to be a better person : )

And to anyone that’s read this far: thank you for your time. I hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day /gen. ^^

[magnoliamyrrh]

Here in Brazil, there was a similar case about sex tourism in poor countries, but the following happened: a state deputy from São Paulo and youtuber called Arthur do Val went to the border between Slovakia and Ukraine to promote himself with what was happening in Ukraine, which later leaked audios of him saying that Ukrainian women who were war refugees "are easy because they are poor", in addition to also using the English term "gold diggers" — in free translation, gold diggers — to prejudicedly insinuate that refugee women would be "interesting" and attracted by money or prestige and caused a huge controversy here in Brazil to the point that the state chamber voted in favor of canceling his mandate as state deputy

tks for the ask, god thats so damn gross; ive had a few other ppl tell me of the case too. im glad the brazilian state and people cared enough abt our women around here to not let him get away without any sort of reprocusion, thank you.

the sex trafficking and exploitation of refugees is another thing that's rarely talked about. this is happening (in the context of western europe) to both middle eastern, african, and more recently ukrainian refugees. tho it happens basically everywhere on earth :/ in america from what i know most sex trafficked refugees are south american. it truly is vile - these women and girls who are already so traumatized and vulnerable and desperate and poor being feteshized and prayed on by the lowest pieces of shit. in western europe bc this craps been legalized, the wokies have set up "organizations" to help ukrainian women "enter sex work" it actually makes me want to take an airplane to germany just to throw hands at them

whenever a war happens anywhere on this planet too, the top porn searches are Always for women and girls from those areas, sick ass pieces of shit hoping to see war crimes or women freshly trafficked;; same as what happens when a rape case involving phonography becomes famous

theres a quote - when a man is at his lowest there will always be a woman to help him back up. when a woman is at her lowest there will always be a man to take advantage of her and exploit her

[lisa-and-shadow]

I have seen this post cross my dash a few times now and I am SO SICK of all of the out of state internet leftists crying about ACAB and buying into the narrative presented by the person who posted these pictures. Ya'll eat propaganda up whenever it fits your narrative. This dimwit's Twitter is full of pro-Trump Fox news posts and outright lies about Helene and ya'll are taking their word on this?? Really??? Realllyyyyy????? Can you do just an ounce of investigation before you spread this crap during a disaster.

So you think the store should give away the groceries? OK. Me too. But who does that? The employees?? Who are also victims of the storm???

Ya'll expect the minimum wage workers to leave their storm damaged, no power homes, put on their Ingles uniform, smile and say "Can I help you?" in a recently flooded, dark store with no power and wait on everybody like business as usual?

These customers had the unmitigated lack of sense to say, "Well I have cash" as though the card reader being down was the problem and not the fact that the store was completely without power, sanitation, had been flooded by about 4 inches of mud, and THERE WERE NO EMPLOYEES.

You think the evil corporation just magically makes the food fly into everyone's waiting hands like the loaves and the fishes?? Were those 3 cops supposed to go in there and personally set up an entire food distribution situation themselves with no experience in how to do that? Or just open the doors and let the whole town turn loose in there? Because I'm sure no one would take advantage. (Certainly not the people who were well off enough to drive to Ingles, cash in hand, expecting to grocery shop like it was a normal afternoon. As opposed to say... I don't know. The folks without a pot to piss in who actually need assistance. But I digress.)

I live in western North Carolina. I am truly blessed to say that I'm about an hour and a half east of where the storm did the worst damage and we were lucky. My cousin's house was crushed by a tree and her daughter had to be rescued from underneath debris by her neighbors. By some miracle she escaped with minor injuries. I am telling you this so you know that I speak as someone with a dog in this fight. I am also a grown adult who has experienced hurricanes of a similar scale to this in my life. Floyd specifically. I know what they are going through personally.

But why should we believe you, Lisa?? Because I know how to look up sources my darling.

The source of the photo is Twitter, which was picked up by a couple of news sites of varying veracity.

The original photographer's Twitter is a cesspool of misinformation and pro-Trump propaganda. Vile.

And by October 3rd this grocery store was an official distribution point for relief supplies and water. Oh wow! Crazy!

Because distributing supplies in a safe and orderly manner in a way that will actually help people requires organization and volunteers. You can't expect this shit to fall from the sky because you yelled ACAB at your computer real loud.

If you want to actually do something useful for my state donate to Second Harvest Food Bank. They're local and they've got boots on the ground.

If you made it this far. Thank you. I am not a fan of policing in this country. I will be the first to openly discuss the issues of institutional racism and brutality in its ranks. But I will remind you that these are small towns with even smaller fire, police, and emergency services. They have all been affected by this too, and they're working on the recovery efforts as well as needing the help themselves. It fucking sucks for everybody. You don't get a pass from the storm because you wear a badge. All the people threatening these small town cops in the notes when they've got storm damaged homes and missing family too? Grow up.

Can't wait for OP to block me for my "bad take". ✌️

[ratlastheseus]

I dont do rant posts like ever but. Idk i cant get it out of my head so im gonna ramble here. I know talking to my grandma about it wont change her mind so I wont bother wasting her time or mine, but if you’re like me and you have deep and personal beef with the american conservative brand of “christianity” then feel free to read on.

I went on a road trip with my grandma this past weekend to visit some family 5 hours away in ar-kansas. It was a really nice time! But at one point when we were pulling out of a gas station there were a couple homeless folks holding signs at the intersection. My grandma makes a point of reading out loud everything they had written on those signs and then says to me: “Makes you wonder how many of these people are Actually homeless. They could all just be pretending, to get your money. You gotta work for your money. Can’t expect handouts.” And I mean FUCK DUDE!!!!! What an absolutely monstrous way to think about your fellow human beings! My blood was litcherally boiling but its taken me until now to actually sort out what I wish I’d said while we were still there. If I’d been in the drivers seat just then, I would have made a point of pulling over and giving those people all the cash I had while looking her dead in the eyes. My grandma is a very sweet and caring woman and I HATE that she’s been so poisoned by the republican media because sometimes the most VILE shit comes out of her mouth with zero warning.

“There’s an atheist and a christian in this car,” I wish I had said, “And if somebody asked us ‘should you help the homeless’ only the ATHEIST would respond ‘yes, always!’”

Homeless people aren’t your fucking enemy, they’re not trying to take advantage of you, they just want to fucking live. Do I wonder how many people are pretending to be beggars? No! I don’t! Because the answer is ZERO! Nobody goes out on the streets in the freezing fucking cold like that unless they have no other options! It’s humiliating, it’s degrading, and 90% of the people who pass by will look at you like you’re trash! And it’s dangerous!

(This doesn’t even tap into the cesspit of trying to find a job in the US right now, and I’m to tired to open that can of worms, but thats a huge issue too.) I’m just. I’m so fucking mad. I’m so tired of the absolute hypocrisy that comes from combining american ultra-conservative capitalism with christian values. I’m tired of christianity in general bc this kind of shit is what it usually turns into in this country. It’s inescapable. It’s draining. It’s vile. I just want people to stay fucking ALIVE, I dont care if some of them are MAYBE faking, I’d rather be taken advantage of 1% of the time than drive away 100% of the time without doing anything to help people who actually do need it. Love your neighbor, yall. It’s cold out there.

[flowerflamestars]

I'm in a very angry-with-the-IC-and-Rhys-in-particular mood, and since I'm just rereading Daylight I was wondering, what is going through Rhysand's mind throughout the events of Daylight? Because it's basically his entire life CRUMBLING around him and I'd love to see the mental gymnastics he does to fit it all into his "I'm the good guy, actually" narrative. Or just his general reaction.

this is a FABULOUS question, thank you!

Daylight! Rhys is, in my opinion, the closest to a canonical (pre-acosf) character representation that I go for. He's so SO fucked up, and sublimating and burying all that trauma has, of course, failed, and it's all manifesting, in all these different directions.

To understand the level on which Rhys is losing his shit, it's important to go back to the very beginning: Rhysand, to Rhysand, is always, always the hero of the story. The down on his luck knight with truth in his heart. The struggling, just man.

He CANNOT seeing beyond himself for even a second. He casts himself in the most important role, as the only person whose personal consequences exist.

His mother, at probable great risk, takes him to Illyria to be trained- the precious, first-born, godly son of Night. To learn to fight- to learn, presumably, her culture- to see what that culture is reduced to, a harshness he will on day have the power to change. Rhys had to be, at some point, a great hope for Not High Fae denizens of the Court.

What does Rhysie learn? Illyria is harsh. Illyria is bad. Backwards and cruel.

He hates his father for...presumably, the crime of being a pretty traditional High Lord? Rhys hates the cruelties! the Court of Nightmares! the broken system!

So what does Rhys do when he has power? he fires everyone. He doesn't like them, he doesn't like whatever they did under his father...so instead of hiring new people, he removes himself entirely from a potential role in changing/mitigating those policies. See also: the Court of Nightmares, cowed occasionally, but not in any way governed by Rhys.

But he's the hero! He's destroyed the oppression! His Court of Just his Bros is made of women and Illyrians!

(Rhys removed the terribleness from his direct experience...because only his experiences matter)

So, Rhys in his head: the struggle, the hero, the man just trying to do it right.

Which brings us to Daylight....and Feyre. I know we can attribute the way the characters stop even remotely being sympathetic between acomaf and...everything else...to poor writing, but I also think there's some (maybe accidental but PERFECT) character work there: in acomaf, pre-acknowledged bond, Feyre is an important possession/ally- she's on the same level as the other members of the Court of Dreams, if the jewel of the collection, a high point in the story Rhys tells himself: HE saved the HERO OF PRYTHIAN

(which...let's not even touch on the fact that the deal he makes in acotar is CREEPY and he can only justify it later. she wasn't someone he wanted to work with in acotar- she was a vulnerable, hot young woman he fully took advantage of)

And then they're mates.

And then, slowly but surely, Feyre's personhood disappears. For two reasons: 1) Feyre is on a pedestal so sky-high it blots out everything. Good, pure, true hero Feyre whose adoration Rhysand needs like air. the happy end of his story, the prize and the salvation, the one who sees him.

and 2) ultimately, to Rhys, Feyre is an extension of him. A symbol: his happiness, his peace, his endless power, what he fought to keep.

She's his whole anchor staying sane, which isn't great, considering...ya know, everything. But the Story is Over. They are Happy.

Except- except- nothing is over. Post fifty straight years of torture, a freefall into war and fuckery, teen marriage and literal death, the consequences for all those things AND THE SHIT RHYS WAS PULLING LONG BEFORE AMARANTHA TURNED HIM INTO A CHEW TOY, are still present.

But now, he has something to protect. His golden future. His puppy Mate.

Because Feyre's safety is the safety of his power and vice versa. Anything he does is justifiable because the loss of Feyre is Not an Option. She is Happy. They Are Happy.

It bleeds into everything- and then it intensifies, because this is the breaking point.

The Az/Lucien thing and Feyre incredibly hurtful blindness? No Rhys isn't going to interfere- Az is so private anyway- if Feyre believes its a romantic bond, Feyre is right, she knows her sister, not that it matters because Elain is totally out of her mind.

Sending Cassian to Illyria? Illyria is a backwards shithole right? They're fierce fighters and that's what Rhys values them for- as the hammer of his power- and nothing else? why would there be anything else? Look at them fighting and hurting each other.

Nesta runs and Cassian is left throwing himself in battles actively trying to die and Rhys? Rhys is totally smug. A problem that hurt Feyre and his brother is GONE.

But it's not gone. Az isn't talking to anyone- and Rhys thinks this probably means Lucien is probably, finally fucking him- but even Feyre understands that Azriel knows where Nesta is. When this is proved (when Elain surfaces and they have the very fun kitchen fight) Rhys isn't happy- but he understands. Azriel has always felt responsible for broken things.

But thats not his job, it's Rhysands job, and Rhys has already made that tough choice for the safety of his own: Nesta has no place here. When she resurfaces inevitably, broke and wanting something, Rhys will stop her before she gets close enough to upset (hurt) Feyre. It's his job.

Cassian goes missing, and Rhysand sets upon what will become his eventual move: Illyria's value is strength. (a martial strength that belongs to RHYS). But they think they can take from him? They can destroy their own best chance? (Rhys recognizes Cassian's value to Illyria even while, you know, ordering him to slaughter Illyrians) They would threaten his power? hurt his family?

Rhys will not allow a world to exist where Feyre can be hurt.

If Illyria can't be controlled, Illyria will be put down, like the rabid creatures they are. (They were always backwards, Rhys thinks. Freeing my mother was the one good thing my father ever did)

But Cassian lives.

Rhys asks Azriel if he's been cursed. Az laughs in his face.

And Cassian is a terrible enemy to have. The strategies the loyalists are using? His, filtered through Rhys. The magical contingencies? Cassian and Az, trying to prevent bloodshed.

Feyre thinks, for a long time, that maybe the rebels have Nesta. What else could compel Cassian to even care? these people keep trying to kill him. they want to kill Rhys. the brothers suffered in the frozen mud at the hands of these monsters, what is Cassian doing?

And then the massacre happens.

And Feyre sick to her stomach, cries when she hears. Rhysand thinks about a little hazel eyed boy who'd never had a bed, a present, who'd been nothing until Rhysand plucked him up- a little boy who'd grown into a dangerous man, who'd just killed every person who ever contributed to his pain. Rhys thinks, knowing he'll have to punish Cassian for this, that it's over.

The camp lords are dead, it has to be over.

(Azriel hears and understands- because he knows damn well Cassian was something before Rhysand, and after despite him. That beneath those repeatedly broken ribs is a heart that was once so big so save him, grown strong enough now to save everyone who was like them: forgotten, abandoned, used.)

It's not over. The mountains are burning. Banners fly on northern wind in a language long dead. They're singing, the spies say, they call him dawn. Loyal-heart-as-dawn.

It's Cassians name. Not that Rhys, who never knew more than a few vile insults in the language of his mother's ancient, proud people, understood it then.

Rhysand, the long-suffering hero of his own story, has been betrayed.

He can risk no more- it's time to end this madness. It's Feyre's idea to use Elain- it's Feyre who is left crying, a betrayal Rhysand will never forget- when Elain, who they've given everything, Elain, perhaps just as broken and wretched as her eldest sister, refuses to help keep Feyre safe.

(Elain refuses to participate in what she sees as genocide, but as we've established, what consequences exist? the ones Rhys feels right in front of his face)

Azriel, Elain, and Lucien run.

Of course, if both Feyre's sisters are capable of betraying her, of course, both of Rhysand's brothers would as well. They are one in the same, aren't they? Marked by destiny, by fate for this hard and terrible work- of course it hurts. Of course- but Rhysand will stop it from hurting Feyre any more.

There's one force in the world that can stand in truth against Illyria. The Darkbringers- their ancestral, ancient conquers.

(Yes, I do think Rhys knows the shitty, shitty history of his court! He just doesn't care! He didn't do it. He's different. He's in Velaris with the common people. He has wings. He's not his father.)

(He is, in fact, far worse)

When he thinks of it, it seems perfect. Illyria will be destroyed- a loss, but a safe one. Keir, will, almost certainly, also be destroyed or at least critically weakened.

Rhysand will stand alone, the man who was willing to do anything for peace. He will rule over an emptied playing field, secure in a world where Feyre is safe.

The Hewn City empties, the armies march- Rhysand holds tight Feyre's hand, says nothing about the fact that nothing, nothing, will stop Keir from killing anyone in front of him when battle starts, and reaches once more for Cassian's mind.

His brother, his friend, his loyal right hand- he begs him to come back. To come home. That they can put down this rebellion and in his love for Cassian everything can go back to how it is meant to be, all of them together.

It does not occur to him to address the hundreds dead. The system he was complicit in and responsible for that ground a culture to dust and ash- what matters is brother against brother should never have turned, and Rhys, in his kindness, will offer Cassian this last chance for honor.

Rhys doesn't want Cassian to die- he wants Cassian by his side- but he will drown the world in blood before he'll lose his crown and hope and Feyre.

And when Cassian dies, falling to the earth in Rhysand's arms, Rhys thinks of penance.

A circle closed.

But of course- Cassian wakes. Death is not done with her right hand anymore than the contract between Lordship and land in immutable. Cassian brought the magic back, brought Illyria back.

Rhys is fighting for something personal- Cassian is fighting for a whole world and future, with everything in himself.

When the new border is drawn, Rhys doesn't despair- sure he's shaking, he's covered in Cassian's blood, his twelve thousand year old walls are smoking and the whole world smells like fucking Nesta Archeron- he's been the victim of curses before.

He won't let it keep him down. He'll be fine. He has Feyre, they're safe. Illyria is going to implode- and maybe, maybe, he'll save some of those that remain when the violence is too much, when they need a real High Lord.

They'll come home. Just like Feyre's sisters will. Rhysand's brothers. They fought for peace and Velaris has it- it is their home.

It's what they fought for, the happy ending, and it's all worth it.

It has to be worth it.

[aleburton]

Her lithe fingers folded around the neck of the plastic bottle, a boastful grin unfurling across her lips. It was short-lived. She failed to maintain her balance and plunged to her knees. “Ow,” she griped, theatrical as ever. Alexandra shifted her position to inspect the damage. There were no cuts, only microscopic pieces of gravel embedded into her skin which she promptly dusted away. She lingered on the curb for a moment longer, fixing her gaze upon the warped reflection in the passenger side door staring back at her. It was then that she realized just how intoxicated she actually was. She blinked, trying to recount the last time she had consumed so much alcohol. Had it been high school? Perhaps her senior prom? The memory was faint, but she remembered being tucked into bed. It was presumably Noah who had done so, likely exhausted of trying to keep up with her infantile antics. She woke the next morning in an unfamiliar place, disoriented, very ill, and without her boyfriend.

There were rumors that he had accidentally fallen asleep in the wrong room with the wrong girl that evening. Noah had adamantly denied it. He was in love with Alex, assured her that he was completely infatuated and that he would never put their relationship at risk. Even people in love make mistakes, especially when there was alcohol involved. She knew it all too well. None of their friends would dare confess even if there were an ounce of truth to it. That situation brought on their tragic downfall. She could not trust him, and she also could not trust herself. After all, she did persuade his best friend into taking her virginity. Once they parted ways following graduation, was it possible that she would continue to engage in more vile behavior behind his back? Would he? Just as quickly as she entered the misty, teenage haze, she made her exit. She nearly fractured her neck with how quickly she turned toward him. Her impeccably groomed brows creased together as she warned him, “Don’t say a word.” He reached for her, gently helping her back to her feet. His remark made her laugh, her neck craning back and face toward the inky sky. “Taking advantage of me? It’s not really taking advantage though if I’m offering, is it now? Drunk. Sober. The invitation is always there.” At least she was an honest drunk. Shameless too. Alex followed several paces behind, tottering on one Louboutin heel whilst thoroughly scanning the pavement for her missing liquor bottle. Just as she lowered herself toward the ground to retrieve it, Zach hauled her up by the waist to drape her body over his shoulder. She groused, watching helplessly as another bottle tumbled from between her breasts and ticked down the sidewalk. “Hey! That was the peach schnapps! You big jerk. I wanted that one.” She hung almost lifelessly down the length of his back, dark chocolate curls swaying to and fro as he carried her to the car. “I’m not talking to you ever again, Zach Winthrop. I worked hard for those, and you don’t even care.”

The moment he heard the glass screen splinter over tile, he felt a wash of relief. He turned to Alex, piquing at the sound indeed like an animal at the zoo, his frustration dissipated. He smiled, steering her out under his arm and through the back door. “What? Are you the only one who gets to have fun?” The heavy wood sucked in a heft of air as it sealed them outside, and all of the drama inside. Two perfect goose-pimple sleeves shot up Alex’s thin arms. His arm on her shoulders hauled her in closer - what with only a soaked veil of silk and vodka-rinsed blood for warmth - and she toppled into him. Zach made a small noise in acknowledgement while absently searching for his car. A sudden thought leaked through him; how normal, how right, this all felt. Taking his drunken, flirtatious vixen home with him, not another soul in the world.

“And have them what? Lurk in every corner of the club to keep an eye on me, drawing attention? I’m good,” he countered, knowing he’d suffer an earful in the morning from Amanda for the stunt. “Anyway. Everything turned out fine, didn’t it?” he joked dryly. Alex went on taunting him, but before he could contest that his brief iPhone sacrifice had cured him of all ailments, she was toppling over and headed for two burst knees before she caught herself. “Fucking hell,” he laughed, half-keeled having prepared to catch her. Her miniature liquor bottles went skating across the rubble. Zach shook his head, thoroughly amused. Her sorry, abandoned shoe lay in a dirty puddle, and the sight tickled him so much he felt tears spring to his eyes. “Denver,” he helped, still laughing, unable to stop.

Then she escaped, and he made no move to stop her; he was enjoying his own private show. Gracelessly, she scavenged for her wayward liquor bottles, collecting them like video game currency. “Yeah, and make sure you don’t miss any. If you run up my minibar tab at the hotel, I’m gonna be in big trouble,” Zach taunted. “Jesus Christ, Ale,” he wheezed, taking her by the elbow to haul her up off the ground. “Get in the fucking car before I get arrested for trying to take advantage of you.” He lead her, one shoe on, one shoe off, halfway there, before her drunken limping became too much. “Actually, fuck this.” He looped an arm around her middle and hoisted her over his shoulder, another miniature bottle escaping. “Nope! Leave it!” he yelled, anticipating her tantrum.

[gryphsdeadbones]

Half-Life and its media are rated M and the following applies:

(cw for: nsfw discussion)

1. Don’t fucking send nsfw shit to minors. What is WRONG with you. If you are an adult you don’t bring that shit up with minors. Don’t fucking go into their inbox and whine about nsfw discourse. WHY are you personally interacting with kids in that way, it’s shady as fuck??? You can discuss that stuff with other adults, don’t involve minors- even if you feel the need to correct them it’s just. Really not a good idea. 

If you really can’t avoid a discussion, keep your distance.

Minors, for your safety, only trust whoever you feel is an okay adult. Even then, don’t hesitate to cut off contact if an adult ever feels very very suspicious and unsafe. You can softblock/hardblock as needed on the internet and it’s understandable and gets the message across. 

2. Don’t fucking send nsfw shit to adults who didn’t ask. Why the fuck are you sending nsfw shit to wayne and co. This is like nsfw etiquette 101, if you DO discuss serious nsfw in a sfw space, you always make sure the others are okay with it and its tagged as such/in the appropriate space. 

The huge problem with the discourse in the first place is that some chucklefuck thought it was funny to send it to creators. 

The crew do crack nsfw jokes but like. They know each other. The twitch chat’s aware of their brand of humor. But some stranger showing up with straight up nsfw jokes/content unprompted? That’s not okay, even if outwardly they seemed fine with it.

It’s pretty much unwanted harassment- like if you were joking around with your close circle of friends at a bar and a total fucking stranger shows up and tells you nsfw jokes. Jokes that they made porn of your oc, unprompted. What the fuck.

3. Don’t fucking harass nsfw artists either, holy fucking shit. If you’re not familiar with nsfw spaces, it is not your place to tell what artists can or cant draw. Any nsfw artist with basic common sense fucking knows to:

- NOT put it in the main tags of a media

- tag warnings when needed

- mark their own account as nsfw

- block and avoid problematic shit

If you think every single nsfw artist is into gross illegal shit you are out of your mind and extremely wrong. Regardless, if you’re not into nsfw content, then it’s not for you. Simple as that- you block/avoid as needed and they will do the same- both sides win!

I’ve witnessed nsfw artists getting death threats- the characters in their art being unrelated adults and consensual. Holy fuck just leave them the goddamn fuck alone. You’d think ‘oh but they’re adults, they can handle it’ hello these guys are real people. Their feelings are more important than dumb internet discourse. If you’re concerned for your safety, the block button is free of charge. Use it.

The real, actual, mutual enemy is the people who make extremely vile abuse fetishization shit- even then, just block and don’t engage AT ALL for your own safety. It’s that easy.

Literally every Half-Life character is an adult and not related to each other (aside from the obvious).

I hate to break it to you, but HLVR:AI has a good chunk of nsfw dialogue and is taking place in an M-rated game. 

It’s legitimately concerning sometimes that there are a lot of minors who like HLVR:AI. All the characters are ADULTS and they say dumb adult shit sometimes.

It’s okay to enjoy it, I’m not saying ‘minors shouldn’t be watching this’. It’s very important to set boundaries. And it’s equally important not to go looking for content you don’t want to see. 

It is your own responsibility to curate and filter your own feed. Ao3, Twitter and Tumblr have their own filtering system: actually use it to your advantage. 

Also a note: people tend to miss dni lists and carrds, so using filters are much more helpful for you and others.

Don’t go crying into anyone’s inboxes and make them do the work for you- unless there’s, for some goddamn reason, explicit nsfw in the main tags. Even then, those are like a small number of people who are easy to block and ignore. Simple as that. Use your brain.

You can reblog this. Except for p*do/inc*st/n*ncon creators, I’d rather you don’t interact.

If you’re going to send anon asks about this, be fucking respectful and mature about it. Anon hate and harassment goes directly into the garbage and permanently blocks ip.

[bohemianrequiem]

The Tablet of Vesuvius Caper

Despite the holiday season being over, and the crowds of eager tourists that entailed having gone home, security was no less tight that night at the Piazza del Campidoglio. Especially at the Piazza’s flagship building, the Capitoline Museums.

“Which, despite it’s name-“Player’s voice remarked quietly into her ear. “-Is actually only a single museum containing multiple different groups of archeological finds, relics, and artwork. Pretty neat, huh?”

Carmen couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of her lips as she swiftly crossed the distance between two adjacent buildings. Safely in the shadows, she replied, “Extremely.” Her voice silent on the warm wind that blew in from the Mediterranean. “But did you know that the Capitoline Museums are also widely regarded as being one of the first museums in the world after it was opened up to the public by the Pope in 1734?”

“Not bad, Carm. You’ve definitely done your research. Now it’s time to hope the research I did was all correct too. I’ve got the passcode generator fired up, so just get to the Museums’ emergency backdoor and I can make a key to get us in.”

Having gone over the layout of the Piazza and the various buildings that called it home again and again in preparation for this caper, Carmen knew that the door Player spoke of was just a short distance ahead of her. Although it was officially an emergency exit only to be used in case of a fire or similar disaster, it’s purpose tonight would be as their perfect entryway into the Museums unseen.

Or at least, it was meant to be. As Carmen approached the door, she noticed that the passcode protected lock already shone a bright green. Meaning someone had unlocked the door and intentionally left it so, most likely to help speed up their get away.

“Player, we’ve got trouble.” She swung the door open and stepped inside.

“You’re telling me. Cameras are already down, and I’m not the one who turned them off. You’ll be going in blind, Red.” His voice wavered as he spoke. His worry for Carmen’s well-being evident from his warning.

“I’ll manage. You just focus on getting those cameras back online.” As she moved through the Museums back hallway, Carmen wracked her brain for who might have been able to infiltrate the building before her.

El topo and Neal were both out: Topo would have just dug his way in, and Neal would have likely opted for using the ventilation system rather than the backdoor. What about Mime Bomb? Or maybe Tigress? They had both used Dr. Bellum’s technology to gain an edge against her in the past.

“Whoever hacked into the Museum’s security definitely knew their stuff. I can barely find any trace of their online infiltration.” Player remarked. Carmen listened intently for a moment before opening another door that led further into the interior. Now she was passing by walls of centuries old artwork, heading towards the section possessing what both her and VILE were after.

“Are you saying you won’t be able to reactivate it to give us an advantage?” She peered around a corner before proceeding to the archeological relic gallery.

“Never said that Red.” Player’s smirk was practically audible, as a few keystrokes later he snapped his fingers. “Bingo! I’ve reactivated the cameras in the wing you’re headed. And…. oh no.”

Carmen stiffened as she heard the crackle of professional issued radios reverberate off the walls around her. As stealthily as possible, she slipped open the door leading to the archeology wing and closed it shut behind her. “I could hear security in the artwork gallery. Who do you see? Tigress? Le Chevre? The Mime?”

“None of them. It’s somebody I’ve never seen before.” A few moments of silence. “He has it! Carmen, he has the Tablet of Vesuvius!” That’s all Carmen needed to hear. With a sudden burst of speed that threw all caution of being caught to the wind, she rushed into the main viewing room just in time to watch as a man in a bright blue coat gently tuck the treasured tablet away in a rough-spun drawstring bag.

Having heard the sudden commotion, the man looked over his shoulder and shot her a curious half-smile. “Oh, you’re new.” He had neat sideburns stretching down to his bottom jaw, an impeccable black button up, and a contrasting red tie. He wasn’t much taller than Carmen herself but carried about him an air of relaxed confidence. Like he’d done this same thing a hundred times.

“I could say the same for you. Aren’t you a little old to be a new graduate of VILE’s? Or are they having to start calling in the benchwarmers just to keep up with me?” She took a few strides forward, urging the man to keep talking and keep his mind off trying to find a way past her.

“Lady, I’ve honestly got no idea what you’re on about.” He tucked the tablet bag close to his chest, as if he were carrying a small child, and took a few steps backwards from the recently pilfered display case. “What I meant was that you must be a new friend of Pops’. It really warms my heart to see him playing so well with others. A fellow detective trying to track me down, am I right?”

Now it was Carmen’s turn to stare incredulously at the man across from her. “Pops? Who on Earth are you talking about?” He was well within range of her grappling gun. If she could just get a clear shot at the bag, then the tablet would be safely in her hands.

The stranger looked her up and down. “Y’know now that you mention it, you do have significantly better fashion sense than most detectives and private eyes I’ve encountered.” His grip on the sack tightened. “Which can only mean that you’re a rival thief here to steal the same treasure as me.”

Carmen smirked and shrugged her shoulders. “Guilty as charged. Now put the relic back where you got it from before I have to take it from you.”

The male thief quirked an eyebrow. “A thief who steals precious treasures just to return them. What a waste! I, on the other hand, have a much better idea of what to use the tablet for.” Carmen only had a moment’s time to react as he raised his hand in the air. Reflecting off the moonlight streaming in through the windows, her eyes caught a small spherical object between his fingers just as he slammed it down to the floor.

In an instant, the area where the thief had been was rapidly being enveloped by a layer of thick white smoke. “Player!” Carmen called into her earpiece, rushing into the smoke to find any trace of her quarry.

“I’ve got eyes on him. He went out a door at the back of the room leading off the main showroom.” Despite the heavy smoke hampering her vision, her expertly trained eyes cut through it and homed in on the door the thief had absconded through. Without a moment to lose, Carmen rushed towards the door and nearly stampeded over the man on the other side.

Before she could make any kind of comment about having caught up with him so easily, Carmen saw why the man had stopped in his tracks so early on in their chase. Standing halfway through the narrow hallway was a figure dressed up in lime green and black punk rock attire.

“Paperstar.”

“Carmen Sandiego.” Her piercing gaze shifted to the blue coated man beside her. “And associate. I’ll say this once. Hand over the relic and I’ll let you both leave this place. Try to run away and…” She produced a sheet of brightly colored construction paper from a holster on her thigh and deftly folded it into a dangerously accurate looking replica of a shuriken.

The male thief scoffed, pushing his way past Carmen and closer towards the VILE operative. “Or what? You’ll pelt us with your papier-mâché?”

Paperstar frowned. “I’ll do much more than that to you, monkey face.” She reared her hand back and threw the paper shuriken with all her weight behind it.

“Monkey face?! Why do people keep saying-“

“Move!” Carmen tackled him to the ground just as the folded weapon sliced through the space they had previously been occupying. It lodged itself deep into the mahogany door behind them, earning a nervous squeak from the blue sporting thief.

“Crap! Nice save, Red.” He wiggled his way out from underneath Carmen and reached deep within the folds of his blue jacket to produce a small pistol. Just barely had the sound of crinkling paper reached his ears did he notice that Paperstar had now resupplied herself with half a dozen paper shurikens.

“Stop it! Both of you!” While the male thief was still down on one knee, Carmen had already thrown herself back up onto her feet and was yelling in a hushed tone. “If you two go to shooting and throwing things at each other, the guards will be on us in seconds. Then nobody gets the tablet.”

The other two thieves seemed to consider this for a moment. “That tablet belongs to VILE, Carmen. Make this easy on yourself for once and have your henchman give it up.”

“Henchman? I’m nobody’s hired goon, little Miss ‘Papercut’.”

Before further aggravations and taunts could be hurled, Carmen spoke; “The tablet *belongs* in a museum. Not to you, not to VILE, and especially not to this guy.” She glowered down at the thief, eyes shifting to the tablet hidden away inside the drawstring bag in his other hand. “What does VILE even want with such a random piece of Roman history?”

Paperstar shifted uncomfortably on her feet. Perhaps unused to going so long without folding something with her idle hands. “Professor Gunnar simply tells me what to steal and where. I make a point of not asking too many questions, unlike a certain little Black Sheep.”

Now it was the blue coated thief’s turn to interject on Carmen’s behalf. “Maybe I could be of some help in shedding light as to why any of us are interested in this little beauty.” He stood up, pocketed his weapon, and dusted off his jacket’s shoulder pad.

“The Vesuvius Tablet, one of the most famous relics recovered from the site of the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. Famous, in fact, for the depiction of Mount Vesuvius on it’s front and the seemingly indecipherable text on the back. It’s neither Roman nor Greek, not even early Persian or Aramaic.”

“So, it’s in a language nobody’s ever discovered.” Carmen had read up on the history of the tablet. From it’s recovery in 1750, to it’s public release to the Capitoline Museums’ archeological gallery just last year. Despite those countless hours of research, she still couldn’t understand why VILE sought to pillage the item.

“I never said that, Ms. Sandiego.” He smirked, a knowing thing that did little to make her thing the tablet was any better off with the male thief than VILE. “According to some confidential reports from the first excavation team sent by the king of Naples, the Tablet of Vesuvius initially read something like a map. However, the further the tablet was taken away from it’s resting place in Pompeii, the more illegible the words on it became.”

Paperstar chimed in, a giggle playing on her lips. “You don’t seem to know when to shut your mouth, do you, old man? I can help with that.” She shifted a foot backwards, preparing herself for the coming encounter.

“So I’ve been told. I’ll try to keep this short and sweet then.” He lightly jabbed at Carmen with his elbow. “How about you go high and I go low, Red?” He whispered.

“What? But just a minute ago you were the one throwing smoke bombs and running away from me.”

“Yeah, well, seeing as you’re not the one trying to merc me at the moment, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to suggest a team-up. After all, I get the sense you and this girl really don’t care for each other.” The stranger did have a point. After all, the absolute worst Carmen would do is leave him tied up for the proper authorities to find. Paperstar on the other hand….

“You’ve got me there. Let’s move!” Shurikens as deadly as steel sliced through the air as the pair of thieves pressed an advance towards their neon green assailant. With a high jump, Carmen pushed herself off the side of the wall and aimed a kick towards Paperstar’s head.

She dodged but stayed distracted long enough for the blue coated thief to get in close and swipe her legs out from underneath her. “No!” The paper wielder fell flat on her back, with Carmen’s boot soon digging into her gut.

“Too slow, Papercut. Better luck next time?” She quipped. Before Paperstar could spit out the vitriol that was surely brewing between her lips, the communicator on her arm flashed bright green.

“Paperstar,” The voice of Professor Gunnar emanated from it. “Local authorities are en-route to the Museums. It appears a detachment of Interpol is already present on the grounds. This is an Alpha zero-one situation. Vacate the region and return to the isle immediately.”

“Interpol.” The male thief murmured. “Just what I needed.”

“Devineaux.”

“Zenigata.”

The two looked up at each other. “Wait, you have someone from Interpol chasing you?” Carmen probed.

“For the better part of my entire career, yeah. You?”

“Something like that. He’s more of a minor annoyance, but-“

Paperstar’s eye roll was nearly audible. “Wow, great, you two are such besties. Now let me up so I can-“

“Ah, ah, ah. What’s the magic word?” The thief dug into his pocket and retrieved a bundle of cylinders consisting of interlacing bamboo strips. He swiftly set out about attaching them to Paperstar’s fingers, much to her protest. “There, I’d like to see you try and fold paper with your fingers all stuck together.”

“What - CHINESE FINGER TRAPS?!” She raged, only succeeding in making them tighter the more she pulled. “LITERALLY WHY DO YOU HAVE THESE?”

“Oldest trick in the book, kid. Well, the book I just made up in my head, but you get the idea.” He pointed down the hallway. “There’s a stairwell that leads to the roof down this way, Red. Let’s motor and leave our little paper tiger for the cops.”

“Let’s.” Carmen agreed with a smile. They made their down the hallway just as Paperstar finally moved herself into a sitting position against the wall.

“I will find you, Black Sheep! VILE will find you! And when we do, there won’t be anything left for-“

“Jeez, maybe I should have brought one for her mouth too.” The thief opened the door. “Ladies first.”

“You think?” As she slipped by, Carmen carefully slipped the weighty bag from the blue thief’s hand. As he turned around to jeer one last time, he didn’t even seem to notice.

“Toodles, Papercut. See you around!” With the two of them safely within the stairwell, he slammed the door shut. Only then, when Carmen was halfway up the stairs, did he notice he was missing something. “Hey! No fair, I thought we had something going there for a minute!”

“Sorry, but I don’t exactly play well with other thieves.” With the door to the roof now in reach, she slowed and called back behind her. “Speaking of, they don’t usually go this long without at least telling me their name. What’s you?”

The blue jacket wearing thief appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her, something like anticipation gleaming in his eyes. “My name, Ms. Sandiego? My name is Lupin the Third, grandson of the original gentleman thief, Arsene Lupin. And when I set my eyes on a treasure, I never fail in stealing it.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Lupin, but I think you’ll just have to let this one go.” Carmen placed a hand on the doorknob.

“Real quick, Red. Why do you think these people, the ones you call VILE, are after that tablet? And what’s stopping them from stealing it again later after you’ve left?” He took a few steps up the stairs. “Like I said before, that tablet isn’t just a pretty picture of Mount Vesuvius, it’s intended use is as a map leading to something. Only way to ensure VILE won’t want to steal it again is to steal whatever it leads to, right?”

Carmen wavered. If the tablet really was a map and it lead to some kind of…treasure, then VILE would stop at nothing to get their claws on it. “Okay, Lupin. So what exactly are you suggesting I do with it?”

“Well, seeing as I’m the only one privy as to how the map needs to be decoded, I’d say you can hold onto it for me. Don’t think of it so much as stealing, more like borrowing.” He chuckled. “How about another team-up? You hold onto the tablet, I can show you how to decode the map, and we take whatever VILE would have any interest in stealing. Sound like a plan?”

Player’s voice buzzed in her ear. “Carmen, Interpol forces and local police are surrounding the Museums. Zack and Ivy have the car running, but it might not matter if you hang around too long. How do you wanna play this?”

She debated for only a moment. The man was letting her keep the tablet, so in any case she’d still be coming out on top. He may have been a thief, but he at least seemed earnest about wanting to work together to outset VILE from getting their hands on the relic.

“Okay, fine. My people will talk to your’s and we’ll get a meeting place set up. There, we can decode the map and find whatever it leads to.”

“Music to my ears, Red.” He joined her nearly at the door. “Now, how‘s about we make our escape?” Making sure that the tablet was secure in her hands, Carmen opened the door into the warm Mediterranean night.

Bright spotlights illuminated the entirety of the Museums’ rooftop. From squarely in the center, a man in a dull burgundy trench-coat faced the opening door.

“LUPIN!” He yelled. “I knew you’d be here. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back to Italy after last year.”

“Pops! So good to see you again after my, shall we say, extended hiatus?”

Carmen quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Long story, I met Leonardo Da Vinci. I’ll tell you next time. You get out of here, I’ll keep the Old Man and Interpol busy.” He winked. “I’ll see when I see you.” And with that, Lupin strutted out to meet Inspector Zenigata as Carmen excused herself to the shadows.

True to his word, the Italian police force seemed much more preoccupied with keeping their sights on Lupin than Carmen herself and she was able to beat a hasty getaway to Zach and Ivy’s waiting vehicle.

“Carm,” Player started once they were safely on the road. “Do you really think that Lupin guy’s legit? How do know anything he’s saying about a treasure map on the Tablet of Vesuvius is true?”

“I’m not sure. He seems earnest enough, but…” Carmen stared at the ancient relic in her hands, turning it over. “Maybe he’s on to something. See if you can turn up anything about those excavation reports he mentioned, the ones from the 18th century.” She checked her watch. “In the morning. You’ve got school tomorrow, right? I can’t have my white hat getting detention any time soon.”

Player grumbled. “Pfft, hackers don’t have bedtimes. While I’m at it, I’ll see what I can find out about this Lupin III guy. He sure seemed to know his stuff.” He shifted on the other end of the call. “Goodnight, Carmen. You did good tonight.”

“You too, Player. Sleep well.” Carmen ended the communication and leaned forward between the two front seats. “Guys, take us back to the hotel. I think it’s time we all got some shut-eye.”

“You got it, Carm. Ivy, get my ‘Post-caper tunes to rock out to’ playlist started. I’m going to merge.”

~~~~

“So, Lupin, you really think she’s the real deal?” Jigen hung a hand outside of the Fiat 500’s passenger window, gently shaking off the ash from the still burning end. He returned it to his lips and took a long drag. “She better be, seeing as you gave up the relic just to earn her trust.”

Beside him, Lupin thoughtfully scrolled through a number of news articles on his cellphone. “‘La femme rouge’, the red woman. She breaks, she enters, and apparently, she steals before others can. She’s done some impressive work.” He laid down his phone, reaching into the backseat to procure a book recently pilfered from a private collection. “I believe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship, or at least a mutually beneficial one.”

“And how about Pops? Was he happy to see you again?”

“As a clam. I gave him the old runaround, then borrowed a uniform from an extremely unfortunate Interpol agent at the scene and slipped away. Poor soul, was not a good day to wear the underwear with the hearts on them.” The two shared a chuckle. Jigen snuffed out his flame, just in time to help Lupin light one of his own.

“Now, what’s this about a treasure you were telling Red all about? You know I’m always down to get our hands on something shiny, but I’d at least like to know what kind of scheme you're cookin' up” Jigen pulled his lighter away from Lupin’s cigarette, giving him a few moments to take a couple starting puffs.

“Old pal, have I got a story for you.” He propped the book up on the steering wheel and turned a number of pages in. “And this one’s called ‘The legend of the Tomb of Hercules.’”

[wellhellotragic]

These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal  3/4

Summary: It’s not her fault. She’s still new and doesn’t know. He’s not flawless. Not anymore. He’s got scars, ones she’s seen first hand. Ones she helped tend to. His body is covered in them. There’s a thin red line where he took a bottle to the face during his early beat cop days. There’s another angry red mark on his torso from where he was stabbed with a knife in his ribs. The one where he had his hand slammed in a locker as a teenager has long since faded, only the barest hint remaining, only visible in just the right lighting.

There’s two oval scars now too. One in his stomach and one on his chest. Those are from the worst day of her life.But none of those scars compare to the ones he carries on the inside. The self-inflicted cuts he makes to his soul never quite healing over. He blames himself.  It’s not his fault.

There’s a scar on her soul now too. One he left. A piece of her heart forever missing.

Rating: Mature (mostly for language)

A/N: Guy, I suck so hard core. I don't even know how I let so much time lapse between chapter 2 and now, and then to really top off my suck-o-meter, I realized that there's going to have to be a chapter 4 because I can't fix what I've done so easily. Not realistically at least. I promise, and happy ending is coming though, and it won't take me another 8 months to get it up. I hope to have it up and finished by the weekend.

The AO3 version

It’s been a hell of a night. She’s not sure where exactly it falls on her list of worst days ever, but it’s in her top five. It has to be. It’s not the worst, that honor is saved for the night she almost lost Killian, but it’s still up there. She’s spent hours now going through all of the details over and over again with Graham and Lance, her story never changing. Getting poked and prodded by EMTs, despite telling everyone that she’s fine.

She’s not, but they can’t stitch up her insides.

David, her partner, on the other hand has a bullet hole in his leg. Better than his head though.

She’s not even sure if she can fully reconcile everything that happened. She and David were investigating the death of a low profile importer, a nobody, interviewing some dock workers that had found the body. Some gruff looking men who easily blended in with the usual fishmongers and cargo sorters.

But they weren’t. She realized it just a second too late, right before a bag was pulled over her head. She fought like hell, but she was at a disadvantage. From what she heard, David had put up a fight as well, but in the end, it was useless, and she lost consciousness with a sharp blow to the head.

She woke up strapped down to a chair with David the same a few feet beside her. She shouldn’t have been surprised, Jefferson had always given her a bad feeling, but she never actually thought he’d go dirty. She certainly never expected to be facing the wrong side of his department issued sidearm.

Even now, everything is still a blur. Graham assured her it’s the shock, that it’ll fade once the adrenaline wears off; that everything will clear up after a good night's rest. She’s not sure about that though. It’s four in the morning now and the adrenaline seems to be hanging on for dear life still and she knows she's not going to rest any time soon. Humbert offered to drive her home but she declined, choosing to wait for August to finish wrapping up his report.

She’s not sure what time it is when they finally arrive at her apartment. The battery in her cell phone died ages ago. Neither of them even make a move for the fridge, choosing to bypass the beer she keeps stocked for the hard nights. Instead, the two of them move in silence to her room. She plugs in her cell before crawling in bed next to him, like when they were kids in Ingrid’s foster house. She’s not sure who’s comforting who at this point, but she knows that she just needs to be with family.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t, but she knows she needs to or it’ll eat her alive. She’s tried that once already and it ended up with her almost having a complete nervous breakdown and a three week leave of absence with daily Archie sessions.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

It’s true. So much has happened in the last twelve hours, there’s no one easy to pinpoint place to begin. So August goes first. He fills in the blanks that he can, so that she might be able to piece together the rest. He tells her about Killian sending him undercover, about Jefferson and missing drugs and money. How Jefferson was helping to conceal evidence that would link Walsh and the Nikko empire to a wide distribution of pixie dust.

Some of it is just speculation, that Jefferson must have figured out they were closing in on him and that’s why he went for Emma, and David was probably just collateral damage. How he most likely picked Emma because he knew how much she meant to him , and while he didn’t say Killian’s name specifically, the implication hung over her like a heavy cloud.

“Before you got there, he told Killian to choose. Between me and David I mean. To pick which one of us would live and which one would die. And then he just started laughing and screaming in this crazed voice that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.”

It was the single most terrifying thing she’d ever heard. The mania that accompanied it. She already knew that it was going to haunt her for months to come, if not longer.

It’s a real Gracie’s choice. Gracie’s choice Killian. GRACIE’s CHOICE!!!

She felt August shift next to her.

“Gracie was his daughter. She died while he was undercover with a Southie Gang. Killian was undercover with Cruella at the time. It was a freak accident, a gas leak and the house went up in flames, but he was convinced that she was killed by one of the De Vil boys. He told me once that he knew Killian had given him up as a snitch to prove his worth. The De Vil’s had nothing to do with the Southie boys, but he’d twisted it up in his mind. I never thought he’d do anything about it though. It was just crazy drunk venting one night.”

She knows August. Knows that he’s blaming himself for what happened tonight, but she ignores it. Nothing she says will stop him from tormenting himself, and she’s not done.

“I told him to choose David. He has this whole perfect life, you know. An adoring wife and a new baby, all of these people that would miss him if he were gone. I told Killian to save David, and I-” She hates how small she feels when she cries, but she can’t hold back the tears. “He gave me this look. He’s been cold, but this was something different. There was just so much anger in his eyes.”

And that’s when she breaks. Knowing that hated her was one thing, but watching him train his gun on her. Seeing the pure darkness in his eyes. She doesn’t know how to voice it to August, but she knows that if August hadn’t arrived when he did, she knows he would have done as she asked. That he wouldn’t have had to think twice about it. And it’s that knowledge that sliced open the last piece of her heart that had been hanging on by a thread, even after all that time.

August holds her through the tears, until she finally exhausts herself enough to sleep. And so she drifts off, completely unaware of the new voicemail alert waiting for her.

________________________________

The February air is cooler on the water and he kicks himself for not bringing a heavier jacket. It’s been ages since he’s been out on this boat, and time has helped him to forget everything except for the things he wishes he could. Liam always used to tease him, so much so that Killian would reject any offers of warmth from his brother just to prove a point. He wasn’t some silly kid that needed to be minded anymore. He was capable of doing everything on his own, except for bringing an extra coat. He forgot everytime, and today was no exception.

Luckily for Killian, the spare that Liam kept on the boat just for him is still in its place, folded neatly in a small storage locker below deck. It hits him in the gut a little, that Liam could be so right about some things and incredibly wrong about others.

It’s eating Killian alive, not talking to his brother. Not being able to express himself because despite everything Emma has done for him, Liam still doesn’t approve of her. Liam often still thinks of him as the teenage boy, awkward and desperate for approval from anyone that will give it to him, even if it means getting taken advantage of.

He’s not that kid anymore though. He isn’t letting his crush steal his essays and letting her claim this as her own. He isn’t using all of his hard earned money to buy her jewelry that she’s just going to pawn for cash later. He isn’t following after Emma like a lost puppy dog.

He’s in love with her, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she feels the same way. But at this rate, he’s never going to get Liam’s blessing, the only approval he needs anymore.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this now. He really shouldn’t. Not when he and Liam are sitting in a rented dilapidated loft across from an abandoned fabric warehouse waiting for the Canal Street Cutter to emerge. There had been a lot of chatter that morning about where he might be hiding and Liam assembled teams throughout South Boston hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Emma and August were stationed about eight blocks over. Lance and Arthur were on the edge of South Boston and Waterfront. Other teams were scattered, but too far away to get to if they needed assistance.

Killian had tried to tell Liam that it was a bad idea to spread everyone so thin, but the elder Jones brother had been instant and headstrong as ever. It would have been a career making arrest, and Liam, ever aspiring to be more just wouldn’t let that chance pass him by.

“I just think that you have other obligations that require your attention right now.”

“If this is the bros before hoes speech you can just save it.”

“Killian,” The exasperation evident in his brother's tone, “you know I detest such vile language. It's crude and you are better than that little brother.”

“What obligations?” He has to quash his desire to correct his brother’s description of him.

“I just think that you are meant for so much more in this life and I worry that you gave up so much when you left the narcotics division to follow her into homicide. You were a rising star there and now you’re having to cut your teeth all over again.”

“It’s not as if I’m starting all over. For God’s sake Liam, I just made Lieutenant. But there’s more to life than a job.”

His brother takes his gaze away from the binoculars to turn to Killian.

“Look at father and all of his vices. It strayed him from the path. But you, Killian, you persevered and now everything you've wanted is in your grasp.”

“This isn't the same thing and you know it. Emma isn't some pathetic man’s addiction. Liam, I'm in love with her.”

“Killian,” Liam pauses, taking a deep breath. “She's a distraction. Think of all that you’ve accomplished in the year that you were undercover. You brought down an entire crime syndicate. You did that without her taking your attention away.”

“I didn't bring the De Vil family down because ‘we’ were apart. I did it because we were ‘apart’ and I knew the only way I'd be able to see her again without putting her in harm's way would be to find the evidence and make the arrest.”

“Fine, if you need another reason, have you thought about working directly with her, or even over her in a supervisory position? Have you considered how your personal relationship with a subordinate could affect your judgment?”

“It’s not-”

Liams sees movement in the distance, cutting off Killian’s rebuttal, but his view is obscured so he motions for Killian to follow him, to leave the safety of their little room. They stay silent as they walk downstairs and head out a propped-open door leading to an alleyway. They had to wind through hallways to get from the loft outside and now they’re further away from the warehouse with no cover.

Killian even tries pointing out how visible they are, but Liam shuts him down, determined to close the case. He’s halfway sure that Liam’s trying to prove a point about how Killian can’t be successful and be in a relationship with Emma. He’s seen it before, the way professional jealousy destroys couples. But Emma’s not like that. She wouldn’t see his success as her failure.

They try to skirt the perimeter and he knows he should keep his mouth shut, this just isn’t the time, but he’s just so frustrated that he can’t keep holding it in.

“Please don’t make me choose between you.” It’s an angry whisper, more to himself than anything, and even though he did his best to keep his volume low it’s still enough that Liam’s heard and turns back to him, missing sight of the empty beer bottle at his feet.

The glass battering against the gravel echoes through the night as they both stay silent, waiting to see if they’ve been heard. The air is still around them, and Killian thinks they just might have lucked out.

And then he hears the gunshots ring out.

Liam is on the ground before Killian has time to register what’s happened. He runs to Liam, but gets knocked to the ground before he can get to him. His body hurts and he can see blood covering his hand from where he just touched his abdomen. He’s always heard people say that the shock blocks out the pain, but they must all be liars, because the longer he lays there, the more the pain intensifies.

It takes everything he has to pull himself behind a dumpster, half crawling, half slithering like a snake.

The shock eventually did kick in though, because even to this day he has no memory of radioing in for help. Just the vague memories of Emma leaning over him. The look in her eyes as she tried her best to hold back tears.

The same tears he fought back the night he left Boston, like the coward he was. But Archie was right. He needed to get his head on straight, to distance and center himself. He had to leave, for her.

He’s still wrestling with the guilt. He talked about it with Archie, how she begged him to kill her and save David. And that he actually considered it for about two full seconds. Not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t want her feeling the way he did. The burden of knowing that someone else was dead, and knowing that no matter how good you are, how hard you try, that you’ll never live up to them. He didn’t want her hating herself the way he did. Didn’t want her to destroy herself like he had.

But then something snapped inside of him and rage bubbled up. The audacity of her to beg him to kill her. For her to try and force that decision on him, with no regard to him or his feelings.

It was at that moment that he finally realized what he’d been doing to her ever since Liam had passed away. He finally understood the choice she’d been forced to make that night. And he knew - he knew that despite it all - he could never live with himself if he’d chosen anyone but her. That he couldn’t let her go just like she didn’t with him.

The only thing that saved him was Boothe. In the moments that passed after August arrived, while the two of them tried to wrestle the gun away from Jefferson, he felt the weight of Liam’s death wash over him. And then he heard a shot ring out and there was nothing but panic. Panic and guilt.

It felt as though ages had passed as he searched for Emma in the smoke filled room. The SWAT team had moved in at some point, but he’d been too focused on fighting off Jefferson to notice. He pushed through the sting in his eyes and the tightness of his chest as he looked for her, but all he saw through the haze were armored cops everywhere.

It wasn’t until he was forcibly escorted outside the building that he saw her, saw that she was safe, and then his stomach turned. He ran around a corner away from all of the prying eyes, and for the first time in his career, he gave in and let the night overcome him.

It’s been nearly a year since that night and he’s been running ever since. Some days are better than others. The anger is mostly behind him, but some nights he still wakes up in a sweat clutching his bed sheets, ready to fight. But there’s never anyone around to take a swing at, because he’s all alone. He’s pushed away anyone that ever mattered and isolated himself on that damn boat.

He thinks of Emma, wonders if she’s moved on or not. He’s too cowardly to call her, partly because he has no idea what he will say if she answers, but mostly because he’s terrified that she won’t answer. So he broods. He takes to the local bars as he sails the coastline and drinks a little too much before stumbling back to Liam’s boat alone. It’s a wonder nobody’s robbed him yet for what a careless sot he’s been.

Tonight is one of those nights. He’s made his way down to Florida and back, only a few hours away from Boston, and his demons are screaming again. He’s hoping against all hope that the rum in the tumbler across from him will help quiet them. Just holding the small glass in his fingertips helps a bit. A placebo of sorts. He doesn’t want to be this man anymore though. This pathetic lonely human. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Archie said that him realizing it was a good first step but he’s not sure if he agrees. He’s called Archie a lot over the last year. Somehow doing therapy over the phone as the boat sways back and forth under his feet has helped to ease his hesitancy. There’s something about knowing that he can hang up at any time if he wants, and that no one knows. No one will judge him.

They don’t talk about Emma, not in present tense at least. They’ve had conversations about the way he’s treated her in the past, about his complicated feelings for her, the way it’s all shaped him, but they never talk about her now. He’s not sure if it’s because Archie doesn’t know if he’s ready for that, or if Archie knows something that he’s absolutely not ready for.

Archie is here tonight though, the rum is.

He’s still twirling the amber in his hand as he hears the familiar scraping of a nearby barstool against a wooden floor. There’s a scent that follows, a floral perfume that doesn’t match with the musk of the dive bar. He doesn’t look at her directly, doesn’t need to when he can see her from the mirror behind the bar. Her top is low, flashing more skin that it’s covering. She’s closer than he thought.

“Is that for me?” She’s bold.

He’s reminded of those early days on the force, when he wouldn’t even have to talk to a woman. When he could just flash her a smile and she’d be on his arm heading out the door to her place. He’s not that guy though, he’s salty and cynical, and the look he flashes her is closer to a smirk.

“Excuse me?” “Well, you’ve been toying with it for almost twenty minutes. I just thought maybe you were waiting for me to walk into your life.”

Was he this bad at picking up women?

“Look, I’m not trying to be rude, but I’m not in the mood for woman.” “So you’re gay?”

It’s a good thing he hasn’t started drinking yet because he damn well might have chocked otherwise. He doesn’t get a chance to respond though. The bubbly blonde that served him his rum has returned with a spray bottle in hand. “Mary of Mothers. Didn’t I already have you escorted out of here tonight, Teresa?”

“Bite me, Tinkerbelle.”

The girl behind the bar might be all of five foot tall but there’s a beast inside her that towers over any man in that bar and before he knows what’s happening the bartender is drowning the girl in what smells like stainless steel cleaner and the words coming out of her mouth would make any Navy man blush.

The girl ends up running away and Killian isn’t sure what to make of any of it. He’s broken up bar fights before, but he’s never seen anything quite like that.

“Sorry about that. I know this little bar might not seem like much, but it’s all I’ve got and I’ll be damned if I let the likes of her selling her body in here.” “Oh, she wasn’t-” “Trust me, where you had agreed upfront or not, you would have been light whatever cash you have left in that wallet before the night was up. And I’ll bet you dollars to pennies you would have had a lovely little itch or two down there.” She nods her head towards his crotch before switching the subject like she hadn’t just implied the poor woman from before was an STD ridden whore. “So, I haven’t seen you here before. Where you from?”

He’s not sure how she’s disarmed him so quickly, but he finds himself telling her all about himself over the next hour. Business has slowed down and her other barmate seems to be more than capable of handling the few strays still walking in.

She makes him laugh too with her feisty spirit. It’s been far too long since he’s felt at ease like this. They talk and talk. Not about much in particular, just random conversation. She bought the bar about six years ago, and tells him about how it’s let her build the family she always wanted and never really got. She’s carved out her own little place in the world and he envies her that. The way she can just lay her whole life bare to a complete stranger while he can’t even talk to the people that know him best.

The night rolls on and it’s time to close up. He half expects that she’s going to invite him upstairs, to the little apartment she mentioned earlier, but she surprises him. She’s done that a few times tonight, but this one hits him in the gut. “So, what’s her name?”

This time he actually does chock on the water she’s poured for him.” “I’m sorry, what?”

“Killian, in the last few hours, you’ve told me your entire life story, everything from your shitty father to your arrogant brother, your job, your leave of absence, but you haven’t mentioned a girl one single time. You’re holding back, which means there’s something to hold back.”

“You don’t know that. I could be gay.” “Um, ya, I saw you check out Teresa’s rack earlier, definitely not gay. So what’s the deal.” He doesn’t want to talk about it, but he doesn’t want to be rude either. So he gives her as little as possible, but she sees through him. In fact, she actually asks him what the hell he’s waiting for as she pushes him out the door.

He doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for to be honest. He’s wanted to go back to Boston, but there’s just so many threads he left unravelled when he left.

[hello-im-not-a-possum]

16. Play.

Noticing the power shift created by Joey’s new form and role in his story, the Ink demon, the Prophet, and the now much more lucid searchers are interested in playing a few games with their old pals Henry and Joey. (Or not very interested, in the prophet and searchers’ cases) (Set in the AU where by yeeting Joey into the ink machine before going through the portal-door in the kitchen, Henry is accompanied by a chatty, useless, and overall insufferable little imp.)

The novelty of Joey accompanying him as a friendly, (Henry used that term loosely considering what he knew now.) tiny, cartoon demon wore off the second the story actually kicked into play. For starters, the former animator knew that whether either of them liked it or not, Joey was going to be clinging to him whenever he felt like it and following him like a lost puppy.

At the moment, the imp was running ahead of the animator, tapping his feet impatiently as he ‘waited’ for the old man to catch up before scurrying off again and occasionally tripping, but Henry knew that by the time the Ink Demon came into play, the little devil would use him as a meat shield.

 Speaking of the two devils, Henry approached the freshly boarded up ink machine room which Joey was already peering into with an uneasy expression on his pale face. The animator also peered into the room, but instead of being greeted by the Ink Demon popping out of the hole and starting the chase, he watched the Ink demon pace about the small room with an expression he’d never seen on it before: a grimace.

In addition to the demon’s seemingly much more expressive face, he seemed to have a different approach to his role as a villain now that he had no script from Joey to follow; a villain who was much more dangerous than a smart animal.

“SAMMY! JACK! JOHNNY!”

The Ink Demon shouted and called up three figures of ink.

“Alright, now listen up you three good-for-nothing, sewer-water-brained Lackeys, the creators will be here ANY second now, and if I find out YOU STUPID INK BLOTS let them get away, I’m gonna wring your necks out like wet towels! Do I make myself clear?!”

“Yes, your vileness.” The swollen searcher with a bowler hat replied in a tired sounding tone.

“Clear as day, your assholiness.” The Prophet added, sounding like more of a smartass than he had ever been when he was alive.

“Y-yes… Lord Ink Demon… We’ll take good care of them all right! W-well not good, but- EEEP!” a third searcher that appeared to have teeth made out of piano keys meekly stuttered and hid from the Ink Demon’s untrusting glare from behind the safety of the Prophet’s legs.

“Good! Now listen up: they’ve started up our machine already so we don’t have much time to plan: So what do we do to stop them?”

“Uh... ...Same thing as always?”

“W-well… I’m sure that you’ll have the best plan out of all of us, your rottenness!”

“You can stick your hand out of the holes in the boards and watch them run and fall to their doom like a pair of stray sheep who don’t see the cliff.”

“NO! When Joey’s not in control, I’m calling the shots around here! And I say: We’re not going to run his stupid story through the machine any more! We’re doing something completely different, something that will really make ‘em suffer...”

“Henry!” Joey tugged on the man’s pant leg and whispered loud enough for him to hear, but not loud enough to grab the ink monsters’ attention. “He can think and talk! He’s not supposed to do that! Hell, aside from Sammy, none of them are supposed to be any smarter than feral animals! Not to mention, they all look different… I think that stuff on Sammy is supposed to be hair, but it’s never been THAT long before...”

The Ink Demon slapped his forehead and grumbled under his breath.

“Speak of the %*#@ing devils…” He then stared expectantly at the confused trio of searchers. “WELL?! THEY’RE HERE; RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR! ARE YOU GONNA MAUL ‘EM OR ARE YOU JUST GONNA SIT AROUND WAITING FOR THE COCKROACHES IN YOUR HEADS TO CHEW UP THE GARBAGE YOU CALL BRAINS FIRST?!”

“Why not take the pleasure in offing them yourself, your dicklessness?”

“Uh, Yeah, and when you fail at that, we’ll set up traps for ‘em downstairs. It’s not like they’re gonna escape the studio.”

The searcher with piano key teeth sheepishly nodded along.

“What?! But I had this cool dramatic entrance planned out and everything- ARGH! FINE!” The Ink Demon grumbled as he started breaking the boards. “If you want a mauling done right...”

Henry held Joey like a football as he ran through the rapidly flooding studio as the Ink Demon cackled manically throughout the chase.

“READY OR NOT HEEREEE I COOOOMEEEE~”

Henry found himself having to jump and duck to avoid a lot more falling debris and had felt the demon’s claws at his back at times, the situation was not helped by Joey screaming and crying the entire time.

He felt more dread than relief as he saw the exit coming in, no matter how close it got, he never got to it, like every time before, the floorboards broke underneath his feet. He always fell, and now, someone would try to catch him.

“HA! NOT WHEN I’M IN CHARGE, CREATOR!”

And would succeed.

It happened so fast that Joey couldn’t tell if he did it intentionally or not, but he had slipped out of Henry’s grip and had fallen down to the depths of the studio with a loud ‘splash’ announcing his arrival.

Announcing that he was alone, defenseless, and weak. In a studio that Joey now knew no longer was his to control, and was filled with many, many enemies who would fully take advantage of that.

“Y-you just need to stay c-calm, Joey...” He pulled himself up on a floating piece of stray wood and started paddling towards the valve. “There’s an ax nearby, all you need to do is get to it and you’ll be fine. you’ve seen Henry do this hundreds of times, you’ll be alright, you just need to believe in yourself.”

In spite of his reassuring speech, the scared little imp felt a large pit of dread in his gut. The former Music director, former lyricist, and the former organist would probably hesitate if it was Henry instead, but those three caught him... Joey shuddered just thinking about it. 

As the ink drained he took his miraculously unstained bath robe off of the floor and put it back on. He was also missing his pants now, but it wasn’t like he could go back up to get them, and even if he could, he wasn’t going to fight the Ink Demon for a pair of fucking pants that were too big for him anyway.

“Get the ax, get back with Henry, get the ax, get back with Henry, get the ax, get back with Henry...”

He repeated to himself under his breath as he repeated his task of descending and turning valves as an attempt to keep himself from jumping at every twist and turn. The imp also kept his eyes peeled for anything that looked suspicious or out of place, fearing the looming threat of the searchers’ traps.

The ax and the room was exactly how Joey had left it, not a single thing changed, which did make him feel relieved.

When he moved forward, he didn’t find any evidence that Sammy was worshiping Bendy at all when in the shrine room, there were plenty of ritualistic circles, plenty of cryptic messages, but they all had the little devil as a thing that was meant to be sacrificed, not as something worth the former musician’s worship.

“Of all the runs for Sammy to not worship Bendy...” He groaned. “It HAD to be the one where I became an imp...”

He wasn’t sure whether he was grateful or even more afraid when he didn’t see Sammy moving the cutout around.

------

When Joey got to the music department itself, he heard the sounds of laughter, pool balls clacking, cheers and glasses clinking in the distance. Following the sounds, he found the three searchers lounging around the pool table in the middle of a conversation and a game.

The upbeat atmosphere fizzled out when the three noticed him. The Swollen searcher muttered something about the game just getting good, the Piano key-toothed searcher groaned about Joey spoiling all the fun as usual, and the masked mad maestro smiled at him.

Not in a sarcastic or forced way like how his human self smiled at people, it seemed genuine enough. But it also wasn’t a warm or kind smile, it seemed more ...hungry.

“Hello little Lamb.” The prophet stood up and got into the imp’s face,  “Are you interested in playing a game with us?”

‘Oh fuck, he’s still crazy.’ Joey thought to himself. “N-no thanks!” He smiled and waved hoping that he didn’t look as terrified as he felt. “I’ve got a friend of mine to get back to and I really don’t have a lot of time to play.”

The imp dashed out of the break room and slammed the door shut behind him, completely unaware that the merriment had returned to the room.

“Thank god he didn’t go for it.” Johnny sighed. “If The Ink Demon found out about this room because of that little runt...”

“I told you it would work.” The prophet took the mask back off and set it aside on a crate. “...But he’ll probably come back to pester us into trying to help him find Henry, maybe even take up the game offer.”

“Yeah...” Jack poured himself another shot. “Kinda surprised that you didn’t jump at the chance to make his life hell though.”

“Less is more.” The prophet hit the eight ball and watched the rest of them knock against each other. “If you get one big punch left to linger, it hurts like a bitch, if you get hundreds of them, you grow numb to the pain. But I don’t think that Inky understands that.”

“Well, at least he can have fun playing his game of cat and mouse with Joey...”

“Yeah.” Johnny raised his glass. “Cheers to those two being each others’ problems instead of ours!”

“Cheers!”

[their-destinys-writer]

Kitty Love Zine Collaboration Volume 2

This is waaaaaaay long overdue, but I had a weird year between COVID, job changes, etc. So here’s my collaboration for Kitty Love: A Marichat Zine Volume 2. It was amazing getting to work with the team for a second time and being part of this precious project. Thank you @kittylovezine for sticking with us through a hard year, with so many of us going through so much. You guys were amazing <3

The Knight and the Princess

Deep breaths, Chat Noir thought to himself, as he took in a lungful of breath. You got this.

Closing his eyes, he knocked on the trapdoor on the balcony, ready to say those words of love he wanted to confess. He waited, one, two, three seconds. No answer. He tried again. Nothing. Taking another shaky breath, he attempted to open it, confirming that it was unlocked.

He stuck his head inside. “Marinette?” he called.

The room was empty, yet there were noises coming from downstairs. Soundlessly, he stalked his way down to the trapdoor, and down the stairs. Following the noises, he looked into the living room to see Marinette curled up in a pink blanket on the sofa. So beautiful, with used tissues surrounding her and snot dripping from her nose.

Okay, maybe not her best day, but even then she was still gorgeous in his eyes.

Chat Noir took several feline steps, until he was right behind the couch. Marinette turned off the television and placed the remote on the coffee table.

“Bored already?” he asked loudly.

Marinette yelped, followed by a cough. Chat Noir almost regretted scaring her. Almost.

“Are you trying to kill me?” she wheezed.

“Sorry. Kinda,” he laughed. “I see you’re still sick.”

“Very much so,” she responded, grabbing a tissue and blowing her nose.

So cute, Chat Noir thought wistfully.

“What’re you doing here, anyway?”

“Actually, I came to…” He hesitated. Until losing his nerve. “I came to entertain you!” he said instead.

“I was plenty entertained before you got here,” she said, laying her head back.

“Oh, come on, I got great stories,” he purred.

Marinette let out a long sigh. “Fine.”

“Awesome!” Chat Noir leaped over the backrest, landing next to the sick girl. “How about a story, inspired by real-life events?”

“Sure, Chaton,” she responded, burying herself under the blanket.

“Great!” He cleared his throat. “Once upon a time,” he started, in a dramatic tone, “there was a brave, handsome knight,” Chat Noir flexed an arm as he said it, earning him an eye roll from Marinette, “who lived in a great kingdom. One day, he was roaming around the outside of the palace—”

“Did he trip and fall?” Marinette teased, lightly nudging him.

“I’m trying to tell a story here,” he pouted.

“Fine. Continue.”

Chat Noir cleared his throat. “The brave knight roamed the outside of the palace, through the pristine garden, when he saw a beautiful princess in trouble.”

“Let me guess, the princess was Ladybug?” Marinette rolled her eyes.

“Shh.” Chat Noir pressed a finger to her lips. Her cheeks were dusted pink for a moment, but it disappeared almost instantly, replaced by a smirk that made his heart skip a beat. “You don’t know what I’m about to say. And if you must know,” he rushed to add when Marinette opened her mouth, “the princess was not Ladybug. In fact, this character loves to dress in pink.”

“Couldn’t get more cliché than that,” Marinette giggled, tightening the pink blanket around her.

“Yeah,” Chat Noir said quietly. “Anyway, um, the handsome knight found the sweet princess in trouble, with some fearsome creature running after her. The princess fell as her dress got caught in the branch of a tree—”

“Why would the branch of a tree be low enough to catch her skirt?” Marinette questioned, frowning.

Chat Noir opened his mouth, yet quickly realized he didn’t have a proper response. “It’s my fantasy story!” he defended himself instead. To which Marinette giggled again. The boy sighed. “So, the knight swooped and faced the ferocious beast! The mighty knight swung his sword—”

“Did he swing it too hard, because he’s so mighty, he couldn’t ‘measure’ his strength, and ended up hitting a tree instead?”

“Marinette,” Chat Noir whined.

“What? You said you wanted to entertain me.” She sniffed, as she grabbed a new tissue to clean her nose. “And I find helping with your story very entertaining. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yeah, but I also…” he trailed off.

Marinette’s brows furrowed. “You also what?”

Chat Noir side-eyed her, holding in an urge to bite his lip. With another deep breath, he tried to continue.

“As I was saying, the mighty knight swung his sword, but the creature was too strong to be defeated in one go. When the knight turned to implore the princess to run, he was dazzled by the immense beauty of the maiden he had just jumped to rescue. Her heart was so pure, he could see her goodness without exchanging any words with her.”

“Dazzled?” Marinette snorted. “You’ve been reading too much fanfiction.”

“People get dazzled!” Chat Noir grumbled.

“I thought you said it was based on true events.”

“Well, yes. Loosely. The feelings part,” he murmured the last bit, yet it didn’t seem to go as unnoticed as he hoped by Marinette. He immediately cleared his throat again and continued before she could speak. “The knight was amazed by the princess’ good heart, and thus decided to do everything in his power to protect her.

“Suddenly, while the knight was distracted, the ferocious beast struck again! The knight blocked the attack, and he and the princess ran off through the woods, hoping to get an advantage over the vile creature that hunted the precious soul.”

“Wait, did the knight ever free the princess from the branch?”

“Yes,” Chat Noir responded immediately. “How else would they be running again?”

“You kinda skipped over that part.”

“Do I need to say it?”

“And why don’t they just go back to the castle?”

“Uhh… Beast got in the way.”

“Can’t they just—”

“May I please continue?” Chat Noir cut in, squinting at her.

Marinette bit her lip, appearing to be holding a laugh. “Sure,” she said.

“And so the ravishing knight and fair princess ran as far as they could, until reaching a dangerous cliffside. The knight told the princess to save herself, to go on without him, while he defends her against the fearsome beast.

But she won’t leave without him. She stared deeply into his eyes, asking him what would happen to him if she left. The knight valiantly stood his ground, promising that he would protect her ‘till the end, for he could not leave the love of his life to—”

“Wait, did they just fall in love instantly?”

“I mean, it’s not totally instant—”

“Did I miss something?”

“Well, it’s not totally faithful to the true events.”

“But you said it was based on real life.”

“Fine,” Chat Noir huffed, crossing his arms. “He saved her and they were happy. The end.”

“Wait, what?” Marinette huffed. “That can’t be it? You skipped the good part!”

“No, if the prince—I mean, if you don’t want to listen, it’s fine.” His gaze turned to the wall. “It’s a silly story anyway. It means nothing.”

Chat Noir could have sworn he heard an intake of breath from Marinette. He wondered if he had just offended her. Or if she got upset with him. Whatever the reason, he was pretty sure that what he said came off harsher than he meant.

“Well,” Marinette said in a quiet tone, her thigh pressing against his, “maybe in the end, the princess is so grateful for the brave knight, she thanks him for his good deeds. And gives him an amazing, passionate kiss that would last them a lifetime.”

“Yeah, sure,” Chat Noir let out a weak chuckle, ignoring the warmth of her leg.

“And she told him he’s the greatest guy she’s ever met.”

“Of course.”

He remained quiet, resigning himself to do this properly at a later time, maybe when she wasn’t sick.

“You know,” Marinette continued, “I love it when stories are inspired by true events. It can really change your perspective on some things.” There was shuffling next to him. “And for other things, it makes them clearer.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder to pull him down. Next thing he felt were Marinette’s lips on his cheek. He could have sworn his heart stopped for a second.

“Thank you for the story, Chat,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re the greatest guy I’ve ever met.”

Chat Noir’s eyes widened, head quickly turning to Marinette But her head was resting on his shoulder already, eyes slowly closing. Did she even know the impact of her words? 

His brows furrowed. “You mean that?” he ventured to ask.

“Every word,” she sighed wistfully. “And just so you know, I was dazzled by you, too.”

Chat Noir attempted to resist a smile, but failed spectacularly. However, he decided it didn’t matter. He’d got a confession back! He had more than enough reason to smile for the princess sitting peacefully next to him.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Baxia and NHS.

Author’s note: this fic ended up having virtually no NHS, sorry

-

“This isn’t right,” Wei Wuxian said. “This isn’t how it should go – you’re not even supposed to be here!”

Nie Mingjue huffed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes only because he needed them pinned on the murderous battlefield the Lotus Pier had become. “No one can predict the future,” he said shortly, and stepped out into the hallway, Baxia lifted high, and another four Wen soldiers’ lives came to an end. “To think that you can is arrogance.”

“You don’t understand,” Wei Wuxian insisted, and honestly, if he hadn’t made himself extremely useful both as guide and back-up, Nie Mingjue would have sent him away long ago to spare himself the headache. “It’s not – you might die here.”

He sounded upset about that. It was flattering, given that they’d never spent any time together before now; he must be basing his impression entirely on Nie Mingjue’s reputation.

Flattered or not, Nie Mingjue still wasn’t very impressed right now. “That’s a risk you take when you fight, yes. Don’t blame yourself – there was no way to predict when the Wens were going to attack, or where; they could have just as easily have come to Qinghe.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to get close,” Wei Wuxian muttered, and that was flattering, too. “It’s just – it’s too early. We should have had another few months!”

Nie Mingjue wasn’t aware the Jiang sect had been taking the threat of Wen aggression so seriously that they’d been making estimates, but it was all for the best. 

Maybe it would help them in the war to come.

“Anyone who says they can see the future is being lied to,” he said. “Man plans and the Heavens overturn; that is the way of things. Anyway, you’re not wrong: it probably would have been later, should have been later, but they were robbed of their victory at the Cloud Recesses. There’s no satisfaction in burning empty buildings with all the treasures and people gone, no victory in it – it’s no wonder they accelerated.”

Wei Wuxian looked stricken by the thought.

“Cheer up,” Nie Mingjue said. “The Jiang sect will survive. That will be bad news for the Wens.”

Jiang Fengmian might be mild-mannered to the point of weakness, but he was an excellent cultivator, and of course Madame Yu’s fearsome reputation had been well earned. After this, they would have no choice but to be on the front lines.

“But you might not,” Wei Wuxian said again.

“A worthwhile trade,” Nie Mingjue said, and shrugged when Wei Wuxian gawked at him. “Haven’t you noticed that they’re following us? Dozens if not hundreds of Jiang sect cultivators that might otherwise have been put to the sword will be able to escape, and between all those lives and one, even my own, which one do you think will be more useful in winning the war?”

“You,” Wei Wuxian said. “You and your Nie sect, holding down Heijan like an iron wall for the Wen sect to waste its strength against.”

Was Wei Wuxian a fan?

Bizarre.

“I appreciate your confidence in my necessity,” he said, and ducked into another small nook when a group of Wen soldiers too large to easily handle ran by. The momentary rest was welcome. “And if it makes you feel better, they’re not aiming to kill me.”

“They’re not?” Wei Wuxian asked, appearing like a ghost in front of one of the sentries to slit his throat. He was surprisingly adept in the arts of warring in confined spaces, the ambush and the merciless kill; it almost made one wonder what purpose the Jiang sect had for him.

“With these numbers, if they wanted us dead, we’d be dead,” Nie Mingjue said. They’d lasted a good while longer than he’d expected, actually, a tribute to Wei Wuxian knowing how to get through the Lotus Pier in a thousand unexpected ways and their united strength, but even that was flagging: he had cuts and bruises in a hundred places, some more critical than others, and Wei Wuxian for all his pointless complaining wasn’t doing that great either. Perhaps his nattering was his way of distracting himself from their imminent fate. “I’ve humiliated Wen Xu before. Wen Chao wouldn’t be able to resist the thought of capturing me – and when he does, it’ll be the Core-Melting Hand.”

A sharp intake of air.

“Are you sure? I can understanding wanting to take you prisoner, but…”

“If he doesn’t think of it himself, I’ll make sure he does,” Nie Mingjue said, and ignored how Baxia grew warm with rage in his hand. He flipped back his sleeve and dipping his fingers into the blood seeping out of wound in his chest – an arrow that had come too close – and began drawing on his right hand with his left. “There are worse fates out there.”

“But –”

“Normal people die faster,” Nie Mingjue said, choosing the least traumatic of the possible reasons. Wei Wuxian was young; he didn’t need to know the worst of Wen Ruohan’s wretchedness. Nie Mingjue’s cultivation was too high and too compatible with Wen Ruohan’s own: his fate, if he were to go to the Nightless City intact, would not be so easy as death. He was counting on Wen Chao not knowing anything about his father’s most vile preferences, or possibly just being too stupid to think about them. “That’ll be an advantage. But more importantly, losing my cultivation renders me immediately ineligible to be Sect Leader, and my value as a hostage will be significantly reduced.”

Wei Wuxian looked shaken by Nie Mingjue’s practicality. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and then focused again, this time on the bloody array making its way up Nie Mingjue’s arm to the elbow and down to the backs of his fingers. “What are you doing?”

“A legacy,” Nie Mingjue said, even as Baxia screamed in his mind like metal scraping against stone. “For my brother. He’ll need all the help he can get…speaking of which, it’s time for you to go.”

“What?”

“The Wen sect isn’t looking for you, however much you irritated Wen Chao,” Nie Mingjue said. “It’s always been my plan to ensure you got away clearly before I was captured – and it’s nearly time, now. No man can fight an army alone.”

His body burned, exhausted and worn out from the hours of fighting; he’d done as much as he could, and everything else left in him was for Huaisang, who deserved better than to be made Sect Leader too young the way Nie Mingjue had. He had hoped to spare him that, but if he couldn’t do that much – he could at least do this one thing.

This one terrible thing, forbidden by his ancestors, abominable anathema – but there was little Nie Mingjue would not do for his brother, and he had faith even if he had no hope.  

Baxia was fighting him over it, resistant and rebellious in a way she hadn’t been since the first time he’d mastered her – the first time he imposed his will on hers, making the inexorable bend before him. They had been partners after that, and that was how he preferred it; but in the end he was the master, as it had to be, and she could not stop him.

“You should go,” he said again to Wei Wuxian. “If you get caught, what’s the point?”

Wei Wuxian’s hands were shaking, but he nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, as if he were responsible for this somehow. “Thank you.”

And then he was gone.

What a ridiculous young man.

Baxia was biting him, causing his palm to bleed, trying to mess up his design – urging him to fight instead, to fight kill slaughter a way out, any way out.

“I’ll try,” he yielded enough to promise her. He needed to stay on her good side, after all; the array wouldn’t work without her. “I’ll give it a try, with all my strength.”

He did.

It wasn’t enough.

No man can fight an army.

In the end, he’s forced down on his knees, as he’d expected, Wen Chao standing in front of him at a more-than-sufficient distance as if he was afraid Nie Mingjue would leap up and stab him even with four people and suppression array fierce enough to bring down a ghost general holding him down.

He was probably right.

“You’re a coward,” he told him, and Wen Chao laughed nervously. “A coward, and a fool.”

“Well, he caught you, didn’t he?” Wang Lingjiao snapped, her voice shrill with nervousness, and a single glare was enough to have her cowering backwards. “He did! Wen-er-gongzi, you’re a hero!”

No one believed her, not even Wen Chao, but with an effort he puffed himself up anyway. “You shouldn’t have stood against my Wen sect,” he said, aiming for lofty and mostly coming off as cheap. “This is a just punishment.”

The Wen sect would paint the ground blue and the sky green if it got them what they wanted, and Nie Mingjue snorted in disgust, closing his eyes for a moment to find the trigger for the array painted onto his saber arm.

It burned.

Baxia, kicked across the room to get her away from him, seethed. Still not assuaged, still unhappy, still rebellious – but he did try to escape. It wasn’t his fault that he was only human.

It burned.

“Wen Zhuliu,” Wen Chao ordered, as Nie Mingjue knew that he would. “Let’s see how the esteemed Sect Leader Nie likes it when there’s nothing left of his oh-so-great cultivation. When he’s nothing.”

It burned.

Nie Mingjue smiled through the pain, baring his teeth at the cautious approach of Wen Zhuliu. “No matter what I am,” he said, “I am enough to terrify your nightmares.”

“Not for long,” Wen Chao shouted, which was admission enough. “Wen Zhuliu! Do it!”

Nie Mingjue’s cultivation was usually like a mighty river, rushing through his veins – to feel it spill out of order, pouring out of his body and into the array in his arm, was painful to the extreme, like bleeding out but worse. But it had been long enough, he had distracted them long enough.

Nie Mingjue hoped that it would be enough. 

By the time Wen Zhuliu put his hand on his shoulder, reaching down for his dantian, the river had become little more than a trickle.

Wen Zhuliu’s stone face cracked in two.

“What? What is it?” Wen Chao demanded, realizing something was wrong from the look on his retainer’s face. “What did the bastard do?!”

“I don’t know,” Wen Zhuliu said slowly. “But – his cultivation. There’s almost nothing left of it, and his meridians are all burned and twisted…his golden core is faint enough to be almost hollow.”

“That’s impossible,” Wen Chao scoffed. “Everyone knows how powerful Sect Leader Nie is! Even my father…what did he do? How did he – why did he –?”

He stopped, shook his head.

“It’s a trick,” he decided. “Do it anyway. I want to make sure there’s nothing left of him –”

There was a scream.

It sounded like metal against stone, harsh and ringing and shrill; it sounded like rage.

It sounded like hope.

Nie Mingjue smiled, a real smile his time, and shut his eyes.

Everyone else in the room turned to look.

It was the last mistake they made.

Nie Mingjue only opened his eyes again when a hand landed on his shoulder and fiercely shook him as if he were a disobedient kitten, and when he opened his eyes there was a woman glaring death down at him. She was tall, her features more fierce than beautiful, and she was dressed only in blood and guts.

“I knew you’d be lovely,” he said.

She smacked him in the face, hard enough that his head was ringing, and snarled wordlessly at him. There was nothing but rage in her face, in her eyes; the array he had used to give her every ounce of the cultivation he had built up for years, and most of his life-force besides, was forbidden for a reason – it would unleash something terrible into the world.

Something that knew no restraint, no mercy, only the desire to kill –

Well, in theory.

A small smack on the head was very much the least that Baxia could do.

“You’ll take care of Huaisang, won’t you?” he asked her, the remnants of his qi lurching unsteadily within him; he would have a qi deviation sooner rather than later as his body attempted to cultivate at its usual rate with virtually none of the spiritual energy required to do so, and his family did not have a good track record of surviving those – though he’ll be the first of his line to die from exhaustion rather than rage. “He’ll need someone strong by his side, to do for him what needs to be done…to tell him what evil is, in case he can’t figure it out on his own.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem Nie Huaisang has, actually; you’d be surprised,” said Wei Wuxian, who Nie Mingjue had entirely forgotten about, the sound of his voice a sudden shock of surprise.

He jumping down from some rafter where he’d been hiding – planning some sort of insane rescue, perhaps, or maybe just trying to bear witness. He had a flute clutched in his hands, of all things; Nie Mingjue hadn’t even known that he cultivated with music as well as the sword.

“Also,” he added conversationally, “what the fuck was that.”

Baxia hissed at him, a sound like the slow slide of a saber out of its sheath.

Wei Wuxian wisely took several large steps back.

“Sect Leader Nie,” he said, voice suddenly much more polite. “Forgive me my surprise, but – your saber just cultivated into a guai.”

“I wasn’t expecting her to get there this quickly,” Nie Mingjue said, nodding. “I’d been counting on them taking her back to the Nightless City…”

“Where she’d be able to use the resentful energy to cultivate into a guai, and therefore act as a weapon against the Wen from the inside,” Wei Wuxian said, nodding. He was really very clever, figuring out that Nie sect sabers could use resentful energy like that, in a way humans could not. Or, well, should not. “Except she really, really wanted to kill everyone here before they hurt you, so she did it faster.”

Baxia hissed again.

“What?” Wei Wuxian said, lifting up his flute defensively. “Am I wrong?”

She jabbed a finger at Nie Mingjue, who swayed a bit from the sheer force of it even though she hadn’t put any spiritual energy into it. So much saber qi…! Guai were truly different from humans.

“I don’t know what you want – fuck. You look terrible, Chifeng-zun.”

“That would be the blood loss,” Nie Mingjue agreed. “Possibly the impending qi deviation. Hard to tell, really…what?” he asked, seeing the expression on Wei Wuxian’s face. “You didn’t think this type of array is something you’re supposed to survive, did you?”

“But you’re not angry!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, already reaching out to start transferring spiritual energy into him. It wouldn’t be enough. “You’re not – you’re empty.”

Nie Mingjue nodded.

“You gave her everything you had…no wonder she was able to cultivate into humanity,” Wei Wuxian said, and there it was again, that ridiculous admiration. “Mistress Saber, is the only thing wrong with him the lack of qi?”

Baxia jerked her head. If Nie Mingjue lived as something other than a comatose vegetable, he’d have to teach her to properly talk, assuming that guai were capable of that. They weren’t like yao, which had once been animals or plants and familiar with the generalities of things such as eating or breathing; guai were formed from the non-living, and had never known such simple things as mere words.

He missed their connection.

If he had any qi left, he would be able to figure out what she was thinking behind that flat expressionless face that had not yet figured out how to convey anything other than rage.

If he wasn’t going to die, he’d get to see the terrible, wonderful things she would do at his little brother’s side – he’d have to be sect leader now, yes, but he wouldn’t need to change himself, contort himself into something he wasn’t, to have the strength to hold it.

He would have liked to have seen it.

“Chifeng-zun? I know something that might help stop the bleed of your qi. But it’s…unorthodox.”

Nie Mingjue waved a hand, consenting; the alternative was death, so why not?

Wei Wuxian lifted his flute to his lips and began to play.

-

Much later, Nie Mingjue wakes up in the Unclean Realm, Nie Huaisang at his side and Baxia having apparently learned to properly scowl, and – yes.

No matter any of Wei Wuxian’s complaints, it was a worthwhile trade.

[melanielocke]

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 10

AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Taglist: @nott-the-best @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite

CW: Discussion of toxic relationship

Lucie was under the impression Alastair liked Thomas, but Lucies texts only made him more nervous. Even if Alastair smiled back, even if some things he said could hint at romantic feelings, Thomas had no clue how to make a move on people, much less Alastair. After dinner, they talked a bit more, about books, history, places they wished to travel. Alastair told him that he’d once read Machiavelli’s the Prince for comfort, but had since replaced it with Marx’ the Communist Manifesto. Thomas, who read mostly fiction, found it hard to imagine those books as something one read for comfort, but he promised he’d give the Communist Manifesto a try.

‘My ex recommended the Prince,’ Alastair explained. ‘In retrospect, the book suits him pretty well. It’s about power, manipulation, and he was all about that.’

‘As in, he manipulated you?’ Thomas asked.

‘He wants to get into politics, and I think he cares more about holding a position of power than about doing what’s best for the country. But he also manipulated me,’ Alastair said, showing no emotion. ‘He was very obsessed with his own social status and image, and would have done anything to improve that. I would not have reflected well on his image, so he kept me a secret and made me believe it was what was best for me.’

Thomas was certain he would be a better partner to Alastair than his exif they were in a relationship, but figured that was a pretty low bar. He didn’t know much about relationships, had never been in one, and wasn’t sure he knew how any of that worked, or how to be with someone with such a bad past experience. He didn’t want to hurt Alastair by accident. Perhaps his parents had some advice, but then he’d first have to tell them he liked boys. Which he planned to, but he had not yet figured out the right words, the right occasion.

‘How did you come out to your parents?’ he asked Alastair.

His parents were outside, they wouldn’t overhear. Thomas hoped they wouldn’t walk in out of a sudden, but if they did… Well, then at least they’d know and Thomas wouldn’t have to prepare a speech.

‘I only came out to my mother and aunt Risa,’ Alastair said. ‘Not to my father, nor do I care to.’

‘So, did you prepare a speech or anything?’ Thomas asked.

‘I did, because I suspected my mother and aunt Risa might not understand or know much about gay people, so I’ve mostly been educating them on various sexualities and gender identities. Risa actually discovered she is asexual and aromantic after I explained those concepts to her. Why do you ask?’

Thomas turned red, he laughed nervously. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell my parents I’m gay, but haven’t found the right time, or figured out how to tell them.’

‘You don’t have to tell anyone if you don’t want to. Do you want them to know?’ Alastair asked.

Thomas considered Alastair’s question for a moment. ‘Yes, I do. I think it would be easier if they knew and I would rather tell them before I am in a relationship instead of introducing a boyfriend. Since that would be awkward for him as well. Mainly, I just want them to know but I don’t want an awkward conversation.’

‘I think your problem is that you’re too determined to do it perfect,’ Alastair said. ‘Your parents seem very open and accepting, I don’t think you have to worry.’

‘No, I know that,’ Thomas said.

He felt stupid. Alastair must have had a much harder time telling people, he hadn’t known beforehand that his mother would be accepting. Thomas was fairly certain his parents would love him no matter what, and yet here he was complaining to Alastair about how difficult he found it to come out.

‘I know it can still be scary,’ Alastair said. ‘I was fairly certain Cordelia wouldn’t mind at all, yet I postponed telling her for a long time. Of course in my case it could have saved me a lot of misery, had I told her sooner.’

‘What do you mean?’ Thomas asked.

‘She realized almost immediately after I told her that my ex boyfriend was treating me badly, when I did not. It took her a couple of weeks to convince me, but I realized she was right and then I broke up with him.’ Alastair paused. ‘It’s nice to have someone to talk about it. For a long time, I had only him and he actively discouraged me from telling anyone else.’

‘I’m guessing he wasn’t out?’ Thomas asked. ‘He thought being gay would reflect badly on him as a politician?’

‘No, I don’t think that was the problem. He was private about his sexuality, but I think his friends and family knew. I don’t blame him for that, I understand it’s not always easy to talk about and there can be consequences when people know. But I think in his case, he didn’t want people to know about me because I was so much younger, he probably knew grooming a teenager would reflect badly on him. He always said it was because I wasn’t out that he wanted to keep our relationship a secret, that he wanted to protect me from judgement, but I doubt that was true. I never wanted to be someone’s secret.’

Thomas frowned. ‘Wait, how much younger were you?’

‘Six years. I met him when I was fourteen and entered a relationship with him at sixteen.’

Then Alastair’s ex must have been twenty two at the time? Thomas, at eighteen, considered sixteen year old boys children and had no romantic interest in them. He preferred to look at boys his own age, maybe a little older. Despite being a year ahead in his education, Alastair was only a couple of months older than him. He couldn’t imagine being interested in a teenager when he was in his early twenties.

‘I didn’t realize at the time that the age difference was a red flag,’ Alastair explained. ‘I felt very mature, to have caught the attention of someone older. He told me, over and over, that I was very mature for my age, that he couldn’t believe I was still so young.’

Thomas suspected most teenagers would be flattered to be called mature, to be taken seriously by an adult. It was a vile sort of manipulation, to seek out someone young and vulnerable and isolated, someone who would easily fall for such compliments, only to take advantage of them and treat them badly.

‘How did you tell Cordelia?’ Thomas asked.

‘She realized something was not right,’ Alastair said. ‘She realized I was sneaking out at night, that I was barely eating and losing weight because I was so nervous. She said I was “being even more difficult than usual, and that’s saying something”. So I told her not to worry about it and that I was just sneaking out to see my boyfriend. I said I’d wanted to tell her, but wasn’t sure yet if I was ready, and that he had recommended I don’t tell anyone yet. She started asking a lot of questions about my relationship. At first it was in a supportive way, what did he look like, what were his interests. She kind of freaked out when she learnt about the age gap, and the more she asked about how he treated me, the more concerned she became. She’s been very protective of me ever since.’

‘I’m so sorry. Not that it’s my fault, or there’s anything I could have done, but I’m just sorry. That it happened to you. I’m glad your sister is protective of you. As long as she’s not too protective, I mean,’ Thomas said. ‘I know from experience too much protection can be suffocating.’

A small smile appeared on Alastair’s face, and Thomas realized he so rarely did. He had a very pretty smile that lit up his dark eyes.

‘I found it confusing most of all. As the oldest sibling, I always thought it was my duty to protect her, not the other way around. But Cordelia is fierce, and I love that about her. This one time we ran into him while shopping, not long after the break up. He tried to approach me while Cordelia was getting us ice cream, and when she returned and saw him she threatened to expose him as an abuser and child groomer on all her social media channels if he didn’t back off.’

‘Isn’t what he did illegal anyway?’ Thomas asked. ‘Since you were a minor? Couldn’t you go to the police if he kept harassing you?’

‘Age of consent is sixteen, so even if he was much older it was legal for him to have sex with me,’ Alastair explained. ‘It would be illegal if he was my teacher or in any way in a position of power over me, but he was not. He must have been aware of how those laws work and I think perhaps he waited until I was sixteen so it would be legal.

Him harassing me might be enough to get a restraining order, but honestly I don’t trust the police to believe me over him. Besides, I have no intention of sharing something so personal with police officers. I expect them to not care at best and I think it is likely they will be racist and homophobic and will blame me for what happened.

Cordelia has enough followers on twitter and Instagram to get the story out if we wanted to and it’s a decent threat, but I’ve asked her not to.’

‘From what you’ve told me, he fully deserves to be exposed,’ Thomas said.

He was angry on Alastair’s behalf, and Thomas guessed Alastair was right that as an Iranian gay man he could not trust the police to help him.

‘It’s not so much about whether he deserves it or not. I’m still processing what happened, and I don’t want to be judged by strangers on the internet. I consented to everything sexual we did even if it was coerced, and not everyone will understand all the subtle manipulation involved. I know people will claim it was all my fault, and if I didn’t want it I should have just said no. Or that after breaking up I decided to ruin his life by telling lies. He has powerful friends, I do not. I admire the bravery of the people who expose rapists and abusers on the internet, but I can’t put myself through that right now.’

Thomas felt nauseous, the idea of Alastair being manipulated into having sex with a much older man was difficult for him to process. It made him angry, Alastair had given this man everything, had loved him. How could someone have taken advantage of such a beautiful and passionate man? People often accused Thomas of being too kind, too compassionate, of trying to empathize too much with people who did bad things, but he was fairly certain that if he ever encountered the person who did this to Alastair, he would feel nothing but anger and hatred towards him. And he’d make sure whoever it was would never hurt Alastair again.

He wanted to show support, he wanted to love Alastair, but wasn’t sure how. He knew it was a big step for him, to open up so much, he knew Alastair was very private and trusted him as much as he knew how to trust. Thomas was terrified of letting him down, of breaking his trust.

‘Did he at least back off after that threat?’ Thomas asked.

‘I haven’t seen him in real life again, but he has been texting me until I blocked his number. He is part of the reason I came here, something I needed to get away from. You have provided a decent distraction and I am grateful. I have never… had a friend like you.’

Thomas wasn’t sure how to feel about that statement. He liked being trusted, he loved that Alastair valued him, but at the same time he wanted to be more to him than just a friend. But Alastair needed a friend, Thomas told himself. And perhaps Alastair would fall in love with him over time, perhaps someday they could be together. If not, being his friend would still be worth it.

‘Now, would you want to play another game of ludo before I return to the Herondales? I am certain the dice will be on my side this time,’ Alastair said.

The dice were not on Alastair’s side. The difference in rolls were at the very least statistically improbable, but Thomas wasn’t great at math. He won by a landslide.

‘You’re older than me,’ Thomas offered as an explanation.

Alastair frowned. ‘Only by a few months, and what does that have to do with anything?’

‘I have a theory that dice games like this one favor the young,’ Thomas explained. ‘I used to play this game with my sisters and I always did better. Of course, Barbara would usually let me win with games, but that’s difficult with a game like this. But most of my friends are younger than me, and with Lucie I don’t have nearly this amount of luck. And when I played with my younger cousin Alexander, my rolls are as pathetic as yours. Of course, that’s for the best because he’s three and he throws the game across the room when he loses.’

‘Nothing you just said makes sense,’ Alastair pointed out. ‘The dice can’t tell how old you are.’

‘Perhaps there’s a little spirit in there,’ Thomas said with a smile. ‘Something that realizes if little Alexander loses, painful things will happen to it. It probably dreads the day Alexander will play against children his age.’

Thomas guessed that might not be the best idea, at that age all children were sore losers. Most three year olds didn’t play together yet anyway, it was more parallel play what they did. Alastair left after losing another game, and at the end Thomas might have convinced him of his theory.

‘I’ll meet you here after breakfast for another walk,’ Alastair said with a small smile that made Thomas’ heart race. He hoped he wasn’t showing that. Would Alastair suspect Thomas liked him, now that he knew Thomas was gay? He wasn’t sure if he wanted Alastair to. If Alastair returned his feelings, sure. But if not, what if Alastair would retreat in his shell again, what if he didn’t want to be his friend anymore?

‘See you tomorrow,’ Thomas said. ‘Good night.’

Thomas didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamt of a castle, surrounded by dark forest. He didn’t know where he was, or what was happening. On a surface level, it didn’t even seem so scary but a voice inside Thomas was telling him to run as fast as he could to get away from there, yet he couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure what he was running from exactly, but he woke up drenched in sweat at six in the morning. He didn’t feel rested exactly, but didn’t think he’d fall asleep again, so instead he changed the sheets on his bed and took a quick shower before putting on some clothes.

It would probably be some time until Alastair showed up, so Thomas made breakfast, and took his time to eat before settling in the garden. Gnomes were early risers, and Thomas liked watching them run around. Here they weren’t used to being seen though, and any indication that Thomas did see resulted in them running away and hiding, peeking out of the bushes on occasion to see if he was still there. Thomas put out a plate of cookies, perhaps they would become more trusting to humans who could see them overtime.

He sat there, reading a book Lucie had given him a while back. Ever since Thomas had told her he liked boys, Lucie had recommended books about queer men and right now he was reading Winter’s Orbit, a science fiction story about two men in an arranged political marriage. The amount of miscommunication and hopeless pining was almost painful to read, but also enjoyable. Thomas guessed he wasn’t much better, he still had no idea how to tell Alastair how he felt. Hopefully, he could finish the book before dying, he desperately wanted to know if these two could figure out their feelings for each other before it was too late.

‘What are you reading?’

Thomas looked up to see Alastair, dressed in a black Metallica t shirt and black jeans. He summarized the book he was reading.

‘It was a gift from Lucie,’ he said.

‘It sounds interesting,’ Alastair said. ‘I like books with some political drama. Can I borrow it when you finish?’

‘Sure. And in case I don’t get to finish it, I’ll write you into my will and leave you this book.’

Alastair groaned. ‘Please do not make jokes about you dying.’

Thomas sometimes felt like making jokes about it was the only way to cope. In reality, the idea that he was very likely to die was terrifying, even if the people around him kept assuring him he was going to be fine.

‘Sorry. I hope you’ll like this book. Although… one of the main characters was abused by a previous partner. Would that be an issue?’

Alastair tilted his head. ‘I think then maybe I should wait until I read it. That’s difficult with reading fiction, not all authors offer content warnings and going in unprepared can be devastating. When I know it’s coming… It’s easier, but I’m not sure if I want to do that right now solely to read a book.’

Thomas nodded. ‘I can imagine. If you want any books that don’t have topics that are triggering for you, I’ll try and see if I have anything. Or you can ask Lucie.’

‘I’ll think about it. Being able to read fiction while being prepared through content warnings is something I’m trying to work towards. No idea how long that will take, according to my therapist I’m too impatient. You coming? This early, there might still be some hedgehogs,’ Alastair said with a grin.

‘You really like hedgehogs,’ Thomas pointed out.

‘When I was a child I wanted one for a pet, but my parents didn’t think that was a good idea. Instead, I could have a goldfish. They’re very popular in Iran, people get them for the Persian new year celebration, Nowruz. People usually release them into a river or pond after the celebration, so that’s what Risa did. My parents weren’t too happy about it. At the time, I believed he would probably be happier there anyway than in a bowl, but it is likely he died within days. I don’t think it’s good for the environment either, and many Iranians are pushing back against the tradition because of that. Did you have pets growing up?’

‘Most of my childhood, because I was so sick, my parents didn’t think it was a good idea. They were afraid a pet might carry diseases I would be more vulnerable to,’ Thomas said. ‘But I hope I can adopt cats someday. And Barbara and Oliver have two guinea pigs.’

‘My cousin Jem has a cat,’ Alastair said. ‘Little beast hates everyone, but adores Jem.’

‘Do you see him often?’ Thomas asked. ‘Jem, I mean.’

‘Not really. My father never wanted him near our family, I think because he was afraid Jem would see right through him. But now that we don’t live with Father anymore, I see him occasionally. He offered me to come live with him, but I’m not sure. I still feel like I barely know him.’

They didn’t find any hedgehogs during their walk, presumably because the fog had gotten so thick they wouldn’t see any if they were there. Although Thomas was fairly certain they were taking the same route they had yesterday and during their first walk, everything looked different. He told himself it was probably the fog, but he couldn’t quite convince himself.

‘I don’t remember these ruins,’ Alastair said.

Thomas’ followed Alastair’s gaze and saw the ruins of a very old building. Of course, there were lots of old castles in Scotland, but Thomas hadn’t read anything about ruins in these woods.

‘Do you think we should take a look?’ he asked carefully. ‘I’m not seeing anything unusual.’

‘Apart from ruins that weren’t here yesterday?’

‘We must have taken a different path,’ Thomas said.

‘Sure,’ Alastair said and Thomas didn’t think he believed it. ‘Under normal circumstances, I would not take another step, but if we are to save your life we need information. Perhaps those ruins hold something of interest.’