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i-will-physically-fight-you · 1 year ago

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Spoke No More

Title: Spoke No More Summary: Humans are pattern-seekers. They seek to find patterns, specifically ones that are pleasurable and add meaning in life. Humans are not meant to be limited to seeing the same four walls day in and day out. Solitary confinement means there is only one pattern that is pleasureless and meaningless in every way possible. Even with the daily visits of shades that masquerade as his friends, Virgil is still so alone. Such an existence messes with one’s grasp of self after a time. An hour feels the same as a day and a day feels the same as an hour. Cramped, filthy cell or gleaming, luxurious castle--Virgil knows the truth. It matters not his surroundings, he is still in a machination designed by his captors for his impending demise. Yet when a new pattern emerges, one that Virgil has not witnessed within the hundreds of iterations he has endured--there is a question that lingers with it; is it yet another ploy of his captors to extract valuable information from him? Or could it be a sliver of reality shining through? Sequel fic to Heard No More Word-Count: 15k Pairings: Platonic Lamp Warnings: Whump, Malnutrition, Starvation Mention, Disassociation, Nightmares, Aftermath of Torture, Panic Attack, CPTSD, Crying, Injury Mention, Blood, Villain OC, Portrayals of Unsympathetic Sides (None of them are actually unsympathetic), Unreliable Narrator, Guilt, Angst with an Ambiguous Ending (It’s Part of a Series) Hello there, I'm posting this because if I don't post this it will never see the light of day even though this fic could use more time to bake in the oven. This was created as part of the @tss-storytime big bang and @virgeandhis-pocket-protector was my artist partner. Please check out their amazing contribution here! I have felt like I've been drowning the last few months due to ongoing events in my irl so I sincerely apologize for my infrequent communication on here and hope your year is going better than mine. Without further ado please enjoy.

Part 1: Foul is Fair

Virgil stares at the huge swaths of fabric that frame the huge window of the Prince Quarters. There is a name for them—curtains, he thinks. Even though his mother made her living as a weaver, they did not have curtains in their small cottage. Instead, they used wooden shutters to block out unwanted light and slept close to the fire during the cold months to keep warm.

As a Shadow, he slept wherever he was commanded. A cellar, a field, a stable. He was fortunate if he was able to even have a blanket for his weary body to curl underneath. No, it was when he became Patton’s apprentice, that extravagances such as curtains became known to him. His mage apprentice quarters had white curtains. Not a bold, regal red such as the Prince’s Quarters.

It is still peculiar that His Eminence chose the Prince Quarters as the setting of his new lavish confinement. Why not Virgil’s former quarters? Or a supposed guest quarter? Even Patton’s quarters would be somewhat believable.

Furthermore, where does “Roman” supposedly sleeps? Virgil has not even seen his likeness in some time. In all the lies that His Eminence tells Virgil, He never informs him exactly why he is being kept in the Prince’s Quarters. It is almost insulting if He thinks Virgil is incapable of rational thought.

The illogicalness of it could simply be His Eminence’s ploy. He desires for Virgil to think this is a dream and dreams do not make sense. An obvious absurdity could be purposeful to hide away the more subtle absurdities. Virgil cannot let his defense falter for a moment against His Eminence.

The Prince Quarters is certainly a more appealing sight on his eyes than that of his cramped cell. It does not mean his eyes have not grown tired at looking at it. Isolation in a singular environment is torment regardless of one’s surroundings.

Humans are not meant to be limited to seeing the same four walls day in and day out. Humans are pattern-seekers. They seek to find patterns, specifically ones that are pleasurable and add meaning in life. Solitary isolation means there is only one pattern that is pleasureless and meaningless in every way possible. Such an existence messes with one’s grasp of self after a time. An hour feels the same as a day and a day feels the same as an hour.

The only way Virgil has survived is through sheer spite. If he doubts himself for more than a moment, he could not endure otherwise.

Virgil still cannot seem to grasp a coherent sense of time within the Prince Quarters. Time is a rushing fierce current of water and Virgil is helplessly caught in its current, tumbled and thrashed about.

Even so, time does run differently within the confines of the Prince’s Quarter. It is seemingly more linear, consistent in some ways. He continues to not dream—or at least possess any dreams he can remember. There is really only one dream he remembers. He does not know if it is even a dream. It is very possible it is another ploy, another form of His Eminence’s trickery.

All he knows is that he is in the Prince Quarters and it is dark. The intricate décor of the Prince Quarters is reduced to nothing but vague, shapeless silhouettes of the night. Within this darkness, is a figure. A person. Or at least he thinks this shade is a person. It moves around the room, muttering syllables under its breath. Virgil stays still, not giving any indication of being aware of it. But somehow, it knows.

“Virgil,” The shade says, assumingly turning sharply to face him. Virgil does not make a noise. He does not even move. He only stares at the living shadow looming above him.

“Why didn’t you—why did you—” It’s words dissolve into stifled sobs, “You were right, Virgil. I should’ve listened but I—I didn’t, I refused to—and—and I am sorry.”

The shadow collapses onto itself, falling, falling, falling—

“You’re still a moron, you know that?”

“While I am offended that you’d speak so lowly of me, the kingdom actually did not fall apart within the few hours of my absence.”

“Yet.”

The shade huddles near the foot of his bed. Virgil continues watching it with half-lidded eyes. The voice sounds vaguely like Roman. But a form of Roman that Virgil has never seen or heard. Even His Eminence’s frail interpretation is closer to the original than this one. Roman is always too haughty, too prideful to admit his faults. Even so, there is no wrongdoing for Roman to admit. It doesn’t make any sense.

Virgil has no one to blame for his torment, no one but himself. It is because he is weak, he is a shadow—an apparition. He should’ve died long before Patton claimed him as his apprentice. Yet selfishly, he cherishes it nonetheless. For a fleeting, few years—he knew some semblance of happiness he hadn’t known since his mother’s passing. It was everything to him and nothing to them.

Even though within the recesses of his mind, he dares to refer to Roman, Patton and Logan as friends—it is a lie. A sweet lie that comforts him through the groves of more bitter, twisted lies.

This shade, barely comparable to His Roman, insists otherwise, “I should’ve been the one—I deserved it, you didn’t—you shouldn’t have—”

Virgil doesn’t understand it. This must be a dream—there is no other explanation for it. His Eminence would not ever portray the others taking the blame—He enjoys twisting the knife that is reality too much. It cannot be anything else. It cannot.

There is also no explanation for what Virgil does next. Dream or not, he should not react. He should stay still, stay quiet. No rustling of the covers, no creak of the bed as his weight leaves it. All he knows is that somehow, he ends up kneeling by this shade, offering a hand.

“V-Virgil? You were--What?” This shade, Roman-But-Not, asks. Virgil prods his hand closer to the other’s line of sight. He does not think at first this Roman will accept it. But then a trembling hand clasps onto it. Virgil stands up, tugging Roman upright with him.

“Where—oompfh!”

He pulls them onto the bed. It’s where Roman should be resting—it is his bed after all. Perhaps this really is a dream—in that his mind is attempting to put to rest the absurdity of reality. Although in its own illogical rationale—as dreams often are apt to do.

He does not say anything to this Roman. If he did, then this dream would be that of a nightmare. So instead of words, he clasps tightly to Roman’s hand when the other tries rising from the bed. As tightly as he could muster—for his strength is oh so meager.

Somehow, it is enough to stop this Roman from leaving the bed. The probable prince also does not say any words of his own. A squeeze on Virgil’s hand and heaving breaths are the only things that indicate there is another person beside him.

Yet when Virgil regains consciousness, the Prince Quarters is empty of any indication that its true owner had visited within the last night.

Strange dreams aside, he starts to be able to eat solid foods more easily with only the occasional puking incident. His body hurts, but not like before. It helps when His Eminence has avoided any torments of the physical kind. His skin can no longer be described as raw and bleeding as a fresh cut of meat.

Not-Logan has remained the one to watch over him. Patton-lookalike has made a few visits, keeping up a cheerful stream of nonsense. Virgil refuses to acknowledge it, but there is a small part of him that has been growing too comfortable at the sight of this Patton. But the Piper Prince, the person whose quarters he currently inhabits? It has been a while Virgil has seen a glimpse of him aside from that odd specter. Virgil almost misses his appearance, even if it is just a fake. Even though he should feel more relieved that His Eminence has decided against using his face.

His Eminence has invited him to view the Library a few more times after the first visit. Like a stranded traveler in a desert thirsting for a drop of water, Virgil seeks it every time. It is a new pattern, an opportunity to briefly leave the confines of the Prince Quarters. Virgil still cannot find a crack, a weakness in the illusion. He suspects that the Library is a ploy to gain forbidden knowledge from Virgil’s mind.

It seems like a logical line of thinking. If you lead your victim into an illusion of a highly protected confidential library, the victim will associate it with their own forbidden protected knowledge. Sometimes, Logan asks him if he wants to read a book. Virgil simply shakes his head, willing to sit among the books. Logan oddly enough, doesn’t insist on it.

Virgil wonders how much His Eminence is willing to be patient before he gives up on this ploy. Eventually, He will snap. He has to. But the Prince Quarters is still a prison cell and he is still a man slowly losing every bit of his sanity. The truth is that his most paranoid thought is that none of this is real. Or real in the sense that he is still living and breathing.

What if this was some cruel afterlife designed by the gods for his failures to live a more fulfilling life? Best case scenario, it involves him fulfilling a requirement to pass on to the true afterlife, where he can be with his mother. Worst case scenario, he’s trapped here forever.

Or maybe instead of the last moments of his life flashing before his eyes before he dies, the Ether has chosen to leave him with this absurdity.

He blinks and the curtains are nonexistent. He sees not curtains but lines upon lines of rusted iron bars. A face lies half-hidden behind them, with eyes that gleam a bit too unnaturally. Virgil stumbles aback, his heart beating faster at the sight of it.

“What do you want?” He demands, baring his teeth in an animalistic fashion. He doesn’t understand why the visitor is here. He wants to be left alone in the few remaining moments he has left.

The visitor looks at him, smiling. It is a semi-circle that does not convey cruelty but something just as violent; kindness. There are lines on the visitor’s face—crinkles that indicate this visitor has done much of this smiling in his life. The visitor opens his mouth and says—

“Virgil!”

Without any rhyme or reason or explanation, Roman is here. It is too much of a coincidence. It makes Virgil on edge as to what His Eminence has planned in this. This Roman does not, however, weep or make guilty proclamations. Instead, he sits by the bed, detailing his latest duel against his sword fighting instructor.

“So just as he was about to disarm me, I managed to parry and then with quick thinking on my part–”

There’s a knock on the door. It startles Virgil. Never before has there been a knock at the door. Even Roman seems surprised by it, or at least acts surprised. He stands up immediately, positioning himself between the door and Virgil.

“Who is it?” Roman growls, a hand clutching tightly to the hilt of his sword.

“Why, only the most beguiling knight of the realm,” Answers a seasoned, witty voice. It’s familiar. Why does it sound so familiar?

Roman’s hand flies away from his sword as the tension is sharply swept from his demeanor. He practically bounds across the room to open the door. Virgil watches, his reed pen loose in his grasp. It’s the first time he’s really seen Roman this excited since…well. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was really his Roman.

“You’re back!” Roman cries, throwing the door wide open. His back blocks Virgil’s view so he has no idea who he is speaking to. Only that the visible tuft of peppered black hair confirms it can’t be Logan or Patton.

“What, missed me?” The person asks and their question is clearly answered by Roman throwing his arms around them in an encompassing embrace. They share a few words, but Virgil can’t hear them.

“Virgil, look it’s Remy,” Roman says, eyes bright. He clearly expects Virgil to know who it is, but he doesn’t. Is this another ploy of His Eminence? Did He expect Virgil to be more at ease with a foreign face than that of those he treasured most?

Virgil stares, refusing to give His Eminence any sort of reaction.

“Hey Virgil, it’s been a while.” The Knight, apparently Remy, greets him. His voice is softer, more rounded than the shrewd mirth thrown Roman’s way. That isn’t…that doesn’t feel right. Virgil does not know why, but that feels just as wrong as any of the uncharacteristic quirks that occur when His Eminence portrays Roman, Patton or Logan.

Virgil takes a long breath. It does nothing to quell the racing of his heart or the frost that creeps up every inch of his body. If this Remy is disappointed by Virgil’s lack of acknowledgement, it is not made known. Instead he turns to face Roman.

“Your father, The King, is requesting an audience with you.” The knight tells him.

Roman stiffens, the brightness within him extinguishing to burnt coals. “What does he want?”

Remy coughs out a dry laugh, “As much as His Majesty would like it to be the case, I cannot read minds. That is for you to find out when you go to speak with him. I’ve heard you’ve ignored his last two summons, I suggest for the sake of everyone’s benefit, you do not ignore this one.”

At the end of his words, Remy glances towards Virgil. An unspoken message, one that Virgil does not understand. This Roman seems to understand, as his posture straightened, elongating into the perfect poise expectant of a Crown Prince.

“Virgil, I–I must go,” Roman says, “but Remy will keep you company.”

“My prince, I am a busy servant of the crown, so presumptuous of you to claim I may be able to spare the time to keep him company.”

The reed pen in Virgil’s hand drops with a dull thud into his journal pages. It is one thing for Patton and Logan to speak so freely with Roman–who is this Remy to speak with the same nonchalance?

“Must I make it a command?” Roman huffs, exasperated more than any hint of outrage, “you would not be here unless you had the time and desire to spare.”

“Right you are, my prince,” Remy smirks, leaning back against the wall, “your sense of perception seems to have grown in my absence. Go now, lest you want to keep His Majesty waiting.”

Roman rolls his eyes but he does not protest the idea. As his hand makes contact with the doorknob, he looks over his shoulder at the two of them.

“Remy, promise you’ll keep him safe?”

“Of course–your will is mine to fulfill,” Remy says, faithfully reciting the knightly pledge to their lords, “Now go.”

This satisfies Roman at last, who leaves without sparing one last look towards Virgil.

He leaves–and for the first time for perhaps many, many months, Virgil is left in the presence of a face that does not belong to either Roman, Logan or Patton. Early on in his imprisonment, there were other faces.

Faces he did not recognize—the faces that captured him and presented him to His Eminence as a treasured sacrifice to earn His Eminence’s blessings. There were also the faces that shoved him into the cell and had occasionally been the faces to bring him food and water. Slowly, those faces faded from his awareness as His Eminence isolated him—insisting to be the only one to have the honor of breaking his will and spirit.

So why has His Eminence taken this unrecognizable form? If Virgil has refused to say anything in the face of Roman, Patton or Logan, why would he say anything to the face of a man he has no attachment to?

A soft clink disturbs Virgil from his thoughts. A knife. There is a small silver knife in Remy’s hands. Oh, oh. This is it, then. Virgil can see the ploy for what it is, now. This is His Eminence’s way of still inflicting pain onto Virgil. This Remy figment will slice into his body, cut him up and tell him that if he says anything to the others, he will produce the same harm onto them.

Remy’s eyes latch onto his own. He steps closer to Virgil, still clasping the knife. Virgil does not move away, remaining the same position as if he is just a statue that also happens to breathe air. He waits for the knife to knick his skin, narrowing avoiding vital arteries or organs but causing pain all the same.

“Here.” Remy says instead, holding the knife out to him, “This is for you.”

Virgil is no longer a statue that happens to breathe air. He is a statue that does not breathe air because statues do not need it to survive. Why is Remy offering him a weapon? Is this a taunt? A demonstration to show that even if Virgil is armed, all of it will be meaningless?

Yet Virgil cannot help himself as air flows through his lungs at long last. He reaches out, snatching the knife away. It is a simple practical knife, like the ones he once used when he was just a shadow and nothing more. He does not take time to admire it, slipping it away into the folds of his clothes. Remy stands there, making no attempt to take it away from him.

“It is hard isn’t it? To feel safe without a sliver of metal close by your side?” Remy says, the words slicing Virgil deep.

For it is true–the feeling of a knife close to his person is far too soothening to his soul than it should be. More than the steadiness of a comfortable resting place and food could ever provide. It almost makes Virgil prefer it if Remy had used the knife to inflict actual pain.

Remy continues on, “Now, I know this goes without saying but don’t let the others know of that knife–they wouldn’t understand that feeling the way you and I do.”

Then his hands move, making crisp, smooth motions. Knight, report?

Virgil cannot speak. He must not speak. As long as he can draw air from his lungs, he will not let words fall from his mouth. But his hands can speak. They were taught to speak first by his mother–forming simple words that allowed them to communicate with the Deaf merchant that would occasionally buy his mother’s crafts. Then as a Shadow–communication by other nonverbal means was essential. Silence is often a necessity.

His hands move before his mind can think. Good, all good. His throat burns all the same–just as it would if sound had attempted to come out. His hands tremble. If he had held onto the knife, he might’ve accidentally cut himself by now. His Eminence now knows he can speak–perhaps this is why His Eminence has never damaged his hands. He should’ve known this would be a possibility, an exploit that His Eminence would use. Similar to the attempt with the journal.

Hands hold onto his own hands. It is a gentle pressure, one that Virgil could easily escape its grip if needed.

“Sorry, Virge–I had no idea that would–well,” Remy’s eyebrows pinch together, “as I’m sure you know, I’m a man for impulsive follies.”

No, Virgil does not know this. Nor does he intend to convey such a sentiment in any discernible method of communication. More to the point–nothing that has occurred in the last five minutes has made any sense. For months, he has known what to expect from His Eminence’s mockery of Roman, Patton and Logan. He cannot predict the actions of a character that has no purpose in this pseudo play.

He blinks at Remy. This is enough for the knight to release Virgil’s hands, somehow.

“May I show you something?” Remy asks.

Now, this. Virgil knows what this means. It does not matter what Virgil wants, Remy will show him and it will be whatever His Eminence wants him to believe.

Even knowing this, there is a festering curiosity within Virgil. A small emotionless detached part of him idly wonders where His Eminence is attempting to accomplish.

Slowly, Virgil nods his head. This is all that is needed for a flame to burst into life in the cusp of Remy’s palm. It does not stay contained onto his palm. It dances from hand to hand, winding through the air as it morphs into various shapes. A dragon with terribly fierce teeth descending with a burst of flame. A bird, no a phoenix rising high before crashing and turning into flickers of flames. A great cat of some sort, prowling at some imaginary prey.

But the fire is more than a dragon, phoenix or great cat. There is something Remy is showing him. Remy is a Blessed–one who has been touched by the Ether. This is not surprising information to Virgil–for His Eminence could not twist his visage into the likenesses of others without calling forth the blessings of Ether.

“There is one other thing you should know about illusions,” Patton tells him after a show, “those trained in the illusionary arts are usually capable of concealing their Ether signatures–but sometimes if you concentrate and focus on following the Ether to its source, you can find the individual behind the illusion.”

Virgil can scarcely feel the stirring of the Ether within him. But the Ether that flows through Remy–weaving back and forth in bright fiery images? There is no concealment on his end, no masking the Ether that sings loudly through him. Ether that is untainted and unpolluted unlike the dark, oppressive Ether that His Eminence wields with force.

But that can’t be true. This has to be His Eminence. Because otherwise this would mean this is real–and that somehow, some way, he is not enduring another of His Eminence’s machinations designed to torment and agonize him until he gives up what He wants–

“Do you understand, Stormy?” Remy asks, the flame dissipating entirely from his hands.

No, Virgil very much does not understand. But even if he wants to express this, he does not. Instead, he turns to his journal, drawing wavy lines that have no purpose or meaning. Remy does not punish him for not responding. He just takes out a knife, running his fingers against its dull edge. He says words, things that have a sense of meaning and purpose behind them, but Virgil does not hear them. He waits and waits for Roman to return, for something to bring more clarity to his situation.

Roman does not return back. Instead it is a harried Logan who thanks Remy for keeping Virgil company and does not say why Roman did not return.

Part 2: More is Thy Due Than More than All Can Pay

That night, Virgil sneaks out.

The castle, like many old structures, is imbued with Ether. The lifeblood of the gods flows through its every nook and cranny. It is said there is a sentience to it that even non-Blessed have felt. The Castle knows its purpose–it is meant to keep unwanted intruders out. It will not let in those who will bring harm to its inhabitants. Such is the reason that there hasn’t been a successful assassination on castle ground for centuries.

Virgil can barely sense the Ether flowing through it now. It is so faint, he is not sure if he can trust that it is nothing more than the Ether of His Eminence, crafted and manipulated to imitate its more purified form.

He comes across the entrance to one of the lesser used castle towers. It is a familiar sight to him. When he first came to the castle as Patton’s apprentice, he used to sneak off there during nights wrought with insomnia. Now he seeks out its solace as an escape for the anxiety gnawing in his chest.

He rushes up the steep stairway, ignoring the growing ache in his legs from such exertion. But when he reaches the top, there is someone already there.

Roman sits there, his arms wrapped around his knees. His head is tucked into his chest, face hidden from view. Virgil wavers on the stairways. He should not hesitate. The choice is simple–he should flee before Roman is made of his presence.

Virgil does the exact opposite. He creeps closer, keeping his footsteps silent on the stone floor of the tower. He is about a foot away when he realizes he doesn’t know what to do. So he does what Patton would do. Virgil taps Roman’s shoulder, causing him to startle and turn to face him.

“Virgil?” Roman whispers, his face blotchy from tears.

He reaches his arms out as he tilts his head. Hug?

Roman latches onto him immediately and continues crying as Virgil awkwardly pat his back.

“I shouldn’t have ever insisted on leaving the castle. You wouldn’t have had to save me and go through all of that. Gods, Virgil you have every right to hate me and I don’t blame you,” Roman babbles, leaning his head against Virgil’s shoulder, “I hate myself.”

Virgil is reeling. He doesn’t understand what Roman is saying. No, no His Eminence told him he’d been taken because he was—is—weak. He doesn’t remember saving Roman. He pulls away from Roman to get a look at his face. Roman holds still, barely making eye-contact with him. Virgil opens his mouth.

“W-whaafgk—" He goes into a coughing fit, “W-w-w-wagfk?”

It is low and raspy, barely decipherable but still it is a word communicated through voice. He wants to elaborate more on his question, but his vocal chords freeze up. Because oh gods—he spoke. He shuts his eyes tightly, letting go of Roman completely. He shakes, and he is certain the world has ended because he spoke. Not once, but twice now through his hands and his voice. He has been able to be strong for a long while now–why is he allowing himself to falter now?

A hand touches his shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch. He leans into it. A soft voice whispers reassuring words to him.

“You’re safe now, my dark and stormy knight. I will not allow harm to ever befall upon you again, I swear it.”

He calms down, once he realizes that Roman hasn’t died because he spoke. He thinks—no, he knows it has to be Roman here with him. It shouldn’t be real. Because if it is real then it means everything that has been in the castle has been real. The food, the textures, the people. Everyone is too kind. But most importantly, Not-Roman never cries. It is Virgil who always cries.

Not-Roman is always placing the blame on Virgil. He always hates Virgil’s guts. He’d never claim it is his fault and that he hates himself more than anything.

Roman looks at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You asked me ‘what’ earlier, right?”

Virgil nods.

“Do you…not remember what happened before they took you?”

He shakes his head, staring at the floor. Roman squeezes one of his hands, causing him to look up. The Prince’s gaze is determined and resolute.

“You deserve to know.”

Roman starts telling him, and as he listens, Virgil remembers.

There is a day where Virgil happens to utter the words: “This is a dumbass idea and you know it.”

These words are directed towards the Crown Prince, who scoffs in response, “Oh hush, Mordread, it’s a brilliant idea and you know it.”

“We’re going to get caught.”

“We’re not going to get caught!”

“Yes we will. We will get caught by the guards or worse yet, you will be murdered outside castle walls and subsequently your father will have me executed for being an accomplice to your murder.”

Roman groans. He is digging through his wardrobe, tossing garments left and right. He then very intentionally flings a blouse into Virgil’s face, “Listen, I am sick and tired of wasting away inside this castle! If I have to spend one more day here, I am going to die!”

“Then perish,” Virgil says wryly, picking up the blouse off his face, “tell me, why have you come seeking my help?”

“Well, Patton and Logan are obviously too busy in their duties to assist me in my endeavors–” “Wrong, you knew Logan would say no because it’s illogical and reckless meanwhile Patton wouldn’t do it because he’s too much of a rule follower for the most part.”

“Do not interrupt me!” Roman cries out, jabbing a finger in his direction, “I could have you hung for your insolence.”

There is once a time in a not so distant past that sentence would’ve struck some amount of fear into Virgil. Instead, he merely raises an eyebrow at it.

“Alright, fine, yes you are right!” Roman admits, “But please Virgil–a good prince needs to know the happenings of his kingdom. How can I do that behind a stone wall?”

“C’mon Princey, we both know it’s more than that chivalrous bullshit,” Virgil rolls his eyes, “out with it.”

“I’m curious what it’d be like to…not be Prince Roman,” The Crown Prince laughs sheepishly, “I mean, not be the Crown Prince? I couldn’t fathom such an idea of a world without my fabulous self!”

Roman twirls in a circle, practically giddy.

“But—” He nervously wrings his hands, “It would be nice to interact with my citizens without the formalities. Plus, with this disguise, I’ll be incognito!”

He wraps a shawl around his shoulders, doing a poor job of concealing his identity.

“What do you think?!”

Virgil withholds a chuckle.

“First off, is that a tablecloth you stole from the dining halls? Second, you’re not going to fool anyone with anything from your wardrobe. Everyone around a ten mile radius is gonna know you reek of royalty.”

“Oh? Can I take your words to mean that you’ll help?” Roman asks.

Virgil freezes. He isn’t actually going to help him, is he? The idea is ludicrous—there are so many reasons why and how it could go wrong and yet–well.

He can’t help but think back about how Roman dropped his bravado façade for a brief moment. Not enough to fully admit his insecurities. But just enough to reveal them to Virgil. Roman and Virgil don’t get along well—they had a rocky first meeting. Virgil assumed he was your typical pompous noble. Roman assumed Virgil would stab Patton in the back the first opportunity he received.

They have come to tolerate one another since that first meeting. Roman still refers to him by demeaning nicknames and disdain. Virgil still fires back at him with his biting sarcasm. But it is much better than before where the two couldn’t be left alone in the same room without starting an all-out brawl.

Roman has lived most of his life behind the castle walls. The time he has spent outside has been during parades or celebrations, where everyone has been on their best behavior. Or on hunting parties, in the forest where the common people are not allowed to hunt. He doesn’t know what the real world is like.

Still, Roman has enough brains to seek out Virgil rather than execute his plan by himself. Roman’s plan, as idiotic as it is, isn’t entirely without its’ warrants. It'd be good for the Prince to see what his people say when not in the supposed company of nobility. But most importantly, he trusts Virgil.

There is also the other fact that Roman is stubborn. Once he gets an idea stuck in his brain, it’s hard to convince him otherwise. If Virgil says no, he’ll definitely find a way to do it by himself. By the looks of the dinner cloth shawl, that does not bode well. But if Virgil says yes, he can ensure Roman’s safety. He’ll protect him.

“Ugh, alright. I live to serve, my liege.”

“Wait, you mean you’re–”

“--actually gonna help you with your crazy stupid idea? Yeah, I am. Let’s just hope neither of us regrets this.”

“Oh no regrets will be made, trust me!” Roman says, clasping Virgil’s hand, “this is a great favor you are bestowing upon me and as such, I promise to repay you tenfold.”

“If we’re going to go through with this,” Virgil says, holding onto Roman’s own hand firmly, “there’s a few rules you need to promise me you’ll abide by.”

“Such as?”

“Rule 1, outside these walls–you’re not the prince, you’re a lowly commoner. You have to believe that because otherwise nobody else will believe that.”

“Oh that is easy–I’m a natural born actor.” Roman boists.

“Rule 2, what I say goes. You listen to me out there–or else this is not going to work. And Rule 3? The minute something threatens your safety, we go back. Got it?”

“I swear by my mother’s gravestone, I will uphold your terms and conditions.” Roman says, his hand cradled close to his chest.

And well–Roman does listen. Throughout the walk through the hidden passageways of the castle and out into the bustling marketplace. When Virgil determines that they should leave for the castle before too many people take notice of the missing Crown Prince, Roman does not protest. All in all, it is rather...underwhelming how nothing went wrong.

In the passageway that leads back into the castle, Roman lets out a laugh. There is a grin stretching wide across his face, one that is a little too haughty in Virgil’s opinion.

“Look!” He proclaims, “We’re fine! Back without a scratch! What do you say to that?”

Virgil snorts, “You’re still a moron, you know that?”

“Ah!” Roman sprays a hand across his chest as if struck by an arrow, “While I am offended that you’d speak so lowly of me, the kingdom actually did not fall apart within the few hours of my absence.”

“Yet.” Virgil says, “we still have yet to return properly to the castle.”

Roman just hums, his glee untempered by Virgil’s coarse words. Somehow, someway, it is almost endearing. Despite the crown prince’s frequent open displays of emotion, Virgil has never seen him this happy before.

So when Roman asks him a few days later for an excursion outside the castle walls, he does not have to twist Virgil’s arm too hard on it. Until two outings turn into three and four, and they keep on going out. Virgil grows way too complacent, until the Ether calls out to him in warning one evening. It is a bright evening of a festival that has no purpose other than to be an excuse for good spirits and laughter.

It does not take long to decipher the Ether's meaning. There are several individuals that are trailing them, following their every move. One of them wears a distinct silver gauntlet–a silver gauntlet Virgil knows all too well. He does not know how they know of their presence, but it does not matter. They need to leave, now.

“Roman, we need to go. They’re here.” Virgil hisses.

“Who? I don’t see—”

“Shh! We go now. Rule number two, remember?” He grabs hold of Roman’s hand and tugs him along in a zigzag pattern.

“Hey—what’s wrong?” Roman yelps

“Danger.” Virgil answers, and leaves it at that.

He thinks they have lost them. But really, he should’ve known better. As they duck into an alley, they spring upon the two. Virgil does the only thing he can do—magic.

It is barely his second year as a mage’s apprentice and his connection to the Ether is weak. But he has to try—even if it kills him.

“Og Omeh!” He shouts, placing a hand upon a startled Roman’s chest.

His hand glows and with a bright flash Roman is gone. Virgil is left, collapsed at the foot of the Haldoofse, their pursuers. The spell has taken every ounce of his energy –but Roman is safe and that is what all that matters right now. Virgil has kept his promise.

One of them picks up Virgil by the shirt.

“What’d you do?” The man demands.

“Abracadabra.” Virgil mumbles, spitting blood in his face.

The man doesn’t like that. He raises his fist and then before Virgil can react everything fades to black.

Virgil cries in the midst of Roman’s own account of the events that happened. Roman thinks it’s his fault, but Virgil refuses to accept his apology. He keeps shaking his head. He does not have the words to tell him. They remain stuck in his brain, swishing around.

He saved Roman—he isn’t weak after all. But he still feels weak. If he’d refused to help Roman at the beginning, then he’d never been in danger in the first place. He’d grown too complacent in their numerous outings. His captors were right—he does deserve to be in that prison cell.

He doesn’t understand why the others freed him. Suddenly things feel too big, too open. He shouldn’t be here. Open is bad. Open means freedom and he doesn’t deserve freedom. He yanks his hand out of Roman’s grip and runs down the stairs.

“Virgil, wait!” Roman calls out, attempting to follow after him.

Weak as Virgil still is, adrenaline is a miracle maker. He races down the windy corridors until he discovers a small broom closet. He opens the door and closes it, dousing him in darkness. He scrambles away from the door, until his back hits the wall of the closet.

He breathes heavily and waits for Roman to open the door and drag him away. But he doesn’t want to leave. Warm soft beds and visits to the gardens aren’t for people like him. He does miss his journal. Virgil has taken to running his fingers against the raised edges of the cover. It helps ground him in times of panic.

Roman doesn’t open the door, though he can hear his voice in the far-off distance. The Crown Prince does not know he is here. He breathes a sigh in relief. Virgil sits and sits in the darkness. He does not think he falls asleep yet when the door does open, it jostles him from slumber.

“Virgil, are you here?” Logan.

He does not respond. He tries not breathing, but it only results in him breathing noisier. There is light streaming in from the doorframe. He is certain Logan knows he is here. Yet he does not attempt to drag him away from the closet.

Logan instead sits by the doorframe.

“Roman did not mean to frighten you by bringing up bad memories.”

Virgil says nothing.

“He is upset that he caused you such anguish. He is concerned about you being lost and hurt somewhere—Patton and I had been as well.”

He hesitates, before slowly crawling forward. Logan, concerned? The Royal Advisor often proclaimed how he wasn’t affected by such sentimentalism. But there is a soft look on Logan’s face. He does not make a big deal of Virgil showing his face to him. Though his lips do twitch upwards.

“I am pleased to see you are unharmed.” Logan informs him.

Virgil shrugs.

“It is not yet lunchtime, but I am certain we can find something to eat in the kitchens—”

He offers a hand towards Virgil, who shrinks back. Logan’s expression morphs.

“Do you not want to go to the kitchens?”

Virgil shakes his head. He doesn’t want to go to the kitchens or the garden or the library. Not even to Roman’s quarters and his soft bed. He does not know why Roman gives up his bed to him. He doesn’t know why any of them would love him after what has happened.

Logan studies him for a moment. It is not in a cold, callous demeanor like he has seen when They use his face. But more of a quiet, considerate one.

“Would you like to go back to Roman’s quarters?” He adds on, “We can arrange food to be brought up to the quarters.”

A slow shake.

“No?” Logan asks, puzzled, “You want…you want to stay here?”

Furious nod.

“Why?”

Virgil’s lips part—but all his thoughts come careening to a halt. He cannot speak, whether it be through words shaped by voice, hands or ink. He instead stares at the ground, unsure how to tell Logan why he belongs here and not outside.

“Here.”

Something rectangle is pressed into his hands. He looks to see it is a small brown leather journal. It is the perfect size to fit into a breast pocket and half its pages are filled already with Logan’s messy shorthand. There is a reed pen resting where there is blank paper. He glances up towards Logan, confused.

“I wish to help, Virgil,” Logan begins, “but I don’t know how to help if you don’t tell me—or in this case write to me about what’s wrong. Why do you want to stay here?”

Virgil frowns, his fingers curling around the writing instrument. Writing is bad—but that is only because he thought he’d hurt his friends. He’d thought this hadn’t been real but just a ploy by his captors. But this is real—isn’t it?

Virgil doesn’t know what to think anymore. He is a leaf blowing aimlessly in the wind. He is a ship lost at sea. He is a broken compass. What is up is down and what is down is up. Two plus two equals five. Dragons are benevolent, and unicorns are malevolent. The cow jumps over the moon and the dish runs away with the spoon.

If he writes, surely something will go wrong. It’s what the tightening of his throat, threatening to cut off his oxygen, tells him. But that is wrong—the thought, not the actual writing. He has refused to write to protect his friends. But Logan is his friend and he is with him right now.

If he wants to help Logan, doesn’t that mean he should answer his question?

No, he has to know that this is Logan and not His Eminence. Something that Logan possesses, that His Eminence would not know.

Shakily, he draws dots. Meaningful dots, with a line that connects through every single one of them. The Locutus constellation–the very one tattooed on the real Logan’s back. He shows it to Logan, pointing between him and the drawing.

Logan looks at it. He looks at Virgil. His Logan is smart, he figures it out without asking any questions. He turns around, raising up his blouse to show the beautiful ink etchings that stretch across his back. It is on skin that is blemished with irreversible blotches of an illness that nearly took Logan’s life long before Virgil met him. Both things that were always, always, always absent among the welts and cuts and broken bones that Not-Logan would endure.

He starts writing. His hand is shaky, and the words look like chicken scrawl, but they are words nonetheless. He doesn’t look at Logan as he hands it back to him.

I bEloNG hErE. It’S WhAt I DesErVE.

Virgil’s cheeks are wet. He is crying. He does not realize this fact until Logan uses his thumb to wipe away his tears. The journal is abandoned on the ground in the favor of comforting Virgil.

“I do not know what they told you, but I do know whatever they said, it is all falsehoods,” Logan tells him solemnly, “No human being deserves to be treated the way you were. You are entitled to basic human decency. You deserve adequate amounts of food, water and freedom. Most importantly, you deserve love. Do you understand?”

The words take a while for Virgil to process. He knows that His Eminence told lies–He’d execute ploys and tricks, anything to get Virgil finally break and tell Him what He wanted to know.

Where are the castle’s weak points? Does the Court Mage have any lovers? What is the Crown Prince’s fighting style?

The list goes on and on.

Virgil knows He lied and tricked and deceived him—and yet, he still believed the biggest lie of all; he deserved it. His Eminence told him he was there because he was weak. He was there because no one would miss a charity case of a mage’s apprentice. He was there because he deserved it.

But none of that is true.

It takes until Logan’s words for him to realize that fact.

Logan never lies. He likes cold hard facts. He says what’s on his mind—to the point that he’s sometimes too blunt with his words. Virgil thinks that maybe he can trust Logan’s words. They don’t magically fix all of his doubts and fears. But they help.

Virgil nods his head, hiccupping.

Logan envelopes him in a very loose embrace. He places his hands gingerly over Virgil’s back, prepared to draw back at the slightest hint of Virgil being uncomfortable. But Virgil leans into the hug, resting his head against Logan’s chest. They stay there until they hear the distant voices of Roman and Patton.

They are still looking for Virgil.

“We should go to them.” Logan says, breaking away.

The royal advisor stands up and offers his hand yet again to Virgil.

He takes it, after a moment’s hesitation.

He doesn’t see Roman for a few weeks after the incident. Patton and Logan both say that the prince is busy with his royal duties. Virgil doesn’t believe them. Especially with how their eyes dart away and they quickly change the conversation.

They start leaving him alone for short intervals of the day. As much as Virgil appreciates not being under constant surveillance, a panic arises from being alone. He feels safe in the others’ presences. When they are with him, it is easy for him to remember that they are here and that they won’t abandon him.

Once, Virgil liked being alone. He enjoyed long stretches of solitude. There is a peacefulness to it, listening to nature’s sounds or the noise of your own heartbeat. But that is then, and this is now. Now being alone brings back memories of the cell.

He’d liked being alone in his cell. Being alone meant His Eminence wasn't there to torment him. That was good. But just because it meant Virgil was away from Him didn’t mean he still didn’t suffer chained in a cell, with no food or water.

The nightmares are back. Nightmares where he screams and screams but no one comes and saves him. Worse, They show up to taunt him and make him think he’s brought harm to his friends. Sometimes, they make him doubt again if being in the castle is a dream and those nightmares are truly his reality.

So, no he doesn’t really like being alone.

Oftentimes, if it is not official royal business, they will let him tag along. Patton has taken him down to the room where he keeps all his magic scrolls and supplies for potions. There, Virgil sits in a corner as Patton conducts his work. The mage explains it to him as he goes, and Virgil listens raptly.

The two have been working on trying to relight Virgil’s connection to the Ether that has been extinguished. It took a lot of coaxing on Patton’s part to get Virgil to try again. Because what if he cannot ever use the Ether again? How can he be the mage’s apprentice then?

Nothing has occurred yet, despite numerous attempts. Virgil has grown disheartened at each failure. Patton keeps faith.

“Virgil, you performed a high energy spell and then you went malnourished for nearly a year,” Patton says firmly, “It is going to be a long while before you recover completely. And that is okay.”

It’s hard to believe that, especially when the Ether remains mostly silent. But Patton believes in it, and so he keeps trying for his sake. Because Virgil trusts him.

Virgil is alone, drawing, in Roman’s quarters. He does not know where Roman sleeps. Virgil has never asked the others that question. Nor does he question who it is that quiets him after a nightmare and lulls him back to sleep with lullabies.

(He already knows it is Roman. It has always been Roman who comforts him with a lullaby. Because neither Patton or Logan sing. Patton whispers soft reassurances while Logan distracts him with the names of the constellations. But he is half-asleep when it occurs, and the prince is always gone by morning.)

He is working on a drawing of a thunderstorm. Virgil is working on the shading when there is a rhythmic knock before the door opens. He tenses, scanning his surroundings for potential escape routes and makeshift weapons. He exhales slowly when he realizes it is only Patton.

“Hello Virgil!” The mage chirps, as he strides over to the bedside. He is hiding something underneath his cloak. It is bulky and cube-shaped. A box of some sort? A gift, perhaps? He notices Virgil’s inquisitive gaze and chuckles.

“I got a surprise for you!”

Virgil smiles nervously. He knows that Patton’s surprises are good things. Like flower-crowns or cookies. But the uncertainty still haunts him.

Virgil hasn’t attempted communicating with words since that moment with Logan. Strangely, the others have not pressured him to communicate, thankfully. What he does instead of words, is nod approvingly towards Patton revealing the surprise.

Patton grins, and reveals what’s underneath his cloak. It is a plain wicker basket with a lid. Something rustles from within the container—something alive.

“Go on, open it.” He encourages Virgil, holding the basket towards him.

Virgil places his fingertips on the lid, takes a breath, and then pulls it off. A pair of glimmering green eyes peers up at him. They are big and round and so, so curious. Virgil gapes at the sight for a long while—long enough for the being to get impatient and let out a pitiful wail.

“Go on,” Patton encourages, “she doesn’t bite—much.”

Virgil lets out an amused huff, before he reaches into the basket and picks up the creature. Now that it is out of the dark interior of the basket, he can see it more clearly. It is a black kitten—old enough to be independent from its mother. A ribbon is loosely tied around its’ neck. Its’ purple. Virgil’s favorite color is purple.

A slow smile spreads across his face as he pets the kitten. That can’t be a coincidence, right? He looks over to Patton for clarification, his eyes flickering to the purring kitten in his lap and back to Patton.

“The kittens are ready to be weaned from Lady Mittens,” Patton explains, reaching out to scratch underneath the kitten’s chin, “and I thought maybe this little lady could keep you company whenever Logan, Roman and I are all busy.”

Virgil freezes, his hand levitating inches above the kitten’s fur. The young feline is discontent with this, batting its paw at him to continue. He ignores it, as he blinks rapidly. It doesn’t stop a few stray tears from falling, however.

Patton knows he struggles with being alone. But rather than making fun of him or call it silly—he found a solution to Virgil’s problem. With this kitten, Virgil no longer has to be alone anymore.

Patton misinterprets the tears completely.

“It’s okay kiddo if you don’t want her! I am sure she can find—”

A finger presses against his lips, causing Patton to stop. Virgil withdraws his finger and the two stare at one another. Virgil breaks it first, an odd guffaw rising from his throat. He carefully deposits the black kitten onto Patton’s lap. The kitten makes little fuss about this, purring with content almost immediately.

‘No.’ Virgil signs, snapping his index and middle finger against his thumb, ‘love kitten. Love you.’

“I’m so glad!” Patton sniffles, throwing his arms around Virgil’s neck. The kitten squeaks in protest of being squished between the two. Thankfully Patton withdraws within seconds.

“You can name her, you know. I called her Blacky but since she’s yours now, you can choose a new name.” Patton says, petting the kitten to assuage it.

Virgil considers it for a moment. His eyes drift to the unfinished thunderstorm sketch in his journal. He thinks of the patron goddess of his home village and her signature weapon; lightning bolts.

‘Taran.’ Virgil decides.

Patton’s eyes widens at the name. The name of such a ferocious god seems odd for a harmless kitten. However, in his home village, to name an animal after a god is to invite their blessing upon you. Virgil doesn’t know how much he believes in that.

But he can’t argue that the distant rumble of thunder that happens moments later is just a coincidence.

Part 3: Toil and Trouble

Divine blessings or not, Taran’s own presence is its own blessing to Virgil onto itself. She is a reminder of the others’ love for Virgil. Being a growing kitten, she sleeps a lot. But during the hours Taran isn’t sleeping, she is energetic, demanding pets and pouncing on insects.

Caring for Taran gives Virgil a sense of purpose, a responsibility to uphold. It’s small yet significant for him. Logan goes on a long ramble about it—Virgil doesn’t catch all of it. But Logan essentially thinks the kitten is good for Virgil’s health.

It certainly keeps Virgil busy and on his toes, making sure Taran doesn’t get places she shouldn’t be. Such as in the present where he is chasing after the black streak that is Taran. He’d snuck out of his room, taking Taran along with him. He planned to go up to the tower, in the hopes of finding Roman once more. Just as he has done for the past week to no success.

It is doubtful he’ll discover Roman up there again. But he has to try. He has no hope of running into Roman during the daylight. The castle is massive and certain parts are restricted. It has been made clear that Roman does not want to see Virgil. Maybe not directly with words, but through action alone.

He is not content with that answer. Virgil has never been one to respect rules without question. He has always been the one to doubt things, to rebel subtly but rebel all the same. Even more so, he cannot understand why Roman is avoiding him.

Virgil thinks back to the last time he truly saw Roman. It’d been after Logan found him hiding in the broom closet. While Patton fusses over Virgil’s wellbeing, he stands there silently. His eyes bloodshot, his outfit rumpled—unbecoming for a prince. He doesn’t make eye contact with Virgil at all. He averts his eyes to the ground instead.

He leaves as soon as he can. And outside the hysteria of waking up from nightmares, Virgil hasn’t seen him since.

Virgil thinks about the state he found Roman in at the tower and the words he said to him.

“Gods, Virgil you have every right to hate me and I don’t blame you—I hate myself.”

Roman, the haughtiest prince in all of the nine realms, hates himself. He told Virgil he has a right to hate him as well. Virgil, for all his own self-loathing, knows there is some truth to the prince’s words. It is Roman who insisted on the escapades outside the castle walls. But it hadn’t been for Virgil, then Roman would’ve endured the same torment Virgil had gone through.

Virgil would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant he could spare Roman or the others from enduring that dungeon.

He thinks that Roman is hiding from him because he thinks Virgil hates him and doesn’t want to see him. Or rather, he thinks Virgil should hate him. Virgil does want to see Prince Idiot and tell him personally that he doesn’t hate him. He never could.

So he continually keeps visiting the tower and hoping for Roman to show up. He starts taking Taran with him. Usually the kitten falls asleep in Virgil’s arms halfway to the tower. But tonight is different. Taran’s ears prick forward at a sound not audible to Virgil.

Before he can do anything, the kitten wiggles out of his arms and takes off running.

Virgil stares, aghast, before the panic sets in and he races after the kitten. Because oh my gods, what if Taran gets hurt? What if she disappears and never comes back? What if she dies?

His breathing picks up, and it is not due to exertion. Trying to keep track of a black cat in the middle of the night is almost impossible. Virgil is almost certain he is going to lose sight of Taran. The cat ducks into a room and he stops.

There is a faint light coming out of it. Someone is awake and oh gods, Virgil is going to have to go in there, isn’t he?

Virgil could leave Taran in there. She is not an unusual sight in the castle, after all. There are several cats that roam the castle's parameters, keeping it free of mice, rats and other vermin. It is doubtful that the person would harm Taran.

He is worried for Taran’s safety regardless. Yet there is no way in hell he can confront another person like Remy who isn’t Roman, Patton or Logan. They are safe. Strangers are not. They’re dangerous and unpredictable. He refuses to interact with them, even with one of the others by his side.

As he deliberates a few feet away from the partially opened doorway, there’s laughter that comes from the room.

“Well, aren’t you charming?”

Virgil nearly collapses with relief. He knows that voice, even if it’s been a few weeks. It’s Roman. After all this time, he’s finally managed to find him. It is all thanks to Taran--though god or kitten, he does not know who to sing praises to.

He barges into the room without a forewarned knock. The sudden entrance startles the prince. He whips out his saber on instinct, cradling Taran in the other hand. The act of aggression causes Virgil to stop within a few paces of the doorway.

“Virgil,” He exclaims in a hushed whisper, sliding the sword back into his hilt, “what are yo—you scared me!”

Virgil doesn’t make any indication he heard Roman’s words. He’s too focused on Roman’s attire. He is not dressed for bed or in his prince regalia, but armor. Gauntlets, breastplate, the whole works. It is not his royal armor either, but that of an ordinary guard’s. There is a burlap sack beside him that is suspiciously bulky.

He doesn’t know what Roman’s planning. But by the guilty look on his face it can’t be anything good. Because unless the castle is under siege, there is no reason for Roman to be dressed in armor in the dead of night.

“Virgil, please, I can explain—”

But Virgil refuses to listen this time. He will not let Roman be in harm’s way from one of his crazy schemes ever again. He storms over there and takes hold of Roman’s gloved hand by force. He pulls Roman off in the direction of his own royal apartment.

The crown prince is taller and weighs more than Virgil. He has always been physically stronger than Virgil, who excels in other areas such as speed and stealth. Roman could easily break free from Virgil’s grip with little trouble. But he is too stunned to even attempt protesting.

When they reach his quarters, Virgil takes Taran from his grasp. He places the cat safely on the ground. Taran stretches before trotting off to go find a resting spot. Virgil then turns his attention back on Roman. He tugs at one of his gauntlets, wanting it off.

“What are you doing—” Roman protests at last, “I have to go, it’s for your sake Virgil—Ow!”

Roman cries out as Virgil stomps hard on his foot. Virgil who desperately wants to cry out how stupid that is. How could it possibly be for Virgil’s sake, if the last thing he wants is to see is Roman hurt? But the words evade him. Even though he knows he is in the company of friends he is—afraid.

Fear clenches at his throat and refuses to release its’ grip. What is once helpful in survival is now hindering in life.

He instead lights the candle by the bedside and writes something in big, blocky letters. With each letter his stomach threatens an upheaval. He ignores it, tapping the journal repeatedly once finished with the message. Roman leans over to inspect it.

“Don’t go,” Roman reads out loud. He looks up at Virgil, “But I have to go, Virgil.”

Virgil’s response is to push Roman, causing him to fall onto the bed. The prince attempts to rise but gets knocked flat on his back again by Virgil. He climbs into the bed beside Roman and clings onto his left arm. It’s too dark for him to use his journal or his hands to sign and so he hopes his actions are enough to convey their meaning.

Taran, apparently upset to be left out of the cuddling party, leaps onto the bed. She curls up at the base of their feet, purring loudly.

“You’re not…you’re not going to let me go easily, are you?” Roman asks, whispering so quietly Virgil wonders at first if he imagined them.

He shakes his head before realizing the light is too dim for Roman to see him. He leans closer to Roman as an alternative, holding onto him tighter. Roman lets out a defeated sigh.

He shifts, placing an arm around Virgil to embrace him.

“If you so wish, I will stay with you for the night.”

Virgil does, and so Roman stays.

There’s so much he needs to know from Roman. But now is not the time. For now, he is content to coexist peacefully by Roman’s side. Knowing that he is here, safe with Virgil, is all that matters. He falls asleep with his head on Roman’s chest, hearing the steady thrum of the other’s heartbeat.

When he wakes up in the morning, that heartbeat is gone. Instead, Virgil is left clutching at a pillow that is decidedly not Roman. All signs of sleepiness dissipate at once. He flings off the covers, as his eyes scan his surroundings of any signs of Roman. None. There is none.

Because Roman said he’d only stay the night, didn’t he? Virgil hadn’t thought too much of it at the time. But He should’ve done so. Because Roman is a dolt and did what he wanted to do anyways. Something white catches his eyes. It’s on his night stand. A white letter addressed in a fancy cursive script.

V I R G I L

He stares at it, breath hitching. With a shaky hand, he reaches down and grabs it. Taran meows, rubbing her head against Virgil’s leg. She probably wants something to eat. Virgil ignores her. He doesn’t want to unfold the piece of paper. He knows he’s not going to like whatever Roman has written.

But he hates uncertainty more than anything, and that ultimately wins in the end. The paper crinkles as he opens it up. His eyes dart across the piece of paper. Left to right, left to right, left to right. He reaches the end and starts over. Repeatedly.

“Dear Virgil,

It is my obstinance that has caused you unimaginable pain that you never should’ve had to endure. For that, I am deeply sorry. I cannot live another day knowing your tormentors still go unpunished. I have left to right that wrong.

Sincerely,

Roman.”

Teardrops fall onto the paper, marring the ink. The words swirl together until they’re nearly unintelligible. But it doesn’t matter. Virgil knows the words by heart already. He knows what they mean.

Roman is gone. Roman left him. Roman is dead.

Virgil isn’t stupid. He has gone to face His Eminence alone, by himself. There can’t possibly be any scenario where Roman doesn’t die. He is going to die, not before being beaten and bloodied. His Eminence is rather fond of slow, suffering deaths. Virgil has heard the screams of the other dungeon occupants.

He doesn’t want this. He could care less about vengeance. All he wants is for Roman to stay. Stay here, with him and the others, in the safety of the castle. But Roman is gone.

When Patton and Logan find him, he’s rolled up in a ball on the bed, hyperventilating. He clutches the paper tightly in his hands. Taran meows worriedly at him. They deduce rather quickly that he has heard the news.

Patton places a hand on his shoulder, causing Virgil to stiffen.

“Virgil, breathe.” He says.

Virgil tries. But the air feels too thin like he’s going to suffocate—

He can’t do it. Can’t, can’t, can’t!

“C—ca--c--” Virgil tries, grasping for breath. But he can’t even say the word “can’t”. How ironic.

A weight settles on the bed to the left of him. Logan.

“In for four, hold for seven, out for eight.”

What?

It takes him a moment in his state of panic to realize what that means. Logan patiently leads him through it. Even when he fails it repeatedly. Patton squeezes his shoulder, encouraging him to keep trying.

Eventually his breaths become steady again and Virgil is exhausted. He has woken up barely an hour ago and he is ready to fall back asleep again. He slumps against Patton, who massages his back. Virgil lets Logan have a look at Roman’s letter.

It takes Logan some time to decipher the tearstained letter. When he does, he reads it out loud for Patton. By the time Logan finishes reading it, three of them remain huddled close, and not a word is exchanged between them.

Patton and Logan explain later that day to Virgil when they launched an attack on Haldoofse that resulted in Virgil’s rescue, His Eminence had not been among those captured or killed by the King’s army. Assumingly, Roman had gone looking to seek vengeance against Him.

“The King’s best knights are out searching him,” Logan informs him, “they’ll bring him back before he does something stupid.”

Despite his confidence, Virgil knows Logan is just as worried as Patton and him. He can tell by how Logan clutches his hands together until his knuckles are white.

Virgil can’t stay put, however. He needs to find Roman. He needs to be the one to haul him back by the ear. He can do it. Virgil knows all about how to track down someone who doesn’t want to be found. He needs to do it—he can’t fail Roman again.

He does not tell Logan nor Patton about these thoughts in his head. He knows they’d reject the idea immediately. But Patton is intuitive, he’s smarter than anyone gives him credit for. He looks Virgil in the eyes and takes hold of his shoulders.

“Please, don’t go after him, Virge. We can’t afford to lose you again.” Patton tries smiling, but it’s too wobbly and more of a grimace than anything else.

Virgil sees those blue eyes, dulled with that unspoken sadness, and he can’t do it. If he leaves, then it means Logan and Patton will possibly lose not one but two of their friends. Virgil hardly thinks he is as valuable as the prince. But for whatever reason the others thought he was worth risking death to save him. The most he can do is to live and be there for them.

He can’t do that for Roman. He has made his choice. But he has to be there for Logan and Patton. For now.

Part 4: Blood Will Have Blood

Blood, there is so much blood. Gods, it won’t stop pouring out. Virgil can’t move—there are chains holding him still, restraining him. He can’t move—he is stuck in the cell again. Dark, dark, dark—the sun is gone. Yet somehow he can still see the figure slumped lifelessly in front of him, crimson stains on their armor. This is a…dream, right? This can’t be reality.

“Oh, but this is reality.” A voice says, causing him to flinch.

Had he said that last thought out loud? He can’t remember. Maybe His Eminence can read minds—that thought terrifies him. No, no that can’t be true. That’d mean all his efforts to not talk have been in vain. His mind has always been a safe haven. He could think and think whatever he wanted, and He’d never know. The idea that He trespassed into his safe haven horrified him. It’d mean His Eminence is just toying with him after all this time. It means he has always been a plaything for His amusement.

As if in response to that last thought, His Eminence laughs. It is a loud, manic laugh. Virgil flinches. Never has he so desperately wished he is deaf to avoid ever having to hear that awful sound ever again. He twists his face away from the horrific sight in front of him. Away from the cackling. He doesn’t get away with it.

Someone roughly grabs ahold of his chin and forces him to gaze upon it again.

“Looook,” His Eminence hisses, “Look at what you did.”

“I—I didn’t do it,” He protests, those wretched words freely pouring out of his lips, “I’d never!”

“Oh?” His Eminence tilts His head in mock ponderance, “So our beloved prince just happened to run into his own sword?”

White hot anger pierces Virgil’s stomach. He’d never hurt Roman or the others. Never, never, never. His Eminence knows that. That is why He hates Virgil. But with that anger is fear. As the two are oft linked hand-in-hand in joint matrimony with one another. Which is why he so vehemently denies it.

“No, I’d never—” His throat closes up with emotion but he presses on, “No, you did this—you killed him!”

His Eminence laughs again at him, that cruel, despairing noise far from what laughter should sound like.

“Me? I did nothing. You on the other hand?” Hjs Eminence smirks, “look at your hands.”

Virgil shakes his head. No, he won’t listen. He knows how this will end. But he can’t stop himself. He looks down at his hands—no longer encased with chains. Instead of metal chains, he sees blood. The fingers start trembling, but he can’t feel them. Are they really his hands—do those bloody, bloody hands really belong to him?

No, they can’t—he wouldn’t hurt Roman, it’s not real—it can’t possibly—

A hand squeezes his shoulder. He squirms, trying to escape its’ hold.

“Virgil!”

He freezes. He knows that voice. Patton. Virgil gasps, looking around. There’s no more chains, no more blood and no more Ro—he is awake. Or at least he believes that he is awake. This reality is at least more comforting. Patton is there, Virgil’s head rests on his lap as the mage massages his scalp. The touch is gentle and grounding. He is outside somewhere with Patton. He can feel the warm breeze and hear birds sing nearby. But where outside?

Virgil opens his mouth, words at the tip of his tongue. But the image of bloody hands causes his mouth to slide shut.

“I’m here, I got you,” Patton whispers, reassuring him, “You fell asleep and had a bad nightmare but it’s over now. You’re safe with me in the gardens.”

The gardens. Virgil remembers now. Patton had insisted that Virgil was in need of some fresh air. Patton was right, as he typically is. Virgil had been holed up in the crown prince’s quarters, having no motivation to leave it. Instead he has spent his time pacing the rooms and scribbling in his journal.

Sleep has not been a friend to him. It hasn’t been a friend for a long while. He has accepted by this point that nightmares will continue to plague him. But without the prince’s lullabies or rather—the prince himself, the nightmares have evolved.

Everything he closes his eyes, he sees Roman. Lifeless. Eyes glassy like dolls. Crimson red staining his white satin tunic. His arm outstretched, towards Virgil. He dies with a smile on his face. He dies, his last words reassuring Virgil it is okay. It isn’t okay.

Sometimes Roman knows that. He doesn’t die smiling. Instead he angrily blames Virgil for his death. Virgil thinks he prefers these dreams over the others.

His mind has crafted a hundred deaths for Roman, each more gruesome than the last. Each and every one of them Virgil’s fault. Sometimes he’s back in the cell, chained and unable to move. Other times he’s in that alleyway with Roman and unable to magick him away from the Haldoofse. But no matter what, it is always Virgil’s fault in the end that Roman dies.

Virgil can’t sleep. He tries avoiding it as much as he can, as futile as it is. The images of his nightmares lurking in the back of his head, sleep or no sleep. He is exhausted. The world is blurry, and his head hurts and he can hardly concentrate on anything. His journal pages have been reduced to squiggles.

He can’t sleep, but he must sleep to function. Logan and Patton have tried their best to help him. But nothing much can be done with his nightmares. Even Patton’s sleeping potions can’t prevent that.

Virgil shifts his gaze towards the sun, noticing it is significantly closer to the horizon than before. He had to have been asleep for about an hour or two. That would be the longest amount he’s had in the last few days. He wishes he hadn’t slept at all. He feels even more drained than before.

It has been nearly a fortnight since Roman left. It has seemed like years to Virgil, especially in his sleep-deprived state. The kingdom’s finest knights scour the lands in search of him. Still, there is no news whether he is alive or dead. For now, the majority of the kingdom remains blissfully unaware. They think he has simply gone on an extended hunting trip. It is the perfect season for hunting. The weather pleasant, the prey plentiful. It is, however, an illusion that will not last for long.

He hears a muffled sound and he looks up at Patton, who is still playing with Virgil’s hair. Patton is saying something, but it is too soft for Virgil to catch.

Virgil looks at him, confused, mouthing, ‘What?’

He still can’t talk. It isn’t like he is physically incapable of the action. His vocal chords are still intact. Yet nothing comes out, as if Ursula the great sea-witch herself snatched his voice away. He can only really speak in dreams. Bad things always happen when he speaks. Bad things that linger in the back of his mind and keep him from speaking when he’s awake. He knows it’s irrational. He knows they’re not real. But what if he makes them real?

He’s shaken from those thoughts when Patton repeats his words, this time a little louder.

“I said that we should probably head back inside,” Patton says, trying to muster up a grin, “let’s see if we can coax Logan away from his studies to join us for dinner, hm?”

Virgil sits up, offering a small nod.

Much like Virgil has shut himself away in his room, Logan has done likewise with his work. He is Roman’s personal Royal Advisor, positioned to become his right-hand man once he becomes king. As such, Roman’s father, the King, has ordered him to be in charge of recovering Roman.

Virgil sees very little of the King for someone who occupies the same castle as the royal. Even from before, this holds truth. But this is not an anomaly. The King has always preferred to be as far removed from the servants and the common people as possible. He hardly attends the royal council meetings, instead sending a representative in his stead.

“Of course he sends you in his stead,” Roman rolled his eyes once at a meeting, “couldn’t be bothered with actually showing up once in a while, did he?”

There were a few stifled gasps, Virgil included. Only the cocky, bullheaded prince could get away with saying such things.

“The Divine King does not need to meddle in such lowly matters himself,” His representative responded in a droll manner, “Please do try to show proper respect to your father, Crown Prince Roman. When one day you are in his position, you will understand how precious the Divine King’s time is.”

Roman’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he held his tongue. All throughout the meeting, he hardly spoke. Virgil caught him at times, glaring when the representative wasn’t looking.

As Patton and Virgil reenter the castle, they pass by two female servants. One with blond hair, and the other with ebony hair. They do a short curtsy towards them, a common act of reverence towards nobility. Virgil doesn’t think much of it. He is often trailing after Patton and Logan, both who are considered nobility.

Logan had been born into the nobility class. He grew up knowing Roman practically since birth. Whereas Patton, like Virgil, had been a peasant. His parents are farmers and he himself had the destiny of being a farmer until his link to the Ether was discovered. The title of court mage is of nobility, meaning he became nobility when he took up the title.

“Lyla, Aurora, you don’t have to curtesy for little ole me!” Patton says, attempting to wave them off.

A smile graces Virgil’s lips, a rare sight these days. Of course Patton knows these two servants’ names. He is good at remembering every person’s names that he comes across. Or making friends with everyone he meets for that matter.

“We know.” The blond-haired one says, glancing towards Virgil. He does not know why. Is there something distracting about his appearance?

He doesn’t have time to reflect on it. Patton quickly excuses themselves and they continue on their way. They walk through the stone passageways, lined with tapestries depicting battles long gone. Until at last, they reach Logan’s quarters within the castle.

Patton knocks in his patented rhythmic fashion. Two knocks, a pause, followed by three quick knocks in succession.

“Come in,” Logan says from within.

Patton bursts through the door, Virgil following behind.

Logan is sitting at his desk, papers and scrolls cluttering it. He is writing something, his back facing away from the two. Patton gets a sly look on his face. Virgil watches as he walks up to Logan, carefully to keep his footsteps light.

“Guess who?” Patton says, his hands covering Logan’s eyes.

“Patton?” Logan says, a soft warmth to his voice.

“Yup! And Virgil’s with me as well!” Patton removed his hands, allowing Logan to turn and look up at the two.

“Ah, Virgil. It’s good to see you up—up and about.” Logan says, yawning mid-sentence.

Virgil catches himself yawning as well. Patton follows suit. None of them have managed to achieve a full night’s sleep these past few weeks. There are dark circles hidden beneath the spectacles of the other two. Logan appears worse off than Patton. He sways in his chair, eyes bloodshot.

Virgil narrows his eyes, marching forward to pluck the feather quill from Logan’s hand. The royal advisor lets out a muffled cry, reaching for it. Virgil hoists above his head, away from Logan and hands it to Patton. He shoots Patton a desperate look, urging him to say something.

“Logan, Virgil and I came here to see if you’d like to join us for dinner…but I think you need more than that. I think you should take a break—until the morning at least.” Patton says, pressing his lips firmly together.

“I appreciate your concerns, Patton, but I cannot give up—not like before—“ Logan lets out a strangled sound, and he turns his head to look away from the two.

Virgil and Patton exchange looks. Virgil’s eyebrows are furrowed with worry. There is concern shining in Patton’s eyes. But there is also something other emotion flitting across Patton’s face. Virgil can’t discern what it is, and it bothers him.

Patton steps forward, “I’m not asking you to give up. We will find him, Logan. But Virgil and I aren’t going to let you destroy yourself in the process. Please, Logan, you can’t help like this. A person needs sufficient food and rest in order to perform their duties well.”

“You are using my own words against me,” Logan croaks, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes, “but…I suppose I see your point.”

Logan doesn’t admit often when he’s wrong. It irks him. For him to come close to it is a sign of his exhaustion.

“I’m glad,” Patton says, “You are important to us, Logan. We can’t afford to lose you.”

“Well I am not sure--” Logan starts, before crumbling underneath Patton's’ gaze, “Er, thank you Patton and Virgil. It would be...most inopportune to lose either of you as well.”

At the mention his name, Virgil startles. He doesn’t expect for Logan to acknowledge him. Patton did all the talking after all.

“Of course,” Patton says, smiling thinly, “now let’s get out of this stuffy study and get some food, hm?”

They take dinner in Roman’s quarters. It is mostly silent, other than the clinking of cutlery. All of them are on the verge of using their bowls of soup as a makeshift pillow.

Halfway through, Patton lets out a strained giggle. Both Logan and Virgil shoot him a questioning look.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was imagining what it’d be like if—if Roman was with us right now.” Patton says, voice cracking.

Virgil leans over and squeezes Patton’s hand gently. A small gesture of comfort. It is not a reassurance that Roman will return. Virgil can’t promise that. No one can. But it is Virgil showing Patton he also wishes Roman is there with them.

Logan huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Knowing Roman, he’d be making a fuss about the carrots in the soup,” Logan halfheartedly grumbles, “Despite my lectures, he did—he does not seem to comprehend the importance of carrots or vegetables in general.”

“You say that as if you wouldn’t eat Madame Crofter’s jelly for the rest of your life.” Patton teases.

Logan’s cheeks burn red from embarrassment, causing Virgil to snort in amusement.

“I—in any case, when Roman returns, perhaps a fitting punishment would be forcing him to eat nothing but carrots for a week.” Logan says, in an attempt to avert the topic away from him.

The conversation continues after that, but Virgil drowns it out, focusing on one word: When. Logan said “When Roman returns” not “If Roman returns.”

Did Logan really believe that? Logan “I’m Always Serious” Golic? Logan who always berated Patton and Roman for their flights of fancy? Logan who always advocates for logical, sensible thinking?

If Logan believes Roman will return, maybe Virgil can as well. Virgil badly wants to believe the next time he sees Roman, he'll be riding atop a white horse and not inside a white casket. Virgil knows better. He’s lived enough to be wise to the world’s tricks.

Reality is harsh and cruel and oh so unforgiving. It sets you up into thinking your fairytale ending will happen, only to snatch it away at last minute’s notice. Until the next thing you’re aware, you’re imprisoned in a dungeon and you’re never getting out—

No. He refuses to dwell on that right now. Virgil gazes down at his half-empty soup bowl, his appetite deserting him. Patton and Logan are still talking. Patton glances at him, concerned. Virgil doesn’t look back. He’s still thinking.

Maybe Logan doesn’t truly believe Roman will come back. Perhaps it’s only a charade, to keep Virgil’s and possibly Patton’s hopes up. Both Logan and Patton treat him at best a small child. They tiptoe around certain topics, incredibly careful in their interactions with him.. He is damaged, he knows this. But he can take the truth. If Roman is dead, he’d prefer to know rather than live in an illusion where Roman could either be alive or dead.

Virgil wants to use words to demand Patton and Logan to tell him the truth. He doesn’t do it. Instead, he sits and thinks how the others must’ve felt about his own disappearance. The others didn’t give up on him, even when he’d believed they did. He can’t imagine having to experience something like this a second time. Logan and Patton are better than Virgil will ever be. They have a continual faith that things will be alright. A faith Virgil cannot even hope to possess.

Someone places a hand on his shoulder. It pulls Virgil out of his reveries and back into reality. Weeks ago the sudden contact would’ve startled him. But Virgil recognizes that warm, gentle touch and knows he is safe.

“Hey Virgil,” Patton says gently, moving his hand to tuck a piece of Virgil’s hair behind his ear, “Are you finished eating?”

He nods, mouth twisting to form a yawn.

“Okay, we’ll send it away then.” Patton says, not at all angered that Virgil hadn’t finished his meal.

A servant comes and collects their dirty dishes. Logan rises from his chair, presumably heading to his bedchamber for the night. At least, he starts for the door but freezes midway through. Patton doesn’t move either. It appears none of them are eager to leave each other’s presences.

“Sleepover?” Patton suggests, his smile lacking its usual spark.

Logan’s face scrunches together. He inhales deeply, words already formed on his tongue then stops. Why, Virgil doesn’t know. Something causes Logan to change his mind. Patton’s wide, pleading eyes, perhaps. Or maybe he’s too tired to put up a fight he’s likely to lose.

“I will participate, as long as Virgil is alright with it.” He says.

The chair creaks as Virgil leans away from their questioning gazes. He should say no. The last thing he wants is his nightmares to disturb the others’ chances of a good night’s rest. He should say no, and yet, he doesn’t. His selfish desire for physical affection wins in the end.

Virgil nods yes, and he doesn’t regret upon seeing Patton’s smile grow wider.

The three of them don’t even change into sleepwear. They barely make it to the bed before they collapse. Logan and Patton fall asleep before Virgil. He can hear the steady sounds of their breathing. Patton’s head leans against Virgil, an arm draped across Virgil’s chest. Meanwhile Logan’s back presses against Virgil’s side. He is encased between the two, and he does not mind it at all. It is comforting, grounding even.

Still he lays between the two, wide awake despite his exhaustion. The bed is supposed to be Roman’s. The whole spacious bedroom is rightfully Roman’s. Virgil is hardly deserving of such lodging.

Yet, he understands now why Roman insisted on him staying here; guilt. Roman thinks Virgil deserves a royal’s quarters more than he, the rightful prince, deserves it. The fact the King allowed it is astonishing. But then again, when Roman gets an idea stuck in his head, it’s impossible to persuade him otherwise. Virgil knows this from personal experience.

Unsurprisingly, his fatigued mind is incapable of thinking about anything but Roman. Hot tears spill down his face.

Damn Roman for having the audacity to be more than a snobby, selfish noble. He never imagined wishing that until this moment. A snobby, selfish noble would be safe, behind their castle walls. Not traversing the kingdom, unguarded from its’ perils.

Instead, Roman happened to be a nearsighted, selfless fool. How dare he place his royal birthright in jeopardy for the sake of vengeance? He is the King’s only child. If he fell, the throne would fall to one of his cousins. If they chose to squabble over it, it’d mean anarchy for the whole kingdom.

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. Virgil isn’t worth the whole kingdom. An apology is all he needed. Not this impossible task Roman has placed upon himself.

Roman wrote he couldn’t stand remaining idle while Virgil’s tormentors went unpunished. But how could he not realize they couldn’t bear to live in a world without him? That after everything, Virgil could hardly live with himself knowing he’d been—that he’d been the catalyst to Roman’s…doom.

Virgil closes his eyes, his consciousness growing fuzzy. The world swirls into a black hole of nothingness. He’s asleep. Not entirely. A fray of his consciousness stays awake. Just enough for him to hear muffled voices, a soft kiss pressed upon his forehead then nothing. The part of him that’s mostly asleep thinks it’s a dream. A pleasant one, compared to the others. But then the bed grows cold, and that sends warning bells to his brain.

He opens his eyes to find Logan and Patton gone. Just like Roman. Heart in throat, Virgil tears the bedsheets off of him. He abandons the bed, standing up as he surveys his surroundings. It is still dark; the sun has not yet rose.

He refuses to look at the nightstand. He will not read another letter claiming their actions as right and just when that’s bullshit. A noise erupts from outside, startling him. Footsteps. Loud and heavy, belonging to the palace guards. There are shouts. A commotion like this can only mean one thing; there is a threat against the castle.

Assassins? An enemy kingdom invasion? The remaining Haldoofse launching a surprise attack? Virgil doesn’t know nor does he care. The only thing he cares about is making sure Patton and Logan are safe. He refuses to let another person face danger because of him.

Virgil goes for the knife hidden underneath the bed frame. The knife the others have no idea exist. The knife Remy had bestowed upon him.

The knife at his disposal, he heads to the door leading out of the quarters. Something brushes against his legs, and he whips out his knife to see two glittering irises. It’s Taran. The feline looks unimpressed at his knife, her chin held high.

He puts the knife away. With a shaky hand, he reaches out and pets Taran. She responds by headbutting his legs some more, purring. It appears Taran came to send him off. Whether it is god or cat, he does not know. It is reassuring all the same. He withdraws his hand and opens the door. He makes sure Taran doesn’t dart out before closing it shut.

Virgil stays away from the light of the hallway torches, keeping to the shadows. The halls are silent. Too silent after the ruckus from earlier. With each step, he could be a step closer from engaging with an enemy. He hears rapid footsteps and holds back, behind a wall. It’s an enemy—it has to be.

As the person rounds the corner, he tackles them. He holds his knife underneath their chin, ready to slash—

“Virgil?!”

He pauses. Even with the hallway lit by torches, it is dim. Yet there is no mistaking Logan gaping up at him in shock. It’s more than just that. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. Logan never cries. Never.

Virgil’s anger from earlier gives way. He removes the knife away from Logan’s throat, unpinning him from the floor. Logan lays on the ground, making no attempts to move. Virgil frowns, reaching out to caress Logan’s cheek. His thumb gently running across the tear-stains. Logan surprises him by leaning into the contact.

Logan is not a very affectionate person. He will offer physical comfort, knowing others reciprocate better to it. Rarely does he himself seek it out. He primarily shows and seeks love in other ways; words rooted in comforting logic and acts of services towards others.

He’s only seen Logan actively desire physical affection in times of duress. Something is wrong. Virgil withdraws his hand, causing Logan to whimper. His eyes widen in horror at the pitiful sound that emanates from his mouth.

“I—I apologize—”

Virgil doesn’t let him finish that sentence. He pulls Logan away from the ground and into a protective hold. Logan lets him. He clings to Virgil, sobbing. Virgil scans the hallways, straining to hear any possible intruders sneaking up on them. But the halls remain silent.

Virgil hums, rubbing Logan’s back. Words still fail him, but humming is okay. He hums, the melody sounding suspiciously familiar. As if he’s heard it sung to him by a certain prince. The soft lullaby appears to calm Logan down, his sobs petering out into small sniffles. Eventually Logan is breathing normally, slumped against Virgil. For a moment, Virgil thinks Logan has fallen asleep.

Then Logan jolts, gripping Virgil tightly by the shirt. There is a wild, almost manic glint in his eyes. It’s far from his usual calculating, reserved demeanor.

“Virgil,” He says lowly, “Roman, he is—he’s—”

Logan inhales deeply, collecting his thoughts. Virgil’s heart rings loudly in his ears. It is only a few seconds, the blink of an eye. At the mention of Roman, and what are merely seconds has transformed into literal years for Virgil. He knows what’s coming. There is no other explanation for Logan’s anomalous behavior. He knows what’s been coming for days. Still, it will hurt to hear those words spoken out loud. To know that Roman is actually de—

“—alive.”

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #remy sanders #sasi #kat writes #i am now using the tags to be self deprecating and i must say this: im so sorry heard no more anon i have let you down on this #btpomt au

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sideboot · 2 years ago

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Does Sassy know Rupert is abusive?

exuberantocean has a really dang good post about the parallels between Jane/Beard & Ted and Rupert/Rebecca & Sassy.

This reminded me how narratively juicy I found that comment from Sassy and the idea that she knows Rupert is the worst without specifically viewing him through the lens of abuse.

I think it creates a really interesting potential tension for Rebecca to view Sassy both as a source of validation but also as someone with whom she runs the risk of rejection.

Sassy will bluntly talk about how Rupert was shit. Sassy was asking for accountability for how Rebecca negatively affected other people and this was occurring at the time of season one which is the midst of, you know, The Plot Where Rebecca Hurts People, Motivated By Her Relationship With Rupert.

But I am compelled by a Sassy is coming into this conversation with a level of ignorance because Rebecca was never able to articulate the specific ways Rupert hurt her. There are many ways in which abusers isolate victims that are either incidentally or purposefully structured to be hard to talk about.

There is also a lot of time in the Rupert and Rebecca relationship that Sassy wouldn’t be there to see, maybe even by design. There are times, like the reveal of his and Bex’s child, where Rupert is hurting Rebecca when they are alone in a room together with no witnesses.

Beyond seeing Rupert insult Rebecca, we know he is controlling of Rebecca’s life, telling her how to eat and how to present herself. The consequences for pushing back or disobeying were probably the insults we see.

I’m sure part of why Rebecca didn’t reach out was the systematic demolishing of her self worth, making her believe on some level that Sassy and Nora didn’t want to hear from her, or would be better off without her.

Rebecca greatly feared being alone, it was the thing that Rupert threatened her with to discourage her from leaving him. But cutting contact with Nora and Sassy made her more alone.

What motivated her must be even greater than that fear. Perhaps it was a fear of Rupert’s reprisal or of Rupert leaving her. Perhaps her self loathing at that point just ran that deep.

All of which is difficult to convey to Sassy, and Rebecca might be reluctant even consider doing so. Sassy can rebut by asking why Rebecca trusted Rupert’s word over her and Nora’s when they were saying that they loved her and missed her. If Rebecca’s fear was that Rupert would leave her, why did she value that relationship over her relationship with Sassy and Nora?

I can also imagine there are many ways Rupert could pressure Rebecca to cut contact without directly asking. Where he was exerting a great deal of premeditated or at least purposeful effort to control her, but in ways that made Rebecca still feel like this was her decision. Sassy was a friend of someone in an abusive relationship who disliked, perhaps vocally, the abuser. Rupert might have used that against her.

He might have framed Rebecca having a friend who disliked her husband as a betrayal. He might have picked more fights around times after they spent time together and framed the instigator of conflict not as himself but Rebecca’s time with Sassy.

He might have claimed Rebecca looking after her goddaughter was an attempt to guilt him about the decision that they would not be having children. He might have implied, and it may have even been on some level slightly true, that Rebecca was jealous of Sassy for having a daughter.

It’s entirely possible that in the midst of this, or even to the present day, that Rebecca didn’t think of this as her being abused or her husband attempting to isolate her. Perhaps it was only on a subconscious level that she began to associate time with Nora and Sassy with emotional exhaustion.

If this were true, how could Rebecca explain to Sassy in terms that would be understood and sympathetic, when Rebecca doesn’t even have that understanding and sympathy for herself, when she ended up feeling like the thought of reaching out made her too tired to even lift the phone?

#my post #meta #my meta #flo sassy colliins #rebecca welton #rupert mannion #make rebecca great again #long post #i think?#edit: fucking forgot to tag this as #ted lasso #ted lasso show #ted lasso tv

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zapreportsblog · 1 year ago

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I Don’t Want To Be A Hero, So Leave Me Alone

➥ summary: Like any reincarnation fanfiction this story has to do with a women from the real world dying and getting reincarnated into a anime with some massive op powers. Throughout most of this story you are nothing but a 8 month year old which transforms later on into a child, well if we make it that far that is.

➥ chapter 1 : (Y/N)'s Untold Journey

Bullying is a devastating reality that plagues the daily lives of countless individuals, leaving scars that may never heal. Such was the case for young (Y/N), a gentle soul who found solace in her dreams. Throughout her short-lived life, she battled against the weight of torment and isolation, until tragedy struck one fateful day. This chapter delves into the final moments of her journey, capturing her sincere yearning for a new beginning in the world of My Hero Academia.

•••

(Y/N) had always been a bright and imaginative young girl, with a heart teeming with kindness. From an early age, she possessed a deep love for storytelling and found solace within tales of heroes, villains, and extraordinary abilities. Inspired by the popular anime series, My Hero Academia, she envisioned herself stepping into the shoes of its brave protagonists.

However, (Y/N)'s reality was far from those fantastical worlds she sought solace in. The harshness of reality manifested itself in her tormentors, who seemed intent on extinguishing the light that radiated from her being. The relentless bullying she endured at the hands of her peers gradually chipped away at her spirit, leaving her fractured and desperate for respite.

As the days turned into years, the once-vibrant (Y/N) began to withdraw into herself, her light diminished by the incessant darkness that surrounded her. Each wounding comment or cruel action inflicted upon her acted as a constant reminder that she didn't belong, that she was unworthy of love and acceptance. It was an unbearable burden for someone so young, and every day, her yearning for escape grew stronger.

On that fateful day, as insults and ridicule echoed in her ears, an indescribable pain overwhelmed (Y/N) to breaking point. Tears streamed down her face as she felt the weight of both physical and emotional injuries. In that moment, something changed within her.

Alone in her room, (Y/N) uttered her tearful final words, a plea for a fresh start; "I wish I could get reincarnated into My Hero Academia with an overpowered quirk."

In the midst of utter despair, the hope of transcending her current circumstances consumed her. Her wish was not only a testament to her resilience but also a reflection of the profound impact a universe filled with heroes and powers had on her spirit.

Imagine being able to soar through the skies, to possess unimaginable strength, and, most importantly, to find a place in the world where her powers were celebrated. My Hero Academia represented the possibility of a life where her quirks would make her special rather than a target, where her potential would be nurtured and allowed to bloom.

Through her final words, (Y/N) gives voice to the tribulations faced by many, pleading for a chance to rewrite her narrative with a newfound strength. In her vulnerable yet unwavering desire to be granted a different reality, she reveals the profound impact that dreams and aspirations have on those who have been marginalized and disempowered.

While (Y/N)'s struggles tragically ended on that day, her poignant final words will forever echo in the hearts of those who understand the depth of her sorrow. Her story calls us to action, urging society to be attuned to the silent pleas of those who feel trapped and lost. It serves as a reminder that we have the power to create a world that embraces and uplifts, rather than belittles and isolates.

In conclusion, (Y/N)'s journey is a stark reminder of the devastating consequences of bullying. Her final words capture the essence of her yearning for a new beginning, a chance to overcome her struggles and find solace in a universe that would celebrate her strengths. May her story serve as a call for compassion, understanding, and an unwavering commitment to eradicate the darkness that pervades our own world. Let us strive to build a society where every (Y/N) has the opportunity to find their place in a world that values uniqueness and upholds the principles of acceptance and tolerance.

#x reader #x reader series #my hero imagines #my hero academia #my hero fanfic #my hero x reader #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia imagine #bnha imagines #bnha imagine #bnha x fem!reader #bnha x reader #bnha x you #I Don’t Want To Be A Hero So Leave Me Alone #I Don’t Want To Be A Hero So Leave Me Alone series #I Don’t Want To Be A Hero So Leave Me Alone masterlist

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kermitscavern · 1 year ago

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The John Hughes Blues Pt. 4

<- prev | find it on AO3! | next ->

time for some Eddie pov 👀👀 ft. Eddie's gay awakening

Eddie Munson misses Steve Harrington. And Eddie Munson might hate himself a little bit, too. That’s the only reason he can come up with for this self-imposed isolation, some complex kind of self-sabotage. Sometimes he thinks he hates Steve Harrington, for making him feel like this, for forcing him to do this to himself. He knows that’s stupid, though, because Eddie Munson loves Steve Harrington.

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, isn’t that how the saying goes? Eddie thinks he understands now. Feeling for a person so strongly that you’re not sure what you’re feeling anymore. I love you. I hate you. I hate you because I love you. It’s all Steve’s fault, really, for making him love him. It was hard to tell when it started, though, because Eddie had always kind of admired Steve, he was a good-looking guy. But he was pretty sure he fell, and fell hard, when Steve started caring.

Steve always cared, in some way, because caring for people was practically his default setting. But Eddie had known that he’d made it into Steve’s inner circle when he started really caring, personally and fervently. It was the same feeling as walking into your favorite coffee shop and being able to order “the regular,” the feeling of familiarity, of belonging. He knew he had made it when Steve remembered to order him a large fries from the pizza place, because it was the one time he allowed himself to splurge. He knew he had made it when Steve correctly guessed three different songs when they went for a ride one night, like he had been studying or something. When Eddie had jokingly asked him if he had, it was a delight to see him turn pink and hesitantly deny the accusation. Eddie loved that he cared. That fucker.

Because now he has to hate him for making him love him, otherwise it’s very possible he’ll implode. He’s trying to flip the coin, because Steve made him love him, knowing he’d never love him back. Eddie’s gone down that road enough times to know the only way to protect himself is to flip that love to hate.

The first time Eddie fell in love with a straight boy was freshman year. He hadn’t had many friends in middle school, a broken home life plus a small town had made him an outsider from early on. Lucky for him, Hawkins High had kids from Hawkins and their neighboring town, so there was a host of new faces that hadn’t known him long enough to hate him yet. Among these faces was one Eddie came to be particularly fond of— Caleb Montgomery.

Throughout middle school, Eddie had just thought he was a late bloomer. Sure, he grew like a weed, his voice dropped, but he kept wondering when the whole “liking girls” thing was supposed to kick in. Evidently, it never did. Eddie had always admired boys, but he thought it was the same thing as girls looking at models in magazines and saying, “God, look at her! I wish I had tits like that.” In his mind, admiring people was totally fine, as long as you weren’t, like, weird about it. Then came locker rooms after gym class, and Eddie quickly took to changing alone, in a toilet stall. He finally realized why the whole “liking girls” thing never kicked in.

Enter freshman year drama class. After realizing that fading into the background wouldn’t make the bullies go away, Eddie began to take their perception of him in stride. He created a kind of alter ego, someone supremely confident to the point of being untouchable. Someone overly dramatic. So he joined drama. He acted “The Freak” well enough he thought he might as well give it a shot, and besides, he figured he’d much prefer the kinds of people he met in drama class to the ones he’d meet in shop. It turned out he really did, especially when that kind of person turned out to be Caleb.

The two got extremely close extremely quickly, and Eddie got maybe a little bit too attached. He didn’t mean to get a crush on Caleb, but once he realized what was happening it was a little bit too late. It was embarrassing looking back, really. How clingy he got, how often he tried to pass it off with phrases like “attached at the hip” and “brotherly bond.” He was fifteen when he figured out he was gay, but he had learned to hide it way before then. He wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought, it turned out, because by January Caleb had stopped inviting him over as often, and by February Caleb was pulling him aside and telling him to ‘cut it out, you’re being really needy and weird. Just leave me alone for a bit, okay? you’re kinda creeping me out.’ Though not so eloquently put, the words had stung. So it turned out the stereotype about drama kids wasn’t always true, but at least Caleb wasn’t nasty about it. They stopped talking, but at least he never told anyone else. He still gave Eddie a small perfunctory smile when they passed in the halls, and by the time they got to senior year, Eddie was dreading telling his uncle he had failed half his classes and would have to repeat, but at least it would mark an end to the painful half-smiles and the crushing guilt that came with them.

Since then, Eddie has dedicated himself to making sure it never happens again. Whenever he feels himself getting close to someone, he makes sure to pull away first, for both their sakes. He hates that he has to do it to Steve, because there was something about him that really was just different,but he knows it’s for the best.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #st fic #steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #kermits creations #ao3 #gay awakening #this is a reminder that Eddie canonically takes a drama class #I mean it just makes sense tbh

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pascalepalaces · 4 months ago

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"Problem Areas" in misplacement magazine:

Also published in: littledeathlit, Issue 5: Life in Limbo (2020, Online) The Hallowzine, Issue 2 (2021, Digital)

Transcript:

Something had been different ever since the eye transplant. She’d been offered the list of possible side effects: dryness, graininess, the occasional floating aura. Yet there is nothing to the effect of “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror” in the information packet, nor online.

And the doctor is only taking phone calls, from home, because of the virus.

“We’re not a mental health office,” adds the receptionist.

In other regards, Laurie is lucky to have acquired such young and healthy eyes. They’re young, anyway, in comparison to the standard; she’d been told that most recipients had accepted their poor vision as ‘better than the alternative’. Yet Harold Splinter from Dayton, Ohio had died at 34, and he hadn’t even worn glasses. His cancer had been in his colon, too: all the way at the other end of his body.

Now she would have fresh eyes, the time to make revisions to her novel. She’d spent the last of her savings on her short leave; to stay home with her rent on pause is a chance that she’ll never have again. Everyone else is writing about how suffocated they’ll feel in self-quarantine—

yet having had a hole in her vision for months, she only feels free.

No distractions. She pulls her router from the wall, cancels her Netflix billing. She takes down every mirror in the apartment, having been poking into every crevice of herself with her new eyes.

She’d been lightly disappointed that, like her old ones, they’re blue.

But hair becomes her biggest problem. Each moment before she presses the power button on her computer, it’s all that she sees: bright in the reflection of the dark screen, its grayness especially apparent, always messy in several directions.

As she goes on to try to read her chapters, her hair in more than one way takes root at the back of her head. She feels as if she’s been invaded, penetrated. It’s a canker sore that the tongue can’t leave alone—and, in the same way, Laurie often feels her hands slipping upwards.

On the fourth day, leaning over the kitchen counter and eating liquorice from a bag, she stares at the piles below her chair. It’ll soon reach her knees: a taunting manifestation of each wasted minute, of every unwritten word.

No one will see her for at least three months, anyway, she begins to think.

It might even be smart. Everyone’s freaking out about not being able to get haircuts.

The next day she throws all of her hair—picked and shaved—down the garbage chute. This will motivate her to finish the book earlier, she decides. If she doesn’t, she’ll have to tell everyone she underwent chemo.

Work comes easy, for a while, after that. Yet the more that Laurie types, the more conscious she becomes of her hands. It’s the skin around her nails that bothers her, really: the way that it hardens and whitens, victim of the winter air and harsh sanitizers. She re-attaches the router to order a luxe hand cream—but it’s a thin wall which she always digs through. Gloves are the same.

What purpose do nails have, anyway?, is the nascent thought. She doesn’t need them to type.

They grow back in four to six months. That’s just how long everyone will be isolated.

Later, noticing how quickly the skin on her lips grows back, too, after she becomes too aware of it—she sees it, always, in the reflection of her forks—she figures that they’ll just as easily grow back as a whole.

They’re just flaps of skin, after all, she rationalizes. Just more skin.

Peeling at them without nails takes too much time.

She won’t be speaking to anyone for a long while.

She’s more comfortable, after that, and her couch her creative caucus. One might just have to destroy a bit to create, she thinks, as she fills another page. She’s had to suffer, a little, for her art: to overcome the challenge of distraction.

It wasn’t like she’d been self-harming, anyway—merely chipping away at her edges.

And the evening that she sits in her nightgown, cross-legged, is when she comes across the hideousness of knees. Hers are uneven, and knobby, and they protrude from her legs like faces.

Since skin grows back, she thinks, it’ll be better to remove the whole thing; if she secures her calves back to her thighs, she might even get around without too much struggle. It’ll keep her sitting, working.

But she wakes the next day, to her truculent horror, sensing overgrowth. Her eyes open to a long head of hair, full nails, fleshy knees. She must have dreamt all of her auto-surgeries, she thinks, until she finds chunks of herself in the freezer.

Every morning becomes a routine of shaving, ripping, of sawing at herself before she can sit with her manuscript. The acts become as casual, to her, as setting down her keys. She stops noticing the lengths of hair along the floors—the knees atop the dresser, the counter, the couch.

Yet one dripping morning, as she’s bringing the knife down onto her lips, she looks to herself in the reflection.

Her eyes would probably regenerate brand new, too, she realizes. Maybe they’ve even been ready, this whole time, and waiting behind these ones like adult teeth.

She finds that she’s wrong; yet without sight of her body, Laurie can only think about her book. She gets through with voice-to-text commandment faster than she’s ever typed.

Finally, she thinks, stretching herself outward. I can relax.

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werechampions · 8 months ago

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Post-rescue Van just does something to me. The thing about Van is that their life was actually better out in the wilderness in many ways than it was in civilization. Yes, they nearly died multiple times, but there was also no screaming, drunk mother that they needed to take care of, no homophobes to dodge, no oppressive feeling of growing up in a small suburb. They were already mostly used to going to bed without food and the general irritation that comes with hunger pangs. The wilderness is hard, but at least Van knows they have a place there, among the other girls, with Tai, with Lottie, and it's healing for Van in a way because they've never had that kind of support system before.

Then they get shuttled back to the real world and are scattered apart. Other forces start intruding, like families and social mores, and Van doesn't know their place anymore. They're adrift, without friends, without family. Now they don't just deal with casual homophobia but also with stares when people see their face and the scars. It's easy to point them out in a crowd, to whisper about the rumors that circulate their horrors.

More than any of the other survivors, Van disappears in the aftermath. Even Jessica Roberts has a hard time tracking them down, and Tai has to literally break into her office to find the details for Van's life. They are completely isolated from the other survivors, from Tai, from Lottie, to the point that no one knows where they settled down. We still don't know what happened with the t/aivan breakup, just that they basically spend 20 years apart before Tai shows up on their doorstep, but it also breaks my heart for Van having to struggle with existing alone in the aftermath.

At first, they look like they're healed. They own a little video store filled with retro pop culture items, and they've created a safe space for young queer people to seek out advice and knowledge. Van quite literally made the space that she needed as a child, and it's one of the things that makes life a little more bearable for her. Van doesn't really know who she is if she's not taking care of someone. That's the role she's been in her entire life, and she likes it on a certain level. It makes her feel needed and wanted in a way that she was deprived of as a child. It's why it makes perfect sense why she cultivates her store as a safe space for young queers in a small town to land. She can take care of them in the way that her parents never took care of her, show them that life isn't so scary when you're queer, and is elated when she sees people like her who are able to be open with their partners. She's witnessed so many horrors (and also a few miracles) that getting thrust back into the real world, where life is a sleepy little town and she pays the bills digitizing old home movies, it's such a stark difference from the starving and scrounging they had to do out there.

But some nights, Van still craves it. She misses the feeling of rope burning her wrist in the middle of the night, of the quiet serenity of Lottie's meditations. She doesn't want to go back to those times, but she misses parts of it and she doesn't know how that makes her feel. Guilt, shame, elation. Too many feelings, too many thoughts, and for someone like Van who hides behind jokes and crass humor, it's too much and it finally feels like the end is catching up to her with her diagnosis. It's why she drowns herself in oxy and falls asleep on the couch, eats stale donuts and an open soda for breakfast. That lets her tell herself that her life is fine, that she's perfectly okay with how she's turned out, but of course she's not and she's given up on that ever being a possibility.

#[ ch: van palmer. ]#[ hc. van palmer. ]

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memwazz · 1 year ago

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ANRIEL - Klavia

- ROLE

Klavia is Theraël's little sister and "daughter" she created. She's the Goddess of Justice and Temperance and the second God-dess to ever be born. She became Theraël's royal counselor and has the role to create rules on Altea and punish the Gods who violate them.

- APPEARANCE

• Species : Goddess (Justice, Temperance)

• Age : 593

• Height : 165

- ILLUSTRATIONS, COMICS, SHITPOST

- Illustrations :

Lazy - Modern AU -

- Comics :

- Shitpost :

- ABILITIES

Since she's a child, Klavia seems to have the ability to slightly read into people's heart. She easily notices who's a good person or not and therefore, she can see that something is wrong with Yevlan's behavior. Yet, she never exactly knows what and is not always trusted by the other Gods because she can't explain her intuitions.

Her left eye shines when she tries to read into someone's heart.

Moreover, Klavia is able to fight with the needles she uses as hairpins. They are extremely powerful : she mutilated Azran with it to the point they lost their legs.

- PERSONALITY

Klavia is very mature and reasoned. She rarely lets her emotions and feelings overwhelm her and can appear as cold and heartless.

As a Goddess of Justice, she has strong morals and will never deviate from Altea's rules and her values. She tries to be as fair as possible when she has to punish the wrongdoers, and her main goal is that everything goes right on Altea and the less possible people are hurt.

For this purpose, Klavia can show high severity and stiffness. She won't forgive any violation of the law and won't hesitate to send someone in prison, even her own nephews and nieces.

Because of this cold and strict temper, Klavia is disliked by many Gods on Altea. She also is socially akward herself, which doesn't help her making friends. Since she can read into hearts, Klavia tends to only see what's negative in people and can't maintain long-term relationships. Moreover, she's not much of an entertraining person, what makes her even more impopular. She's an honest woman who hates lying and is often seen saying every thing crossing her mind, even if it's hurtful : truth is an important value to Klavia, who never sugarcoats things and thinks it's for the better. She can feel when people are being hypocritical with her and can't stand it.

Despite being isolated from most of her family, she's very close to Theraël and is highly devoted to her. Klavia does her best to advise her and be the best counselor as possible, even if her judgment isn't always perfect.

She would do anything for her queen, even sacrificing her own physical and mental health. During Yevlan's coup d'état near the end of The Anriel, Klavia refuses to surrender and keeps defending Theraël even if it causes her to be tortured.

- BACKSTORY

Klavia was created in 107 by Theraël, who merged Altea's ashes with her blood so she could have a friend and counselor by her side. She became the Goddess of Justice after creating rules on Altea in order to prevent Valryn from destroying everything.

She quickly became unpopular on Altea due to her distant personality and role as a punisher, which caused her to be feared and disliked. When Theraël married Yevlan, she was the only person who saw their relationship as problematic and tried to reason her sister. Seeing her depressed and exhausted, she decided to help her even more and to take the responsibilites Yevlan didn't honor, slowly getting burnt out.

Klavia was the one who bannished Valryn, Acherus and Azran for the harm they caused on Earth and Altea.

She met Ugraihn in 507 after he was accepted on Altea and bonded with him : it resulted in a loving yet dysfunctional romantic relationship, which brutally ended in 543.

During Yevlan's tyranny, she strongly disagreed with his deeds and stood against him : she was therefore imprisoned and tortured, even losing half of her body because of Azran.

- PRIVATE LIFE

In her personal life, Klavia tends to feel alone since she struggles making friends due to her cold personality. She barely can maintain long-term relationships.

In terms of sexual life, she once slept with Theraël but it was a one night stand and they never did it again.

Klavia also had a short romantic relationship with Ugraihn, but it only lasted a few decades because she was constantly hurt by the conflicts the God of War accidentally provoked. Nevertheless, their break-up was rather sane and benevolent and they remained good friends afterward.

Nicknames :

The Royal Counselor

The Counselor

Sister

RELATIONSHIPS

THERAËL

Klavia was created in 107 by Theraël so she could guide and advise her. Since she genetically comes from Theraël's blood and Altea's ashes, she's technically both her daughter and little sister, but the two of them consider themselves as sisters and best friends.

Klavia also is the Royal Counselor and is always by Theraël's side, helping her taking the most important decisions on Altea. She's more useful than her husband when it comes to responsibilities, eventhough he's supposed to be the King.

She's undoubtely the person to be the most devoted to Theraël. Klavia is always here for her and supports her, not only politically but also emotionally during her darkest moments.

Theraël loves her sister just as much and always defends her in front of Yevlan : remove Klavia from the Council was the only thing Theraël refused to do for her husband. Yet, their relationship isn't totally balanced since Theraël doesn't have the mental health to reciprocate everything.

Klavia also is desperately trying to protect Theraël from Yevlan's abuse. She's able to detect the red flags and keeps warning her queen, in vain. The situation is very frustrating for Klavia, who feels helpless against her sister's visible decline.

They slept together once after Theraël discovered about Yevlan's adultery and was furious and desperate. It was a one night stand but Klavia did her best to respect her sexual needs and limits.

YEVLAN

Klavia, as well as Nisis, is one of the rare people not to appreciate Yevlan. Since the very first day he arrived on Altea, she felt something was off with him and saw him as a danger without knowing why.

Before Yevlan married Theraël and started being abusive, he technically did nothing wrong but she read his heart as impure. Klavia then quickly noticed he was not treating her sister right and suspected him of even worse but couldn't prove it.

She also despises his laziness and immaturity, stating his behavior doesn't fit his responsibilities as a king.

Many times, she tried to warn Theraël about his toxic traits and save her from his abuse but always failed. The rest of the family doesn't trust her either when she says Yevlan is a bad person, which is frustrating for Klavia who feels helpless against his popularity.

Yevlan hates her back and does everything for her to be dismissed from her role as a counselor, but Theraël trusts her enough to keep her by her side.

They are often seen arguing and calling each other names. When Yevlan takes the throne, Klavia is the first person he sends to prison and gets tortured.

UGRAIHN

When he first arrived on Altea, Ugraihn was feared by most of the Gods because of his inglorious origins : Klavia was the first person to bond with him, as she saw something good in him and refrained from judging him.

They engaged in a romantic relationship not long after and this love helped them both with their self-esteem problems and loneliness. Yet, their couple quickly became dysfunctional : Ugraihn disagreed with some of her decisions as a ruler, mostly the one to banish his friend Acherus and mother Hel'norii from Altea. Klavia herself was tired and hurt by the conflicts Ugraihn regularly caused on Earth, even knowing it was accidental.

They argued a lot and struggled finding a balance in this fragile relationship, but stayed together for 40 years because they made each other happy. They finally broke up after the revolution because the traumas caused by Yevlan's tyranny damaged their bond a lot. Still, they remained good friends and treat each other with respect.

VALRYN, AZRAN and ACHERUS

Klavia is the one who decided Valryn, Azran and Acherus would be banished on Demios after causing chaos on Altea and Earth. She despises Valryn and Azran for what they did and their wicked personality; she hates Acherus less because she knows he acted out of clumsiness, but still won't forgive him.

At the end of the story, she accepts Acherus back on Altea after he proves his loyalty by taking part of the revolution. Acherus never did and will never resent Klavia from her decision to banish him, while Valryn and Azran deeply hate her. Therefore, Azran is very pleased to torture her on Yevlan's orders.

NISIS

Klavia befriended Nisis a bit after he became the heir to the throne and joined the Council. Both being loyal, honest and reasonable, they share the same principles and agree on many things. They have a great esteem for each other despite not talking much.

Klavia was the first person to suspect Yevlan from abusing him as a child, but he refused to talk it out. After Yevlan was defeated at the end of the story, Nisis finally confessed to her so his father would be properly judged for this crime.

FERËV

Ferëv and Klavia never liked each other. Klavia resents her for normalizing domestic abuse and convincing Theraël to stay with Yevlan and obey him.

Ferëv despised Klavia for a long time because she wasn't in a romantic relationship yet. She's one of the people who made her believe she was unworthy of love and made everything for her to feel insecure and humiliated.

#oc #original character #anriel #saint-anriel #goddess #heroic fantasy #anriel klavia #mythology #counselor #justice

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ramblingreflector · 1 year ago

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First post here, not sure if it'll be my only, or even if I will post this. I'm currently wide awake at 3am, about to get up for work at 6:30, and all I can feel is grief. Grief for my life, grief for all the people i've loved over the years, and how things aren't the same.

Constantly everything is changing. Everything. Always. Whether macro or microbioal, piece by piece, the tapestry of my life finds new ways to shift. Sometimes the changes are menial, the coffee shop changed it's outdoor seating to a bench, my friend dyed her hair a new shade of ombré, the scent of car fumes in the air collide with a crisper winter chill, and sometimes life shifts so much it shakes the ground beneath my feet and I run to the objects most precious to me, holding them like a child in fear of losing what I knew.

Everytime I rationalise to myself that it is good and natural, nothing we can even concieve of would be possible without change, and that the beauty isn't within a monolith, but rather the moments of deep, rich togetherness we share as beings of moment on this tiny rock. I tell myself that all those glisening moments in my life, of finally reaching my people again, of finally finding sitting in a space now so familiar to me and looking at all the beauty in the trinkets on the shelf, being able to remember sitting on the stairs whilst my friends laughed with depth over the story of someone falling out of a taxi, makes it worth it. However, the longer I go on, the more I become tired, aching for sleep as I try and hold the strand of my life together in hopes of finding another home like I had. Home, not in the sense of a roof over my head, for which I am grateful to have, but as a sense of community, purpose and safety. Being in the moment with people I deeply adore, working towards something greater, whilst being so in love with the moment. This, alas, is something I fear won't find it's place in my world anymore. Not to be hyperbolic - I know that belonging materialises, and that I am not truly without folks who care, who in turn, I love deeply, rather I feel like I will always be somewhat compromising. Compromising on sustainability, molding something into a home which stands at 90% safe, knowing I can never truly change it's form, desperately scraping the side of the barrel to make something work whilst the weigh of what has gone pulls me into the pits further. Working to grow an enivornment that holds me whilst I work to uphold an image of someone who isn't a freak or who isn't someone to take pity on.

I don't of course think of myself as the worst person to have ever lived, rather, it feels more of a realistic reflection of how I feel when I don't cope well, which is most of the time in all honesty. I strive to achieve what is important to me, standing with people, loving my family and friends, living, but I feel time has aged me, beyond my years.

When I was younger, I romanticised the trauma and the pain, putting it in a clear box for all to see, with the lid being firmly attached, because it was comfortable. It gave me meaning that could be quantified and sold. The pain I felt was open ended, and recognised by the adults around me, who didn't quite know how to inteact with me, nor did they feel comfortable to truly stand with me most of the time. This meant that with the advent of tumblr, I could easily create artificial meaning to match my feelings of being much older than I really was, the depth and isolation in understanding that I wasn't actually going to make it.

Trauma is the experience of something shaking you to your core, truly alone, and it being just that, for eternity. No matter how much we talk, or paint, or act, or cry, we only ever see the image of someone's pain, which is right. Our pain is ours alone. Whilst this is dreadfully existential, there is a beauty in this. All of humankind, for thousands of years, billions upon billions of us, are all alone. Every single one. With memories, emotions, love, loss, fear, all in the darkness of unity. Seeing that it is actually really shit, overwhelmed by the depth of the dark and being uniquely slotted into a position of never being able to move or be heard truly. Through this, we hold hands, and try to uplift one another. Small gifts, a pat on the back, inviting each other to the park, sleepily laying down on sofas watching documentaries about penguins, just to be present with one another. It's so profound, and to me, shows us for us, beautiful. Togetherness and being heard, in my experience, aren't someone knowing another's entire experience, nor does it need to, rather, it is everyone being alone in the dark, and holding hands unshakingly.

In fear of suffering and loss, I compulsively carry out my rituals in hopes that it will secure my family and friend's health and wellbeing. Touching the skirting board 10 times before bed so they don't die, touching the table so they are happy. Compulsive nonsense really, delusion, but I can't keep myself from doing them in the case that it isn't quite reality denying. The hunched figure in the corner of the room scratching the carpet that I daren't look in the eye, only glacing in it's direction out of fear.

It's not that this is out of the picture in my life rather, I feel like an old man, too tired to keep pushing for one of two scenarios which don't quite fit. Living in the city I moved to and adored, nor moving to my hometown to reconnect with loved ones. I adore my family and friends with everything, and so deeply miss every person I sat in the park with. Really and truly, every one.

I think of their faces, their laughter, my care for them, and the fact that they're gone. It's gone. They're living their lives, as present as they were. I'm delighted for them, and hope they are well. I miss them, and know that the majority of time I will ever spend with any of them, is published in the prior books of our lives.

I don't know where to go. I adore the people in my life, but I can't keep working under that grey sky in hopes of a reappearance of the warm hand to that graces my face and holds me.

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seijorhi · 4 years ago

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nostos.

well it’s not exactly monster fucking but um... here there be monsters.

Kuroo Tetsurou x female reader

TW implied non-con, nsfw-ish, blood, gore, minor character death, animal death, um somebody gets munched...

Every good writer needs peace and quiet. Fresh air and a change of scenery.

You’re not running away, it’s more of a… tactical retreat. Two weeks disconnected from well meaning friends, pushy family members and your eternally irritating editor, with nothing but the beautiful, sprawling forests to keep you company.

The mountains are familiar, if isolating, you think, leaning against the porch railing with a warm mug in hand as the breeze picks up and the tall maple and birch trees rustle in response. The leaves are turning vibrant reds and gold with the falling temperatures and even in the eerie quiet of the cold morning, you can’t deny that it’s breathtaking.

It reminds you of your childhood, the countless vacations you’d spent here with your family, always in autumn, always in time to watch the leaves change before the first snows of winter set in. Fond memories of running through the trees chasing after cute little bunnies, giggling even when you tripped up and scraped your knees. There was something mystical about the forest back then, something special. But it’s been years since you’ve been here last, and the first time you’ve ever come alone.

And yet it feels different somehow, colder despite the nostalgia. You’re no longer a child, looking at the world through innocent, wondrous eyes. The forest is just a forest.

Of course, you weren’t an idiot; disappearing off the grid was one thing. Disappearing off the grid without anybody knowing where you were going was another entirely. They’d been surprisingly supportive of the plan – until you told them where it was you were planning on running off to.

‘Why go back to the mountain, honey?’ your mother had asked, her smile wavering and an odd tightness in her eyes. ‘Why not go to the coast instead? Or spend some time in the city?’

But this isn’t a fun little vacation. You don’t want to be distracted by beaches and crowds, you need space to finish your book and time to work through your mess of an emotional state without any interruptions. You want to be untraceable, at least for a week or two.

God knows the last thing you need right now is your ex tracking you down to try and apologise again.

Part of you had thought – somewhat naively, perhaps – that by coming back you’d spark… something. Your memories of the mountains are full of warmth and happiness, but as you stare out into the wilderness, all you feel is a cool chill that runs down your spine and the goosebumps that prickle at your skin.

Setting your now empty mug down, you pull tighter at the thick knit cardigan draped over your shoulders. Enough reminiscing, your manuscript awaits.

—

The mountain’s too quiet. You don’t notice it so much during the day, the sound of music softly pouring from your laptop and the gentle clacking of keys as you type enough to distract you from the eerie stillness outside the cabin. Even at night, you’re preoccupied with dinner, and then curled up on the couch with a warm throw rug watching reruns of your favourite shows on Netflix.

It’s only when you lie down, burrowed into the blankets to try and sleep that you notice just how silent the forest at your doorstep truly is. At first you think it’s simply being away from the hustle and bustle of home. There’s no cars driving past, or the sound of neighbours floating through your open windows, there’s not even the distant hooting of owls or dogs barking.

But it’s more than just quiet. There’s nothing. Even the trees seem to still once the sun falls beneath the horizon. And it shouldn't bother you, shouldn’t unsettle you, and yet…

The first few nights, you don’t sleep well. Tossing and turning in bed. When you do sleep, your dreams are plagued with unpleasant things. Not nightmares as such, but an uneasiness that bleeds into otherwise pleasant thoughts. On the fourth night you wake, gasping for air. Whatever dream you’d been in the grips of fades like smoke, and as you draw in another shuddering breath your throat itches and burns.

Water. You need water.

You don’t switch on the lights as you fumble your way down to the kitchen, trying to preserve what little remnants of sleep are still in your system. Even with the moon almost full and the night sky clear, the canopy shrouds it.

And it’s in that darkness, as your eyes flicker up from the faucet, that you see it for the first time.

A shape, huge and looming, silk shadow against black.

For a moment, as your heart hammers against your ribs, a chill creeping down your spine, you don’t dare trust your eyes. Maybe you’re asleep still, dreaming, or your mind’s playing tricks on you, because there’s nothing that should be lurking in the woods outside of your window that size.

Two golden, cat-like eyes peer back at you.

They’re still there when you race to flick on the lights, unblinking, curious as you skitter backwards, hand over your racing heart.

You’re tired, emotionally drained and this–

This is nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination, a child creating monsters from the shadows in their bedroom. Yet even as you run back to the safety of the bedroom, yank the curtains shut and huddle under the meagre warmth your blankets afford you, squeezing your eyes shut, you feel it out there still, watching.

And in the stillness of the mountains outside, you swear you hear footsteps.

—

You wake to fresh snow, too early in the year, even at these altitudes. It dusts the ground, covering the mossy paths in glittering white, clings to the branches of the trees – the red leaves looking like droplets of blood scattered across a grey sky. The snow will undoubtedly melt as the sun rises, turn to slush and mix with the dirt, but for now it’s a thing of beauty.

For a moment, you allow yourself to forget how tired you are, how unsettled, venturing out from the cabin with wide, excitable eyes. It never used to snow when you were here as a kid, and while you get the occasional snowfall back home, it’s nothing like–

You stop dead in your tracks.

There’s two human footprints imprinted on the snow – only two – right outside your bedroom window, crisp and clean, as if they’d been left just moments before.

—

Your mother sounds worried when you call her. Of course, you don’t tell her about the lone footprints at your window, or the creepy pair of eyes you’d seen through the dark, you know how that sounds. You’re not crazy, and even if some part of you truly believed what you’d seen, your mom is the last person you’d admit it to.

Once upon a time, when you were little, she’d indulged in stories of fairies and spirits, but that was a long time ago. Now she turns up her nose and sneers at the myths and legends that your grandma still spouts, dismissing them with a scoff.

It’s not the kind of thing well-adjusted adults talk about in polite conversation.

She’s a good woman, but you can’t tell her this.

And you’re not even sure you’re entirely sold on it either. The eyes could have been from a wild animal – big cats might be rare in Japan, but they do exist here. You were half asleep (half terrified) when you had seen them, you don’t want to make a fuss over nothing. The footprints are less easy to explain away. If there’d been tracks leading away, you could convince yourself that it was a lost hiker and nothing more.

But there weren’t any tracks leading away; just the two footprints. And what kind of hiker doesn’t wear shoes in weather like this? It’s possible that this is some kind of prank, a mean spirited trick designed to unsettle you – a job well done, by the way – but you can’t quite bring yourself to believe that either.

In any case, you’re hardly going to admit over the phone that you’re freaking out over some footprints in the snow. God knows she’s already worried enough about your mental state, has been ever since the breakup, and you’re not going to give her any more ammunition.

But perhaps there is something to that maternal instinct, because despite your best efforts to reassure her that you’re doing just fine, that your novel’s going great and you’re so glad you came out here, she still sounds entirely unconvinced.

“Honey, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong,” she tells you, her voice strangely hesitant. “You don’t sound yourself, are you sure everything’s okay?”

You don’t know why you called her at all. You always have been a shitty liar, and she’s always been able to see right through you.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Honestly the fresh air’s doing me good,” you tell her. “It’s weirdly quiet here though, I’m not used to it,” you laugh, and even to your ears it sounds hollow and fake.

There’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line, and if you close your eyes you can almost picture it, your mom leaning against the kitchen counter, teeth worrying into her bottom lip–

“I just don’t like you out there all by yourself.”

Relax, what’s the worst that could happen?

The words almost, almost slip out, an instinctive reaction to a mother’s well meaning but overbearing concern. But it feels like tempting fate, and whether or not you’re fully convinced that there is something strange happening, you’re not that bold. Instead you begin to tell her (again) that everything’s fine when she suddenly speaks again.

“Bad things happen in those mountains. Just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

Abruptly, the line goes dead.

Pulling the phone from your ear, you glance down at the illuminated screen, only to frown when you see the little ‘SOS Only’ flashing in the top corner. Huh, you’d had a few bars when you’d started the call, but…

The weather’s gotta be messing with your signal. Stranger things have happened, right?

Shaking your head you resolve to give her a call tomorrow. And yet, even as you try to put her parting words from your mind and throw yourself back into your writing, you can’t help but feel that familiar sense of cloying unease seeping through your skin once more.

What the hell had she meant, ‘bad things happen in those mountains’?

—

A good night’s sleep can do you wonders.

Well, theoretically speaking. You can’t remember the last actual decent sleep you’d had, but regardless, the point stands. All you need is an uninterrupted eight or nine hours, and this… paranoia will go away. Things’ll be clearer in the morning, so long as you sleep.

The mantra doesn’t help you any, of course.

You don’t need to peer through the window to feel those watchful eyes staring. And maybe it would be easier to ignore the prickling sensation at the nape of your neck if it weren’t for the noises.

Music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the mournful wails, like a wounded animal crying out in pain. It’s incessant, inescapable, reverberating inside of your eardrums until it’s all you can focus on.

It’s instinctual, you think, the urge to creep from your bed and try to find the creature making that sound and help it. But even as your feet touch the cool floorboards, your gut clenches, hackles rising. Something deep inside of you warns you from leaving the safety of the cabin.

Whatever creature is making those noises, it’s not calling for help.

You don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, but you must have because at a certain point in the morning you blink your eyes awake, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

And this time it’s not snow that greets you, but the mangled remains of a doe ripped apart on your porch. Deep, jagged gouge marks run along its flank, organs spilling from the cuts and there’s little left of its neck, the whole thing torn out with teeth. Yet for the gruesome injuries, the only blood you find is congealed, pooled beneath the poor creature.

Whatever happened to it, it didn’t happen here. The knowledge doesn’t soothe you like it should – the park ranger you spoke to on the phone mentioned that while it’s rare, sometimes bears venture a little too close to buildings, though he sounds doubtful even as he says it.

He sounds even less interested when you tell him this doesn’t look like a bear attack, but promises they’ll send someone down in the next few days to check everything out. In the meantime, he suggests, it’s best to stay indoors.

Yeah, not gonna be an issue.

And so with no feasible way of moving it, you’re left with the butchered corpse of a doe just outside your front door. And the thing that bothers you isn’t so much the body, though you still can’t look at it without wanting to throw up, but the fact that it was just… left there.

Not eaten. No, aside from the missing throat, the deer’s all there. Ripped apart with its guts spilling out, but otherwise untouched. Growing up you had a cat, the sweetest little thing, but every once in a while she would get out of a night, find some poor little creature to torment and without fail, she’d bring it back home, leaving it half dead on the doorstep like a gift.

‘See what a good hunter I am?’ she seemed to say, smugly sauntering back inside.

It wasn’t about food. It wasn’t hunger that drove her, but instinct. As you stare out the window at the doe, at the milky white emptiness of dead eyes, you wonder whether that’s the same here. There’s no tracks in the dirt, no blood smeared across the ground – it wasn’t dragged here. No animal could’ve done this.

A gift?

Or perhaps something less benevolent. A threat. You’ve crossed into territory you don’t belong and the deer, cruelly ripped apart and left to bleed out on your doorstep is a line in the sand.

Either way, as tears fill your eyes, a sob tugging free from your chest, you realise that it was a mistake to come here. You don’t know whether you trust your eyes and your ears anymore, but there is something deep inside of you that tolls like a warning bell and as much as you’d like to bury your head in the sand and pretend there’s nothing wrong here, you can’t.

Bad things happen in those mountains.

You need to leave.

The next ferry to the mainland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, but it’ll have to do. Once you stop shaking and calm down enough to carry a conversation, you call the local cab company to arrange a pick-up first thing.

You can survive one more night, you just need to throw yourself back into your writing… if you can only just ignore that sense of foreboding prickling at the back of your neck.

—

There’s a boy running through the trees, giggling as he glances back at you. His hand’s outstretched, wrapped ‘round yours tugging you along as he laughs at you to hurry up.

It’s late, the sun dipping below the horizon, but you don’t wanna go back just yet.

You’re having fun, playing in the forest. And the light is golden, filtering in through the pretty red leaves, your sides burn a little from all the chasing and laughter but it’s a good kind of ache. You don’t want today to end.

His name is Kohsuke, you remember, and he lives down in the village by the valley. He’s only one year older than you, and you’d follow him anywhere.

You think you might be a little in love with him.

‘C’mon, hurry up! It’s only a little further!’ he calls, and you nod, scrambling over the fallen trunk of an oak tree. There’s old spirits who live in this forest, he’d told you, and today you’re finally gonna see one.

It’s dark now. Cold too. You’re tired and hungry and you kinda want to go home, but Kohsuke won’t let you. ‘Just a little longer! Don’t you wanna see them?’

You do. Of course you do. It’s just that you’re starting to get a funny feeling in your stomach… Can he hear the footsteps too? Is somebody following you?

There’s a voice in your ear, a soft, silky purr that makes a shiver roll down your spine, but you can’t make sense of the words, they’re not in any language you understand. You don’t tell Kohsuke – he can’t hear it, otherwise he would have said something. You just clutch his hand tighter, skipping closer.

‘W-we should go back, Koh,’ you murmur, wincing when it comes out in a childish whine. ‘We’re gonna get in trouble.’

You aren’t supposed to stay out playing after dark, he knows it as well as you do. ‘You trust me, don’t you? Stop being such a chicken!’ he snickers as your cheeks heat.

The voice at your ear growls, low and threatening. You need to go back, now.

You blink, and the scene changes.

You’re curled up on the forest floor, hands covering your eyes. Somebody’s screaming – Kohsuke – crying out your name through ragged sobs, pleading��

There’s a crunch, a ripping sound, a wetness sprayed across your cheek.

Kohsuke’s not screaming anymore.

Something warm and heavy touches your head, drags through the locks of your hair and you just huddle tighter, eyes squeezed shut, shaking like a leaf as more tears spill. You don’t wanna die here.

The crunching sounds continue, and you keep your eyes tightly shut. It can’t hurt you if you don’t look.

It can’t hurt you if you don’t look.

It can’t–

A loud knocking jerks you back to consciousness, your body jolting upright, almost swiping your laptop off the table as you try and gather your bearings. Right, you’d been working on your novel, sitting up at the kitchen table, you must have dozed off… A quick glance out the window tells you that you must have been out of it for a while – the late afternoon shadows are starting to creep in, the sky a golden orange.

What the hell was that dream?!

“Hello? Uh, anybody home?” a masculine voice calls, another loud knock sounding. “We got a call about a wild animal attacking deer…”

Oh, you think, trying to shake yourself out of your stupor, the wildlife people, yeah. You feel a little nauseous, feverish and trembling, though maybe that’s just the result of your erratic heartbeat.

Swallowing down the bile in your throat, you turn your attention to the door. Truly you hadn’t actually expected that they’d send anybody out to investigate, much less that they’d arrive before you left, but you can hardly turn him away now.

Especially not when there’s a freshly butchered deer corpse lying only a few feet away from your front door. Quickly, you run a hand over your hair, taking a moment to try and collect yourself before you answer.

It doesn’t work – there’s a knot in your throat and for every step you take towards the door it feels like your legs are gonna give out from under you. You move in a daze to unlock the door, only just remembering to school your features into an expression slightly less alarming as it swings open.

A ranger, tall with a shock of black, messy hair that reminds you oddly of a rooster greets you with an easy grin. “Oh good, I was starting to think nobody was home. You the one that called?”

Distantly, you nod, fingers clutching at the edge of the doorframe. The ranger glances over at the remains of the deer, still lying in a pool of half dried blood, studying it for a moment, hazel eyes sweeping over the deep gashes in its side. You can’t bear to follow his gaze, you’re not sure you can look at that thing again without throwing up.

He whistles lowly, shaking his head, “Well you don’t see that every day,” he laughs.

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly. It’s not his fault, you know that, but you can’t help the flicker of irritation that sparks at the cavalier attitude. This is just his job, you get it, but you don’t exactly feel like laughing right now.

“You still think a bear did this?” you retort, the words coming out a little sharper than intended.

But the ranger takes it in stride, shrugging as his smirk widens. “A bear, huh?” Amusement glitters in his eyes, sharp and mocking. “Why don’t I come inside and you can tell me all about it?” he offers, stepping closer towards you.

And there’s no reason for your heart to skitter, your blood running cold as he looms over you in the doorway, still wearing that stupid, irritating smirk. There’s no reason for your insides to clench either, or for the tiny, jerky step backwards you take, your body moving of its own accord.

The ranger pauses, head tilting to the side as he stares at you.

Really stares, like he’s waiting for something. And as discomfited as you are (and as much of an asshole as this guy is), a weary apology is halfway to your tongue when he shifts slightly, propping an arm up against the door – the last, dying rays of light catching his face.

It’s just for a second.

A heartbeat.

But long enough for you to watch those hazel eyes shift to gold, pupils elongating into slits.

You stumble backwards, breath coming in a short, ragged gasp as your eyes widen into saucers. “What are you?”

The ranger before you chuckles and you catch a glimpse of his teeth; pearly white and glinting, sharper than they had been only moments ago. “Why don’t you let me in and find out for yourself, kitten?”

You shake your head, retreating further into the cabin, heart pounding.

“No? You don’t like this body, is that it?” he asks, a cruel edge to his smirk as he takes a half step backwards and slowly spreads his arms. “Something more familiar, then.”

And you don’t think there’s any room left in your heart for more fear, your stomach already twisting in sickening knots, but you blink and standing right there in front of you is Kohsuke.

It’s a punch in the guts, a knife slipped between your ribs, yanked ruthlessly through your still beating heart. He’s beaming up at you, those same adorable dimples, the same ridiculous bowl cut, bleeding youthful innocence. “How about now?” he asks, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers like he expects you to take it. “You’ll let me inside now, right?”

A strangled noise escapes you as you fall to your knees. Tears fill your eyes, blurring your vision – you blink them away but more take their place.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks, and you wail in response.

It’s too much. You shake your head, hugging yourself tightly, as if your arms are the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

He calls your name – not in Kohsuke’s childish lilt, but that deep, ancient purr that makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Let me in.”

“Go away,” you gasp through tears. “Please– please go away.”

The creature shifts again, the dark haired ranger back in Kohsuke’s place. He eyes you, those unnatural gold irises watching with utter enthralment as you sob pathetically on the floor, still pleading – though you know it’ll do you no good – for him to leave.

“Last chance, kitten. Let me in, or I’ll make you come out.”

He – it – doesn’t sound nearly as put out by the prospect as it should be.

And you don’t know why giving permission matters, all you know, all you care about, is that it’s keeping that thing at bay for now. It can’t come inside and so long as you don’t leave the safety of the cabin, it can’t hurt you. The words are nothing but an empty threat.

Right?

You shake your head, defiant even as your voice hitches and trembles, “No.”

“Stubborn little thing,” the creature croons, the smirk on its face widening until the visage no longer resembles anything human – mouth splitting its face in two, rows of long, sharp teeth revealed. “So be it.”

A low growl resonates in its chest, and you can only watch, petrified, as thin, vein-like black marks begin to appear over pale skin, growing thicker, cracking as shadow curls from underneath. The creature itself starts to grow too, limbs elongating as muscles ripple and swell, claws bursting forth in place of fingernails, shoulders broadening – until it’s towering over you, wreathed in thick shadow, grinning with that terrifying mouth.

This is the thing you’d glimpsed that first night. A creature ripped from nightmares and primal fears, strong enough to tear you apart with a single hand. That’s what it’d done to Kohsuke, to the doe, what it’d do to you if you gave it half a chance.

“You wanna play, kitten?” it asks, head tilting to the side.

Slowly, it backs away from the door, keeping its gaze fixed firmly on you. For a moment, you think that it’s going to disappear back into the forest, or plant itself by your window to watch for another night, waiting you out till dawn, but instead it stops by the old oak that overhangs the porch and stills entirely, simply… waiting.

“Let’s play.”

Abruptly, the oak beside it bursts into flames. It takes only a heartbeat for the entire thing to be engulfed, red and orange flames licking along the trunk, the gnarled, spindly branches, even the leaves are alight, burning away into ash and floating off in the breeze. The heat from one tree alone is searing, the crackle of burning wood and your own horrified, shuddering breath the only sounds in the night.

It snowed only a few nights before, but the fire spreads with unnatural ease, flames racing across the canopy, embers lighting up the undergrowth, and in the space of a few seconds there’s an inferno raging through the forest before you. And through the smoke and the red, burning haze, the creature watches, smirking.

The heat from the wildfire sears painfully at your skin, the air around you suddenly thick with smoke, stinging your eyes, choking your lungs, and yet you can’t seem to tear yourself away. It’s like a dream, a nightmare, some kind of… hellscape.

And for a moment you forget that there was a purpose to this, too lost staring in mute horror as the forest you’d played in as a child burns–

At least until a single leaf from the oak tree, edges curling as it’s consumed by flames, falls, carried by the breeze and lands on the wooden railing of the porch. With a soft whoosh, the old wooden beam catches fire, and with your chest heaving, panicked breaths falling from parted lips, you rise to your feet as flames spread, the fire eating everything in its path until the entire porch is alight, burning.

Run.

You don’t know if the voice in your head is yours or not, you don’t have time to care. You scramble for the back door, throwing it open, and you run.

Run until your lungs burn, til’ your bare feet are scratched and bleeding, run, pushed forward by the sweltering heat at your back, the chilling crackle of laughter that follows. You run through tears, through pain and air so thick with smoke that it hurts to breathe.

And you know the creature’s giving chase, you know that you won’t – can’t – outrun it, nor the inferno that blazes around you. You know that it’s futile, that you’re probably running to your death, but that’s human, isn’t it?

To run when you’re scared?

The sky’s awash with a hazy red glow when it catches you, throwing you to the ground, and still you try to crawl. Desperate, choking on broken pleas and sobs, nails raking through the dirt as you try to pull yourself forward.

And when your pants are ripped from your legs, a puff of warm air ghosting over the nape of your neck as you’re shoved back down, those long, black arms settling either side of you, caging you in – you know that you’ve lost.

“Mine,” the creature growls, and you barely have time to scream before its cock shoves into you with one brutal, merciless thrust. “Mine.”

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo #yandere kuroo x reader #yandere kuroo tetsurou #yandere kuroo tetsurou x reader #monster fic #horror fic #tw noncon #tw: noncon #tw: blood #tw: gore #tw: minor character death #tw: animal death #i am sorry #except not really tho

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panda-writes-kpop · 2 years ago

Text

Demon! SuA - Tainted Love

A/N: Hi guys, girls, and non-binary pearls! This is a bit of a longer piece, so I'd grab a water and maybe something to eat before sitting down. You might want to grab some tissues while you're up, if you're wondering what kind of fic this is. Also, big thank you to @kingmaker-a for giving this fic a read before it came out! I had to have the Angstmaker give his stamp of approval if I was gonna write some angst, and I'm so glad that I did. 💖

Masterlist!

TW: Mentions of labyrinths, lots of angst, author venting, demons (no duh, Katie), self-deprication, mentions of food, serial killers, and hell, more angst, a toxic relationship, blood, mention of oceans and drowning, implied torture (?), mentions of death, religious themes, reader drinks alcohol, no happy ending :), also SuA acts very ooc and I definitely would not use this as an accurate judge of her character or personality.

Sometimes I feel I've got to

Run away I've got to

Everyone faces a labyrinth of sorts in their life. Whether it’s the physical limitations of their body, the mental anguish that comes with living life, or that feeling of isolation that everyone experiences from time to time, the personalized labyrinth of life comes for us all at one point or another.

Most people find an escape to their labyrinth. You can strengthen your body so you can push the limits of your body, you can talk to someone who can help you understand and control your feelings, and you can find comfort in the love of your friends and family when you feel alone.

My labyrinth, however, is one that I will never escape. It has a tight grip on me that I will never escape because I don’t want to let go of it. My labyrinth is my crutch, and it’s a poison that’s killing me from the inside. I can never let go of the thing that I want the most, no matter how much I want to run from it.

Love. Love is the labyrinth that I choose to face head-on. No matter how much love bites me, I want to believe that love will be my savior even though it’s my torturer. I let myself get hurt over and over again for a simple what if that will never come my way.

What if… that’s a statement that will lead you to an endless amount of questions that will never lead you to the answer that you seek.

What if I talked to them more? What if I was a better listener? What if I was more attractive? What if I was smarter?

What if instead of trying to gain love advice from a demon and then falling in love with her, I just talked to someone about my problems?

What if?

I guess that’s the reason I’m trying to run away. How do you get away from the problems that you create? How do you find your escape to the labyrinth?

In my case, I answered both of those questions in the stupidest way possible.

Get away

From the pain you drive into the heart of me

Everything started when I was young. That’s where that labyrinth of love started to surround me, and I wasn’t able to find an escape.

When we were kids, we threw love around as a silly word that didn’t mean much. Love was just another normal expression that we used on a day-to-day basis. We loved drawing, we loved playing on the swing set, and we loved being young and free to do as we pleased.

As a teenager, love has a different meaning. Love can be used as a sweet safety blanket or a fiery weapon of destruction. It wouldn’t be uncommon to see a couple act all lovey-dovey in the morning, and then you’d see them arguing by the end of the day. Love was used as an excuse for horrible actions and bad mistakes. Love became a sword that would protect you or harm you. The scary thing was, you didn’t know which sword was which until someone tried to use it against you.

Love was like a whispered secret that I had yet to discover. A secret that had yet to make its rounds to my ear, but even then, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear it. I mostly stayed out of the dating scene as a teen, but I did try and fail a few times. Every time the hope of love would build me up to a new height, the reality of me not being good enough for the people I was interested in would bring me back down to Earth. I was scorned by love, but I kept trying because I was a stupid kid.

I trapped myself in my own labyrinth of love. I put myself through so much trauma that I distanced myself from the world. I felt unlovable because the world had yet to tell me that I was. I convinced myself that some white knight would come and save me from this labyrinth. I didn’t want to leave, so someone would have to come rescue me.

As for that white knight, I didn’t exactly have a demon whose job was to screw me over in mind.

Now, as an adult, I have yet to discover what love is to me. Is love innocent like childhood, or is it as harmful as my teenage mind made it out to be? Was love both or neither?

I didn’t know love until I saw her. Everything that I felt before that moment didn’t matter. I’d forgotten how much love had betrayed me when I went up and talked to her for the first time. I didn’t need anyone else if she was by my side.

We weren’t kids, and we weren’t teens. We were adults who could make a relationship work, right? I just had to make her fall for me like I had fallen for her.

...But love has different plans that left me alone in the labyrinth once again. She fell in love with someone who was better than I was, and I simply couldn’t be mad at her for that. She deserves someone who would love her, and that obviously wasn’t me.

Heartbroken, I wandered home alone the day I found out about her partner. I didn’t care that it was dark, and that I could’ve gotten hurt. I felt numb like nothing in the world could hurt me. I felt like I couldn’t hurt myself even though my body would feel the pain later on.

That’s when I found the book. A torn book with ripped pages and scribbled handwriting. That book would show me how to escape my labyrinth by placing me in an even bigger one.

I should’ve left that god-forsaken book on the sidewalk, or in the trash where it belonged.

I, being the fool that I am, had to pick up the book. A bit of light reading couldn’t hurt after a rough day, right?

Right?

The love we share

Seems to go nowhere

I came home and closed the door behind me while clutching the book close to my chest. It was my prized possession that I had won for losing at the most important aspect in life.

I set my coat and other material possessions aside for the book, and I turned on a lamp and sat down in a nearby chair.

I merely skimmed the book as I tried to decipher its hidden meaning. Why would a book like that appear in my life if it didn’t mean something? Everything in the world meant something to someone. As I admired those pages, I tried to think of what use that book would have to me. It’s unreadable handwriting had no monetary value, and the book looked like it had been through hell and back.

Oh, only if I knew that book really had been through hell.

Sleep quickly overcame me as I finished searching through the book, and I gently set the book on the table next to me.

Too tired to walk to bed, I simply slept on that chair as my mind spent another night dreaming of those stupid ‘what ifs’.

I arose in a state of complete disarray as the morning light peeked through my home’s windows. Luckily, it was the weekend and I didn’t have to worry about working the next day.

I pulled myself out of the chair and began to prepare breakfast. Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, but I didn’t care to eat much as my mind still wandered over the what ifs of life.

What if I had made a move earlier? What if I waited until they broke up to date her? What if I wasn’t good enough for her? What if, what if, what if.

At that moment, while drowning my sorrows in a bowl of cereal and milk, I met “the one”.

She wasn’t anything like the girl from earlier. The girl I loved was sweeter than honey and had a heart made of gold.

The girl that I was about to meet would make serial killers look like saints if they stood next to her.

All I remember was looking up, and she was there. While I sat with that bowl of depressing cereal in front of me, she leaned over me and gently scanned me over with her eyes. Her hand gently graced my face for a moment, and I remember feeling like I wanted her to keep her hand there forever.

The girl leaned away from me before chuckling. She stuck her hand out as the morning light illuminated her fierce features.

Her strong jawline would make a model jealous, and her piercing brown eyes could cut straight through someone without a second glance. Her black suit defined her perfect figure as her brown hair seemed to float behind her head.

Everything about her screamed dangerous and deadly, but I couldn’t see the beast past the beauty in front of me. I didn’t question how she got in my house or why such a beautiful woman was in front of me.

To be fair, I didn’t really care at that moment in time, either.

She laughed again before wiggling her fingers in her extended hand. That laugh was a sound that I loved and dreaded. She used it when she was happy, or when she was very mad.

“The name’s SuA, and by the way you’re looking at me, I can tell we’ll be great pals.”

Pals, as SuA said it, would be the last word in the dictionary that I would use to describe our relationship.

Our relationship was like an endless loop of love, hurt, pain, and apologies. She was the labyrinth that I trapped myself in after escaping the loveless one.

Turns out, the only thing that’s worse than a loveless labyrinth is a labyrinth that is tainted with a love that’ll break you to your core.

And I've lost my light

For I toss and turn I can't sleep at night

I sat there, stunned by her forwardness. Was she really talking to me? Was a woman that perfect really in my home? Did my dreams finally come to fruition, or had I finally gone mad from my desires?

Stupidly, I slipped my hand into hers, and I shaked it while trying to understand what exactly was happening.

“Y/N. I can’t help but wonder, why exactly are you in my home?”

SuA’s laughter hit my ears again, and I’d already become addicted to the sound of her happiness that echoes through my home.

“Oh, you humans are so naive! It’s adorable.” SuA gently tapped my nose which caused a wildfire of red to spread across my face. “You summoned me with that handy-dandy book that you found.”

My eyes widened as I grabbed the book from the table.

I was in absolute disbelief of what she was suggesting to me. Summoning? Demons are summoned, and the woman in front of me didn’t look like a demon.

Well, demons aren’t just called demons because of their looks. That was a lesson that I had yet to learn when this encounter took place.

I, in a moment of blinding idiocracy, asked her the first thing that came to mind.

“So, does that make you a demon?”

“Unless angels have started popping up from bibles, and the last time I checked they haven’t, I’m the only creature that you can find from a book.”

SuA sighed before pulling her hand from me. She then raised one hand in the air which caused every object that was on my table, including my bowl of cereal, to float in the air. The objects nearly touched my ceiling by the time SuA lowered her hand to her side.

My mouth was wide open in shock as SuA flashed me a wicked smirk. Was she really that powerful?

“You like what you see, right? That’s only the beginning of what we could do together. We can be a great team, but I need you to trust me.”

SuA took a seat on top of my small kitchen table before snatching the leather-bound book.

“Hey, what are you-”

“Hush.” SuA closed her hand, and at the exact same time, my hand covers my mouth. “You’re a lot more attractive when you stop talking.”

I grumbled in slight protest as I blushed out of embarrassment. SuA simply shakes her head before opening the book.

“God, I missed this thing. I’m glad that I was bound to this book because of how powerful it is.” SuA flipped through a few pages. “Ah, yes, the spells about torture, pain, heartbreak, romance-”

Her eyes glanced over to me after she said the word ‘romance’, and she chuckled as my eyes widened at its mentioning.

“You poor lovesick fool. You’ve fallen in love with someone who doesn’t love you back, right?”

I nodded my head before SuA clicked her tongue.

“I can fix that for you, if you’d like. All I need is your permission.”

SuA relaxed her hand, and my hand dropped from my mouth. I took a deep breath before answering.

“Please help me out, SuA. Do whatever you need to.”

I didn’t sleep that night, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t due to those stupid ‘what ifs’. I opened a whole can of worms that I had to deal with on my own.

As I rolled back and forth on my bed, I tried to forget everything that happened, but I couldn’t.

Everything about SuA stuck out in my mind. I already could envision her smiles, laughter, or smirks with a simple thought. I knew where my mind was going before I was able to make the conclusion.

I was crushing on a demon that was doing god knows what in order to get me a girl I didn’t want anymore. I had stopped thinking about her the moment SuA appeared.

SuA was charismatic, funny, and an interesting person to be around. Why hadn’t I figured this out earlier? I could’ve told her then, and this whole mess wouldn’t have happened.

The mess I am referring to is the only mess that a demon knows how to make.

You see, giving a demon the freedom to do anything is like playing Russian Roulette. You don’t know what the hell is about to happen, but it’s about to be bloody and ugly.

I shouldn’t have let a demon become a beacon of light for me. I should’ve stayed in my closet-sized labyrinth and waited for better days to come.

Go read a book or go outside. Talk to someone if you’re not feeling well. Whatever you do, don’t pick up strange books, accidentally summon a very attractive demon, and then fall in love with her. It’s a very awful, bad, and an all-around horrendous idea.

When SuA walked in with blood on her hands, the first thing I should’ve asked about was who she hurt. Demons can’t be hurt because they’re immortal.

In another moment of stupidity, I asked her if she was okay.

SuA simply sighed before saying, “It's done. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“What did you do?”

“You don’t want to know.” SuA deadpans before walking into my bathroom.

I assumed that she was cleaning the blood off, and I didn’t want to know anymore than I had to. I simply let what had happened happen. I had no control over her, and besides, she can’t do something that bad to a living person. Demons should have some sort of self-control, right?

Should have, could have, would have. Those are three phrases that I hate more than what ifs. What ifs are just questions that you ask yourself over and over. Eventually, your mind grows tired and they stop.

But those words, they never stop. They’ll put you right back into your past mistakes until you’re drowning in a sea of regret, misery, and self-pity. You won’t be able to breathe because the waves of endless possibilities will crash against you over and over until you stop fighting it. You don’t swim when you’re thinking about everything you could’ve, should’ve, would’ve done in a certain scenario. You sink as those thoughts pull you in like a heavy anchor that is attached to your ankle.

I should’ve swam far away when I first saw SuA. I should’ve left the country and gotten a new life. That would’ve put me in a much better position than I’m in now.

But I choose to be continuously pulled into the riptide. At this point in time, it’s a waiting game until I drown myself in my own misery.

Once I ran to you (I ran)

Now, I'll run from you

“Why the hell did you kill them?” I frantically waved my hands at the television as you tried to catch SuA’s attention.

Apparently, SuA’s fingernails were more important than my external panic as she stared at her nails while shrugging her shoulders.

“You told me to do whatever I needed to, and I did.”

“That wasn’t what I meant!” I yell as I nearly pull hairs out of my head while pacing back and forth in my living room.

“Jeez, take a chill pill. I wouldn’t have maimed them if I knew you were going to act like this.”

“You did WHAT?”

A couple’s first fight usually happens after a first date, first kiss, and if they’re lucky, when they first move in together. Since SuA and I are the off-brand version of a normal romantic relationship, we apparently decided to do things a bit out of order.

That being said, we weren’t exactly a couple back then, and I’m not sure if I would call us a couple now, after everything that’s happened.

“I just broke a few bones, dunked them in a nice ice bath, and then tossed them on a side of a road where there’s a lot of oncoming traffic. Whatever happened after that wasn’t directly my fault.” SuA said while digging through my fridge. “What kind of monster doesn’t have orange juice?”

“Hey, get out of there!” I turned the TV off before rushing over to her. “I haven’t had time to go to the store.”

“Do you mind if I make a sandwich?”

“I don’t know, SuA. Do you plan on killing anyone else?” I exasperatedly sighed before leaning on the fridge.

SuA bit her lip before closing the fridge door.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

We both stood there awkwardly as we tried to think of something to say to one another. We came to a threshold that couldn’t be crossed. Granted, most couples don’t exactly tend to fight about murdering someone, but we tried to make it work.

“What happens next?” I softly asked. “How do we fix this?”

“There’s no fixing this, Y/N. I’m a demon, not a miracle worker. We go on with our lives. You get the girl, and I get the book. We have had a mutually beneficial relationship so far, and I’m glad to have met you, but I’ve really got to go now.”

SuA tried to grab the book from the table, but I grabbed it before she could.

“What if I told you that I didn’t want her anymore?”

SuA rolls her eyes before crossing her arms.

“You’re telling me that I murdered someone just for you to get wishy-washy on me? How pathetic.” She spit out before looking at me with disgust.

“I’m not the one who murdered someone. You did that all on your own. Besides, the girl that I have my eye on is much prettier than the first.”

SuA raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, and who would that be?”

SuA unfolded her arms before walking towards me. I kept a blank face as she closed in on me. I can feel my heartbeat all over my body as my mind begins to wander.

Would she let me kiss her? I guess I can find out now.

SuA put her face close to mine, and I’m so close that I could feel her breath tickle my cheek. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, but I can’t be the first one to make the move.

If she’s the one to save me from my labyrinth, then SuA must show that she's interested in me first.

I didn’t have to think twice as SuA’s lips connect with mine.

The taste of black licorice entered my mouth, and it was a flavor that I was permanently hooked on. No candy nor sweet could compare to her. Everything about her was perfect, and everything about that moment was perfect too.

SuA and I were like two shooting stars. We had two different paths in the night sky that eventually led us to one another. Normally, stars don’t collide with one another, but we did. Unfortunately, when two stars collide, they don’t stick together.

They explode.

This tainted love you've given

I give you all “a boy” could give you

Take my tears and that's not nearly all

I had tried to make it work. I knew that nothing would work when it came to SuA. She was a demon, and I was mortal. You can’t combine oil and water because they eventually separate from each other. We might have been oil and water, but we couldn’t let go of one another right from the start to the very end.

I knew how this would end. All of the fighting and screaming had to end sometime. I thought it would end with her walking out on me, and to her credit, SuA did walk out, but she always came right back to me.

I wasn’t much better, either. I told her how much I hated everything about her even though I loved her to death. I told her that she was a horrible person even though she was the only person that I could trust. I told her to never lay another hand on me even though she’d be holding me by nightfall.

We were both victims and perpetrators in a crime of passion and love. No cops would catch us because we’d act fine on the outside, like nothing had happened. Our relationship was perfect because that’s all the neighbors needed to worry about.

Oh, that screaming that you heard? Sorry, the music was too loud!

The sound of glass breaking woke you up at one in the morning? Sorry, my girlfriend had the munchies and she accidentally dropped the glass container of cookies. You don’t have to worry about us!

That crying sound? We had a movie night with a few friends, and some of us got really emotional. We’ll try to pick something happier next time.

Lies, lies, lies. It seemed like everything in our relationship was built on a lie.

SuA wasn’t the one who lied. Oh, no, I had to be the bad guy.

Of course I was the antagonist. We both weren’t to blame for a failing relationship, right? It was all my fault because I started this whole thing.

SuA didn’t have to kiss me. She didn’t have to save me from my labyrinth. She could’ve left me alone while running off with that magic book of hers.

But no, she kissed me and here we are. SuA slammed the door in my face after another heated fight, and I’m drinking my sorrows away while trying to figure out where I went wrong.

I do this once a week, but I haven’t learned my lesson. I know that SuA will come home and degrade me for drinking alone, but I’ll sit and take it on my chin in the name of “love”.

What sort of sick, twisted love have we wrapped ourselves in? This isn’t love, and I know it. Hell, I’m sure SuA does too.

Sure, love can hurt, but you shouldn’t feel like you’re being run over by a fifty-ton dump truck every time you talk to your partner. Love can burn, but you shouldn’t be covered in third-degree burns on a daily basis. Love can make you bleed, but you shouldn’t be left to die with cuts all over your body.

I take a swig of the drink in front of me, and I enjoy feeling it burn as the liquid travels down my throat.

Nothing can hurt you more than love except your thoughts, and I’ve been hurt by both on numerous occasions.

Without thinking, I take my drink and chuck it at the TV in front of me. Of course, the TV screen shatters along with the drink. I know that SuA will be pissed when she comes home, but I don’t care about our relationship or what others may think.

Numbness has replaced any sort of feeling I have towards her. We can dance this dance as many times as we wish because I won’t let her words or actions hurt me anymore.

My feet wobble as I make my way over to the couch. As soon as my body hits the couch, the tears flow from my face as the weight of my actions crashes down on me.

I’ll never escape this labyrinth. I’m stuck in a labyrinth that I made with my own desires. My home is my prison, and my heart is prisoner. I’m simply a vessel that carries my heart and emotions from place to place.

This labyrinth has spiraled out of control, and it’s bigger than my relationship with SuA. My mind, my thoughts, my actions, and my words are my labyrinth. SuA’s just a pawn that my mind uses to reason with me. It’s sick and it’s twisted, but I can’t help but to want more of that sweet drug that my brain offers me. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I can’t escape my mind even if I leave SuA.

As my eyes close, one final thought enters my mind, and it’s the worst one yet.

I’ve done all of this thinking and contemplating. I know how I want to act, and I know what I should do next. I need to leave SuA, and I need to get help for whatever’s going on in my head. I just know that I can’t because I won’t remember a single thing that I’ve thought about in the morning, and I’ll continue running around my labyrinth like nothing is wrong.

Oh, tainted love

Tainted love

37 notes · View notes

violettelueur · 4 years ago

Text

— GETO SUGURU || RELY ON ME

↳ featuring : geto suguru from jujutsu kaisen

↳ warnings : mention of murder, grammar issues and spoilers for non-manga readers

↳ spoiler warnings : chapter 65-79 spoilers

↳ form : imagine

↳ published : 19 january

↳ pronouns : she/her

↳ word count : 1.8k

↳ request : Hello, I love your Cafe! I was wondering if I could possibly request headcanons or a scenario about a female jujutsu sorcerer who can sense emotions and starts hanging out with Geto a lot right after everything with Riko happened to try to help him mentally and maybe they start dating after they get closer?

↳ barista’s notes : once again, barista violettelueur is back again with another imagine and today it is staring geto suguru ╲ʕ·ᴥ·　╲ʔ and the next one pending will be for KUGISAKI NOBARA ʕ •ᴥ•ʔゝ☆ right now, it is 2am but i had a nap earlier, so i can’t get back to sleep even though my online classes start at 9:10....hahahaha ʕ ㅇ ᴥ ㅇʔ but other than that, i hope you enjoy you cup of classic black coffee (jujutsu kaisen request!) and please come again soon!

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit too clingy with me?”

Slyly shifting your eyes to the side, you began to gape at the tall sorcerer right beside you, as he continued to move forward to wherever he was going - to be honest, he didn’t even know himself.

“And do you have a problem with that? I don’t see you pushing me away,” you teasingly commented as you let out a little giggle trying to lighten up the sombre atmosphere that was clouding around you and Geto at this current moment in time.

Unbeknownst to your classmate, you could feel the suffocating pressure that he was carrying in his heart, suffocating to the point where you were nearly choking onto the curse energy that you were sensing. However, you couldn’t blame him at all for feeling this way all.

Ever since the assassination of the Star Plasma Vessel, Geto couldn’t help but feel a sense of heavy guilt surrounding him after the killing of Amanai Riko and with the situation of Gojo becoming stronger than he had anticipated, Geto started to feel more isolated than ever.

Well, he would've if it wasn’t for your constant presence.

To be completely honest, Geto was perplexed on what type of sorcerer you were. You never really revealed what your cursed technique was to anyone but knew you were extremely skilled with cursed weapons and tools, to the point where you were able to embed your curse energy and create your own through craftsmanship as a talented armourer. However, he was still intrigued by what you were naturally skilled at.

“Y/N, what type of sorcerer are you?” Geto asked in a curious tone leading you to halt for a quick second, as you began to think about what you could answer to the sorcerer who was now directly in front of you.

How could you answer?

Actually, were you even allowed to answer?

Even though it seemed useless to some sorcerers, your curse technique was the ability to sense the emotions of humans, curses and sorcerers and though it seemed to be simple, your technique was an extremely rare ability due to your whole existence used to help reduce the number of curses being formed - you were fundamentally the possible sole solution of the extinction of curses, especially ones that could develop into special grade curses.

However, you weren’t allowed to inform Geto that let alone anyone else that you known of. You were informed by Yaga sensei as well as the higher-ups to not tell anyone about it.

“I’m just a weapons specialist Suguru, I thought you already knew that,” you answered with a smile on your face, as you walked closer to catch up with him before linking your arm with his to keep him close to you leading to the intense curse energy around you to lighten its hold on you slighty causing a small but noticeable smile to form on your face.

“I’m not as strong as you, but I know how to deal with people, so rely on me a bit more aye?” you rhetorically asked as you began to drag Geto to wherever you wanted, needing to make sure he was going to be alright and nothing was going to happen to him later on.

Surprised, Geto couldn’t help but stare at the back of your head with widened eyes as he continued to let you take him to where you wanted to take him. Geto didn’t know why but he couldn’t help but draw a tiny smile on his face as he also let out a light laugh.

“Yeah, I rely on you a bit more often Y/N”

ꕥ

“Then we should just kill all non-shamans”

Widening your eyes in complete horror, you suddenly became frozen as you stood beside the doorway that would lead you to the very conversation that Geto and special-grade sorcerer Tsukumo Yuki were having right now.

Leaning your body against the wall, you tried to balance yourself as the feeling in your legs slowly began to give away with the intentions of not wanting to make any noise of revealing that you were eavesdropping the horrific statement your friend had suddenly made.

‘Kill all non-shamans, is he crazy?’

“Geto-kun, that’s a decent plan,” Yuki mentioned causing you to turn your head to the side of the entrance with pure shock as her comment was not helping with the situation at all, as well as the intense amount of antagonistic curse energy that was practically choking you at this point leading to the feeling of your throat agonisingly closing up due to the extreme field of negative emotions that was being manifested between the two strong sorcerers.

“However, there is no need for that when we have L/N around,” Yuki suddenly mentioned, causing Geto to look at her with confusion to which lead her to continue with her explanation by saying, “well her curse technique is extremely powerful since she can sense emotions and that lead to the reduction of curses being formed, haven’t you notice the lack of mission you been sent on recently?”.

Thinking about her question, Geto couldn’t help but suddenly realise that Yuki was correct at the fact that he had been on little to no missions recently. Was it because of you? Curse technique that can sense emotions? Was that why you have been by his side for quite some time?

“Even though Gojo is the reason why there is a balance in the world, L/N is the reason why there is peace you know, but that’s a story for another time,” Yuki huffed as she suddenly got up from the seat before placing on her leather jacket. “I gotta thank her though, she is the reason why I get to go aboard so many times, maybe I should take her to Paris as a ‘thank you’ gift?” Yuki questioned herself while pointing her chin with her index finger to emphasise her thoughts before coming to the sudden realisation of something.

“You never told me your answer to my question,” Yuki mentioned with a small pout, leading to Geto looking at the woman with a bewildered expression on his face leading to her to then ask, “what kind of woman is your type?”.

Looking at the special grade sorcerer with a blank expression, he couldn’t suddenly think about the comment you had said to him earlier.

“I’m not as strong as you, but I know how to deal with people, so rely on me a bit more aye?”

‘What a liar,’ Geto thought as he smiled at the small but fond memory, ‘you are strong Y/N’

“My type of woman is someone that I know I can rely on”

ꕥ

Feeling a sense of coldness upon his cheek, Geto couldn’t help but shift his eyes down to see you pressing a cold water bottle to his face as you began to sip on the can of cold coffee that you have brought from one of the vending machines that were nearest to the track field where you and Geto were training at.

“Thanks,” Geto said with gratitude as he took the bottle from your grasp before taking a quick gulp of the refreshing liquid that was smoothing his body from the disgusting heat and sweat that he had produced from fighting with you.

Geto couldn’t lie to himself. He had completely forgotten how masterful you were with your weapons as well as how physically strong you were when not using your curse energy. You were really the ideal sorcerer in some ways even when your curse technique had nothing to do with exorcising curses at all. Geto really admired you for that.

“Are you going to continue staring?” you casually asked, as you tilted your head slightly to take a quick peek at him before cheekily commenting “am I that beautiful~” leading you to laugh at your own comment to which Geto followed suit.

“You’re beginning to act like Satoru,” Geto mentioned, leading you to express a concerned look as you didn’t want to act like your annoying classmate, leading Geto to laugh once again at your grimace expression causing you to turn to him with a soften look.

From what you could sense right now, the curse energy that was swimming around you and Geto was tranquil to the point where it was peaceful. From what you could remember from the beginning, this situation was the complete opposite since the incident and that put nothing but a slight warmth within your heart, the curse energy back then was suffocating which was contrasting to this feeling that could nearly put you to sleep. Geto has made so much progress during the few months that had passed but what surprised you to most was how fast he had made progress, even after the little situation with Yuki.

‘She really had to snake out my technique huh?’

“Are you going to continue staring at me? Am I that handsome~” Geto then teasing asked, leading you to snap out of your thoughts before realising that he was mocking you slightly from your earlier comment. However, before you could either counter him with your annoyance, you suddenly notice the sorcerer lean forward towards you causing you to slightly step back before feeling a light touch on your forehead.

Pulling away, Geto managed to get a glimpse of your surprised expression with a hint of pink hues on your face before letting out a cheeky giggle. “Maybe you’re not like Satoru, he’s not the shy type anyway,” Geto playfully mentioned before grabbing your hand that wasn’t holding the coffee as he began to drag you away from the track field where you both were training at before.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” Geto softly said with a hint of appreciation as he continued with, “rely on me also okay?”

Feeling shy, you looked down to your connecting hands before tightening the hold as the curse energy that surrounded you both was now feeling more gentle and tender than it had ever been before. However, you still had some questions in mind.

“HEY! You can’t just kiss my forehead and grab my hand like I ain’t going to ask questions Suguru?” you exclaimed, as you began to frantically shake your interlocking hands in a slight panic causing Geto to look at you with surprised expression before laughing loudly at your sudden outburst.

Even though Geto knew you since the beginning of his enrolment at Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College, he had never seemed you once looked so flustered like you did right now. You were always the calm one between him, Gojo and Ieiri, so this was a whole new sight to him.

Tightening the grip of your hand, you crazy shaking came to a slight pause as Geto began to slowly but tenderly pull your hand towards him, only to then land a light kiss on the back of it leading to the once pink hues that were painting on your cheek to become rose red.

“Rely on me to make you blush, okay girlfriend~?”

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk imagines #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #geto suguru #suguru geto #jujutsu kaisen geto suguru #jujutsu kaisen geto #jjk geto suguru #jjk geto #geto suguru imagines #geto suguru imagine #geto suguru x reader #geto x reader

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mochegato · 3 years ago

Text

Jasonette Protection Program

Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Marinette pulled her coat closer around her as she made her way from the bus stop to her apartment. She had made the brilliant decision when she moved here not to get a car because… Gotham. The likelihood that it would get damaged or destroyed in some kind of attack was ridiculously high. The likelihood the bus would get blown up or taken over, while definitely still present, was significantly lower.

But today she was regretting that decision. It meant she couldn’t isolate herself like she wanted to. It meant she was exposed to anybody and everybody at the bus stop and on the bus and on the sidewalk and any one of them could have been the one to drug her. She eyed the people around her as she walked. Okay, maybe not the woman who looked like she was in her 90’s and could barely walk… and dropped her knitting out of her bag.

Marinette rushed over to her and paused right before reaching her. She twirled around and scanned the faces around her. She could feel somebody watching her. She could feel their eyes scrutinizing her every move. She studied the shadows and the windows, but couldn’t find anyone watching her. She frowned slightly and shook her head. She was getting paranoid. She was seeing and feeling things that weren’t there.

She sighed and turned back to the woman, crouching down to help her put her knitting back in her bag. The woman smiled in appreciation, which Marinette returned with a shaky one of her own. She walked the remaining few feet to her apartment building and took a cautious look up and down the dark street before turning into it. She made sure she heard the click of the door latching before continuing up the stairs, not that it would do anything. Logically she knew that, but her anxiety still demanded it.

She kept her eyes on the stairwell as she made her way up to her apartment on the top floor, eyes hyper vigilant for any movement, her ears hyper sensitive to any sounds from the stairs. She got to her floor and paused for a few moments waiting to see if any sounds or movement indicated someone behind her. She let out a relieved sigh when there was no noise and turned to her apartment before letting out a muffled screech.

Jason jumped, dropping his phone he had been scrolling on, in his rush to hold up his hands in a placating motion. “Just me. It’s okay. It’s just me.” He watched her for a few seconds. She was starting to breathe hard, her eyes were boring into him. “Although I just realized you may not remember me. So this was actually an incredibly stupid plan.” He took a few steps away from her door, his hands still held up to let her know he wasn’t a threat.

Marinette continued to stare at him for a few more seconds, forcing her breathing to slow. “You… you’re Tim’s brother, right? You… you were…” she squinted at him, “you were in my bedroom?”

Jason grimaced and looked down to the floor as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… that doesn’t make me sound too good, does it?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

He perked up slightly and gave her a small, reassuring smile. “I wanted to check on you and see how you’re doing today. It can hit a day or a few days later sometimes. And I’m a security expert. I consult on it for people and companies. I wanted to offer to check your security for you so you’d feel safe, at least when you’re at home.” He turned to her door and knocked on the doorframe. “I can already tell that you need better locks. I could have broken in easily, but I didn’t think you would appreciate finding me in your apartment.”

She raised an eyebrow at him but let out a quiet chuckle and looked away after a few seconds. “You would be right.” She looked back up at him and tentatively walked over closer to her door. “But, I don’t think I can afford to hire you.”

Jason waved off her concern. “I wouldn’t let you. I’d charge Tim for it. He can afford it and he’s worried enough that I’m actually kind of surprised he hasn’t contacted me already, but I suppose that has something to do with him not wanting you to meet me in the first place.”

Marinette quirked her lips to the side and studied him. The longer she watched and talked to him the more memories came back and the clearer they became. She was slowly starting to get bits and pieces of the night before, not enough to create a coherent picture, just incredibly short scenes, a word here, a smile there. Regardless of what she could remember though, this was Tim’s brother and although Tim didn’t want them to meet, he trusted him, not that she would ever be allowed to say that out loud to either of them.

She finally nodded and pulled out her keys. “Well, I can at least offer you dinner while you’re here. If you’d like.” She gave him a small smile as she passed him into the apartment taking off her coat and dropping her bag on the small dining room table.

Jason raised his eyebrows in surprise. After the way she had reacted when she saw him, he honestly didn’t think she would talk to him let alone let him into her apartment. He was starting to understand how she could have gotten drugged so easily if she was that trusting. But then again, Tim had said they all were being careful. Her even more so than the others. So why was she so trusting now? “I would never turn down free food,” he said slowly.

He closed the door behind him with a quick glance at the inside part of the lock, confirming his original suspicions. Standard issue, not particularly secure. He could have picked it in all of three minutes when he was only eight. He didn’t have to lean down to study the doorknob to know it was in worse condition. One good kick and the door would be wide open. He sighed. If anyone wanted to get into her apartment, it wouldn’t take them very much effort.

He turned back to the apartment, letting his frown morph into a smile. Her apartment was cozy and lived in and very much her. There were touches of her everywhere along with some touches that he wouldn’t have expected. He shook his head at the condition of the apartment. It wasn’t terribly messy but it also wouldn’t count as anything close to clean. He could see why she and Tim got along so well. Neither could clean up after themselves to save their lives.

There were bits of fabric and half completed sewing projects scattered around along with random pages of scientific reports. He raised an eyebrow at that. Odd combination. His eyes caught on men’s shoes by the door. He scrunched his forehead in confusion. If she lived with someone, where were they? Where were they last night? Why hadn’t Tim mentioned him? “You live with someone? A boyfriend?”

Marinette looked up from the refrigerator. “No. Well, yes, but no. I live with my best friend,” she explained quickly, “but he’s visiting friends this week.”

Jason nodded. That was good at least. She wasn’t living alone. There was someone else with her usually. That makes it less likely someone could just break in and attack her. He moved over to the window and sighed again, more deeply this time. It was worse than the door. “No curtains. You should probably get some, preferably lined ones. This lock is ancient too. It wouldn’t take much to jimmy it. We’ll get you new locks for your windows and your door.”

Marinette looked at him wide eyed as she set a bunch of grapes and a jug of filtered water from the refrigerator on the counter. She hadn’t been expecting the locks to be that bad. She knew it wasn’t amazing, but then again, she hadn’t really been too concerned about being specifically targeted here. Nobody really knew who she was, or rather used to be. She was just an average citizen here.

She stared at the window for a few seconds, her head cocking to the side and her eyes unfocusing as her mind wandered through the possibilities of what could have happened and what still could. She was no longer safe, not even in her own home. But then again, she never really had been had she? She had just thought she was. She thought she was safer after they’d defeated Hawkmoth, but she’d just traded one danger for another.

Jason watched as her face morphed from one expression to another, her eyes distant. Her face clearly displaying each and every emotion she was going through, no matter how flitting. Jason could guess where her head went. When her eyes started shimmering, he opened his mouth to bring her out of it when her phone rang. She jerked back violently, knocking over the jug of water.

She cursed as she tried to stop the jug’s descent only to knock it further away, further spreading the water. She gave a defeated groan and grabbed a towel from a nearby drawer to start sopping up the water. Jason jumped to grab a few more towels to help. It took a few minutes, but they were finally able to clean up the water with a minimum of damage to papers left on the counter. Luckily, none of Marinette’s sketches were on the island anymore but Adrien was definitely going to have to reprint some of his papers for research.

Marinette gave Jason an appreciative smile and threw the papers in recycling and the towels in the sink. She let out a deep frustrated sigh as she leaned against the counter. After a few seconds, she ran her hands through her hair and laughed. Jason frowned at the sound. It was short and mirthless and sounded utterly wrong coming from her. He could see her starting to spin but didn’t know her well enough to know how to help. God, he really hadn’t thought this through.

Jason very slowly started reaching for her so she could see his hands coming. Shen she didn’t shy away, he set a hand on her arm to ground her. She looked up into his eyes, panicked eyes meeting concerned eyes. They both jumped when her phone started ringing again. They both chuckled quietly at their reactions.

“Sorry…” she started but was cut off by another ring. She shook her head at herself. She hadn’t even noticed the original call had dropped. She checked the caller id and smiled at the phone. “Hey Tim.” She paused to listen to him. “No, I’m fine. I just… I knocked something over and was cleaning it. Sorry for scaring you.”

She gave Jason an apologetic smile as she listened to Tim. “I’m doing okay, I guess. I think I’m just jumpy… and getting paranoid. I could have sworn someone was watching me walk home, but when I looked nobody was around or rather nobody was paying attention to me.” She missed the slight grimace Jason shot toward the floor. “No, thank you though. Actually, your brother is here already.” She smiled at Jason again and put Tim on speaker.

“…that so. That’s very thoughtful of him,” Tim quipped in a clipped tone.

“Yeah, he’s checking my locks,” Marinette continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension in his voice, or attributing it to his concern. “Apparently my door and window locks are pretty bad,” Marinette frowned at the thought.

“Uh huh. Well it’s just so great that he came over then,” Tim gritted out.

Marinette did a double take when Jason’s phone dinged repeatedly with an extended series of text notifications. She blinked at it a few times before looking questioningly at Jason. He rolled his eyes and turned his phone off. He met her eyes with a shrug and a wink as he sat at her island.

“Tell him I say hi and remind him he has plans with Bruce soon,” Tim continued tightly.

Jason huffed. “Tell him to tell B, I'm not going on patrol until Demon Spawn calms down. And tell him I’m sending him the bill for this.” He motioned vaguely around them.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Tim conceded easily before his voice turned harsh again, “And tell him…”

“You two do realize you can hear each other and you two both know you can hear each other and I know you can hear each other and I’m not an owl!” Marinette admonished them sharply.

The room was silent for a few seconds before Tim started chuckling. “Sorry, Hermione.”

“Thank you, Harry.” She nodded at the phone even though he couldn’t see her.

“Hey! That makes me Ron? What the fuck?” Jason objected raising up from his seat in offense.

“Oh come on, you’d look good with red hair,” Marinette teased him lightly.

“You better fucking not be Ron,” Tim growled. “You’re more like Draco anyway,” he continued flippantly.

“Fuck you, Pretender,” Jason growled.

“Yeah, this is making me feel better,” Marinette sighed, leaning against the counter.

There was a guilty pause as the men took in her words. “Sorry,” Jason finally spoke up after a while.

“What?” Marinette gave him a curious look until realization set in. “Oh! No, I was serious. You two remind me of my friends. It feels comforting, normal.”

Tim waited a second before speaking up cautiously. “So… you’re okay for tonight? You feel safe?”

Marinette smiled at the phone again. “Yeah, Tim. I’m okay. Thanks for checking on me.”

“Of course. Let me know if that changes. I’ll be over in three minutes flat,” he promised.

Marinette grinned mischievously. “Do I get a free pizza if you take longer?”

Tim huffed out a laugh. “Absolutely.”

“Sweet. I might test it just for that,” she teased him. “Night, Tim.”

“Night. And tell Jason to turn his phone back on before I do it for him.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “Still not an owl,” she singsonged before she hung up. She looked over to Jason with a concerned smile. “Do you have to go? It sounded like you already had plans?”

Jason waved her off and took the battery out of his phone before leaning against the counter near her. “I have plenty of time. Like I said, if I show up now De… Damian is going to attack me.” Marinette’s eyes widened in concern but Jason waved her off again. “It’s fine. He isn’t as tough as he thinks he is. He wouldn’t be able to hurt me, but Bruce would yell at me for it and Dick would give me his disappointed in you lecture. It’s better for everyone if I stay away for a few days.”

He grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tim just doesn’t want me stealing his friend away with my superior looks and charm.”

Marinette scowled lightly at him. “Tim is very handsome and charming,” she insisted defensively.

Jason shot her a devilish smile. “But not as much as me, right?”

Marinette scoffed at him and rolled her eyes. “You certainly seem to think so.” She rinsed some grapes and set them in a bowl between the two of them. “But he’s the only reason you’re here right now. If you weren’t Tim’s brother and we hadn’t met last night when you were fairly respectful of me in my… state…”

“Fairly!?” Jason squawked.

“I’d have called, well, not the cops, but Tim, to take care of you,” she continued over him. She grabbed a grape and chewed on it while she watched him appraisingly as she leaned back against the counter opposite him. “Do you make a habit of stealing his friends?”

Jason shrugged and grabbed a few grapes. “No, we generally move in different…” he searched for a nice way to phrase it, “circles.”

She hummed in response. “And yet here you are, willingly entering in a circle with one of his friends.” She eyed him pointedly. She quickly broke their eye contact to look down and cross her arms over her chest protectively. “Thank you for breaking into this particular circle to help me out. Last night spooked me more than I want to admit.”

“Did you want to talk about it? Or pretend like it never happened. I can help with either,” Jason offered.

Marinette stared at the grapes for a while without talking. Jason was certain she was about to start spiraling again when she spoke up quietly. “I was keeping an eye on my drinks. I only took my eyes off of them when I was around people I trusted and we weren’t exactly close to other people for someone to just slip something in.” She frowned and looked at nothing in particular. She poured herself a glass of water and held the rim of the glass against her lips without drinking it as she remembered the night before. “I don’t know which scares me more, that someone was that good to get it in with all of us there or…”

“That one of the people you trust might be responsible,” Jason finished for her after a few seconds of silence. When she looked up to meet her eyes, she looked so shaken and uncertain, he wanted to pull her into a tight, reassuring hug, but after the night before, he wasn’t sure a virtual stranger’s embrace would be the most reassuring. He settled for moving to lean against the counter next to her so their arms were almost touching, but she still had her personal space.

“Yeah,” she said wrapping her arms around herself and rubbing her arms.

“You think you were the intended victim?” he asked curiously. He and Tim had already discussed the night and decided that she had to be, but he was curious what her thoughts were. “You don’t think it was just opportunistic. You think whoever was with targeting you.”

She shook her head and looked down, frowning at the floor. She gripped her arms tighter. “I don’t know. I was never alone and I only drank with my friends at our own table away from other people. I mean someone at the bar could have drugged it before it was brought over when the waitress brought drinks but…”

“How would they know who it would go to,” Jason finished again. “Seems unlikely they’d risk the drug like that if they didn’t know who it would go to. If they didn’t have a plan to get the person out.”

Marinette looked up at him anxiously and nodded. She studied him for a few more seconds before she shook herself out of her daze. She looked up at him with a fake smile. “So what are you feeling for dinner? I can make some pasta. I can do stir fry. I can whip up a casserole. What do you want?”

“I’ll be happy with whatever you feel like having tonight,” he assured her with a smile.

“I don’t… really… feel like eating,” she mumbled, looking away again. “This is more something for me to focus on instead of last night.”

Jason gave her a gentle smile and lowered himself to her level, trying to gain her attention. “Look, I know you don’t know me but why don’t we order take out and we can watch a movie, or if you want to be alone, I can leave.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” she answered quickly, instantly looking over to him with a desperate look in her eyes.

Jason nodded slowly and gave her a gentle smile. He rested his hands lightly on her arms to reassure her he was there and not going anywhere unless she wanted him to. “That’s understandable. I wouldn’t want to be either. Do you want me to call Tim over? I know you probably feel safer with him and when he can’t be here in three minutes, you get a pizza.”

She gave him a wan smile. “No, I trust you. And I’m not really feeling pizza right now.”

Jason smiled back. “I want to joke and say that’s a terrible decision, but now doesn’t seem like the best time.” She gave him a deadpan look that made his grin widen. “I’ll save that for later,” he finished with a wink. His expression quickly turned serious as he watched her. “You should eat though. What kind of food do you want to try? There’s a good Indian restaurant around the corner.”

She looked away. “I don’t want to order out. I don’t want food that I…”

Jason nodded and moved closer again. “Yeah, that’s reasonable. Let’s make something together, yeah? I saw some eggs and milk in your refrigerator and there’s bread on the counter. How do you feel about breakfast for dinner? French toast sound good? I think you call it Lost Bread? And how do you feel about Clueless?”

“The movie?” she asked confused.

“Yeah, adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma.”

“Fan of Alicia Silverstone or Jane Austen?” she teased weakly.

“Both,” Jason answered with a wink.

Marinette snickered and nodded. “That all sounds amazing.” She moved away to start getting the pan and bowls out, watching him while he got the ingredients prepared. “Thank you, Jason. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“No problem. We’ll get things figured out so you can feel safe, or at least as safe as you can feel in Gotham,” he assured her, and himself. They were going to find who drugged her and make her feel safe again. Whoever it was messed with one of Tim’s friends, one of the few he really trusted, that means whoever it was messed with his family and nobody messed with their family.

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#maribat #jasonette #Jasonette July #Jasonette July 2021 #prompt - night #Jasonette Protection Program

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